“I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes”
“…that’s how the rhythm goes. Repeat it back to me and speak in time.” My tiny middle school choir teacher swished her hands around and cued us in. The weary sea of fifteen year olds in my class stumbled through learning a verse to this song, Wanting Memories, by Ysaye M. Barnwell. Our teacher gave boys the easy part, repeating the same baseline for 4 minutes straight. You’d think they’d be bored by singing the same thing over and over again, but they were completely amused. Unlike the boys, our teacher gave us girls the task of performing the piece in three-part harmony instead of our usual two. It wasn’t an obstacle for a show off like me, but the rest of the class struggled to remember where we were and what verse came next. After learning the song, we ran it through. Something wasn’t clicking, the small changes in each verse of the repetitive song jumbling into chaos. However, these trivial differences were not the only thing halting us from a proper performance. Two weeks, they said. Turned to daily assignments on the computer, then to virtual school in the fall. We never got to perform this piece together, not even through the virtual space. The pandemic made sure of that.
“Now the world outside is such a cold and bitter place
Here inside I have few things that will console
And when I try to hear your voice above the storms of life
Then I remember all the things that I was told”
The first time I found the card, I was sixteen years old. Quarantine had put a stop to the things I loved most, choir and theater, so I had to find something to do at home to fill my day. Bored and alone, I dragged out the photo album my mom made of me containing various photos from ages 0-8, and thicker than any textbook I’ve ever had (including statistics). What I’d failed to realize was that the cover and back of the album had pockets with more memories that my mom never showed me. Curious, and slightly offended by her gatekeeping, I went through each pocket. I had so much fun at first, reading what my old teachers had written about me. “Enthusiastic and supportive, needs to learn how to read a clock correctly.” Then, I found the tiny wallet photos parents give everyone to show that hey, they just had a baby, and it’s kind of cute (in a way). Photos from my baptism, useless medical pamphlets, and, oh…Grandmom Sue wrote me a card? In big loopy handwriting, for my third birthday, May 2nd 2008.
“Michelle,
I love you very my dear Michelle –
You are adorable and loving.
Have a wonderful, happy third birthday
Love, Grandmom Sue”
My vision went cloudy. The card left me sobbing on what used to be the kid’s table at Thanksgiving. Sorrow, guilt, and anger pulled me every which way until I was tangled up in grief. Sad for losing the woman she was. Guilty that it’s hard to love her as she is now. Angry I never got to know her. I wept for my grandmother like she’d just passed, even though ten minutes down the road, she was sitting in a nursing home. She was probably more confused and alone than ever. What’s a mask? Who are these faceless people around me? Where’s Vicky and her adorable, loving girl? I wept for my mom, who’d been balancing her mom’s care, teaching toddlers in a pandemic, and dealing with my mental decline. She’d become my best friend through all of this, and I felt like the biggest burden by failing to get better. After the sorrow and guilt were washed away by the tears, I was left with the anger. Why did my grandmom’s life have to end this way? Why did my mom lose hers so early? How come I was never given the chance to love her as she was? I read over the card again. “Adorable and loving,” I rolled my eyes. How can a three year old show love? Had she really thought I was? I wiped the tears from my face, and realized something. This was probably the only piece of her I’d have of her fully conscious self. I flipped the card around, inspecting it further, and smiled, $1.95. Mom always said my Grandmom Sue was cheap. I hope I did have a wonderful third birthday, just for her.
“You used to rock me in the cradle of your arms
You said you’d hold me till the pains of life were gone
You said you’d comfort me in times like these and now I need you
Now I need you, and you are gone”
“…smile. Wave to each other, this song is about connection.” My not so tiny high school choir director projected as he made us walk in circles singing Wanting Memories. He’d gotten the sheet music from his wife, the middle school choir teacher, and thought the song would be a good reintroduction to in person singing. Now seventeen, this song had become a personal favorite of mine. I’d listen to the cover by Sweet Honey and the Rock, and hum along with the harmony I learned at fifteen. Luckily, my practice paid off. I was able to sing and walk without thinking, grinning like an idiot at my friends walking by me. After a month of practice, our director deemed us ready for our first performance.
The next rehearsal, instead of discussing performance dates, our director told us he would be on leave for a family emergency. His grandfather had died unexpectedly, and he was taking the week off to grieve with his family. He attempted to say something profound about life, or grief, but I can’t remember that now. The expression on his face said everything, the sadness, the anger, and the guilt that grief tangles you up in. I knew the feeling well, despite the twenty year age gap between us, hearing him choke up took me back to hiding in my room, biting at my pillow to silence my sobbing.
