A Fragmented History

About two months ago, I called my grandmother in one of our routine phone conversations. She lives in Vacaville, a suburb outside Sacramento, and there really isn't anything new each time we talk. She tells me about the last domino tournament she had with her girlfriends, or about the neighbor who recently passed away, so the conversations soon turn toward me. But for some unknown reason, this conversation turned toward her, and specifically about her past, with grandpa. It's rare when I get to hear her talk about grandpa, and I love it when she does. Who knows how this came about, but she began talking about grandpa, who's been dead for a decade or so now. I never knew him, but I'm constantly reminded of him whenever someone asks about "my family history." I don't know why... something about his demeanor in the family photos suggests an ancient authority. My mother's highest praise is, "grandpa would be proud."

He was an air mechanic in the war, and his big dream was to be a real pilot. It was two weeks before he would get his "wings" and become a pilot when he got drunk one night with some friends and went into a manic rage. He ended up fighting with one of his superiors, and that was basically the end of it. He never became a pilot. He never even worked on planes again. He became a car mechanic and moved out from Detroit to California with his wife, my grandma, where they had the second two of their three children in Freemont. It's a sort of happy ever after ending, except that he lost the dream of his life due to one night, one drunken frenzy. Of course, this is all I could glean from my grandmother's description of the event. In our conversation, she told the story quickly, moving off the topic to talk about me. That's what she really wanted to hear. How was I? After all, I was already a spring-quarter sophomore. Time flies.

The last time she told me a story this intimate was about a year ago, and the time before that was even longer. I remember the scene as if I lived it myself: my grandmother in grandpa's arms, sneaking out after work to watch the latest films, walking back to her apartment in comforting silence and the stillness of their Detroit suburb, after hours. It makes me proud to know this story and to have seen the movie-going couple so clearly in my mind. There are so few scenes so rich as this one to further my interest in the past, and so I admit that I often forget that I have such a rich history in my family, as of yet undiscovered.

This is my mother's side; my father's is even worse. All I have are pictures, and I can't remember the last time I saw one of the relatives. My father rarely talks about his childhood, and he rarely contacts his sister. But strangely, there's always just enough lore floating around on this side of the family to keep me interested, and this is just what happened when I talked to my cousin.

My cousin is not the most eloquent speaker. She had a learning disorder as a child, and now "she's doing just fine," as my dad would say. But there's something slightly off when she talks. You can't quite put your finger on it, but it's there. Over the summer, she felt the sudden impulse to give me a call (from her home in Pennsylvania), and to keep giving me calls for the duration of a week. She told me stories about her grandmother and, embarrassed, I'd have to admit I knew nothing about them beforehand. She was shocked, every time. This was a part of my history, I should know all about it. Despite her ernest attempt to recreate these stories, her stories were often fragments of the past, so I can't say I learned much about my dad's side. I was still fascinated by my cousin's desire to bring them back to life. I'm not sure what prompted her calls, but they got me thinking about the past again and how little I know.

I cannot imagine creating a narrative out of the bits and pieces of family history that I've come across. There wouldn't be enough of a coherent story unless I could fill in the gaps with fiction. I would have to take great liberties with the small vignettes of my family's oral tradition, shaping a story around ideas of my relatives I've developed from anecdotes and opinions. The ideas would be my guideline, not the actual people and events that took place. I would be doing a disservice to the stories if I took such liberties. Granted, I know there are marvelous stories there, and I'm planning to slowly uncover them as the years pass by, if not simply for curiosity. Whether or not I write them down will depend on the storytellers, my family, and how much they want to pass down to me. After all, it's their past, too.