In his absence, us students had to run rehearsals ourselves. This was quite the chaotic and frustrating process, pushing and pulling with your peers prodding at everyone’s psyche. The pressure to be professional in our director’s absence hung amongst us, leading to hostility. Unwillingly to let the mood bring us down, I pulled one of the upperclassmen aside. “Maybe we should record a song for him, let him know we’re all there for him.” I suggested, expecting an eye roll in return. “Actually, that’s a great idea. But what song?” I grinned and replied, “Wanting Memories?”
The next rehearsal, we take the time to record ourselves in a circle with the camera going around to each of our faces, singing almost flawlessly (Don’t take my word for it, I’m probably biased). We emailed the video to our director with a small message of forgiveness. He came back from leave, and thanked us for thinking of him. He gave me the biggest smile I’d ever seen from him, and I immediately thought, “Oh, this is what it’s like to be seen.” I felt like I had a place to be myself, I had a purpose. While I couldn’t erase the nights of crying, stuck in my own grief, I could use performance to pull people out of theirs. Maybe I’m mixing up my senses, but I think we saw each other in that moment and understood our mutual gratitude.
“I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes
I thought that you were gone, but now I know you’re with me
You are the voice that whispers all I need to hear”
First week of the second semester of my freshman year finished, and things were pretty good. Cold, but good. My dad, Uncle Joe, and my Grandmom Sue all have their birthdays this week (yes, it’s frustrating to be related to so many Aquarians). My dad and uncle visit my other grandma in Lock Haven to help her around her museum of a house and to be gifted with whatever random things she ordered off HSN. Left home by ourselves, Mom suggests we go visit Grandmom Sue for her birthday. I drag my best friend Aaliyah along, too, unwilling to deal with the melancholy of the nursing home without a bit of laughter to balance it out. As we walk through the manilla hallways, she comments on the crazies roaming the halls, and I mumble stories about them back. We giggle to ourselves. Our laughter stopped once we reached my grandmother’s room. It was small, and smelled strange. We sat down beside her as my mom pushed her to talk. “Mom, look who’s with us, it’s Michelle and her friend.” My grandmother just blinked, she had no clue who Mom was talking about. I knew she didn’t remember me, but this reminder still stung. I was pulled out of my thoughts as we heard someone cry for help in the doorway.
Alarmed, we turn to the door. Aaliyah moved to get up and helped the figure in need but I immediately sat her back down. “This is my Grandma’s roommate, she also has dementia. She’ll usually babble on for a while, she’s a bit, um, dramatic…” I mumbled to Aaliyah, watching as the other patient sat down on her bed. And babble she did, for the whole time we were there. When my grandma’s roommate said something particularly deranged, Aaliyah and I looked at each other in horror. We looked over at my grandmother, and watched her roll her eyes and mumble grumpily. The smiles were instantly back on our faces. Even if she didn’t know where she was or who we were, there she was. Susan Badame, my Grandmom Sue. “Your grandma is an icon…” Aaliyah told me as we left the room.
“I know a please a thank you and a smile will take me far
I know that I am you and you are me and we are one
I know that who I am is numbered in each grain of sand
I know that I’ve been blessed again, and over again”
The second time I found the card was for this project, three years after I initially learned of it. This time, there were no tears from me. However, as I sat looking through my memory book, my mom squeaked out, “What’s that?” Crap, I wanted this project to be a surprise for her. “Oh, I have a project for school about dementia. This was a card from my birthday, before she was…” Mom bent down and gently took the card out of my hand, inspecting it like I had at sixteen. “That’s sweet, that’s so sweet” she kept repeating as she read the short but heartfelt message. “How’d you know where this was?” Well, I snooped one day and- “I was, uh, looking for a photo one day. Found this card.” I knew exactly where the card was, too. In the front pocket with the photos that wouldn’t fit in the book that failed to close more than halfway. “That’s sweet, that’s so sweet” she repeated again, nodding before handing it back. Mom quickly took off into the other room. She never likes crying in front of other people, neither do I.
Our relatives often comment on how my mom and I are alike. Usually, we’ll give each other a look of disbelief before laughing it off. Though I’d never admit this to her face, I consider the comparison a compliment.Not only is my mother beautiful, inside and out, but she’s incredibly resilient. She has always been there to pick me up, and support me, and love me no matter what. She may lack a filter, or over worry, but she’s my mom. She’d been losing hers at the start of raising me. She had to navigate motherhood on her own, without that guiding voice of her mother that I’m so lucky to have.
Surprising, my mom often says I act like her mom, collecting tiny useless trinkets and buying lightly salted chips. It’s strange how these small quirks pass down seemingly through genetics alone, the echoes of my grandmother manifesting through me. I hope I carry those pieces of my grandmother inside myself for my mom to have for the rest of her life. In the meantime, we have photographs and weekly visits to her nursing home to hold onto my grandmother’s fleeting memories. While she does not remember who I am, I will always remember her as my grandmother, Susan Badame.