Why Do I Feel Obligated?
Opening up about familial drama, one Medium post at a time.
First of all, I cannot tell you just how many times I have started and stopped writing this little piece. How I edited myself, how I dolled myself up “just a bit” to tell the story across various hidden YouTube videos, and how I hit the brakes every time. I was mad, but still scared to speak up. I’m used to keeping most of myself bottled up. I have touched down on it before but hadn’t been hip to certain parts. Some conversations with cousins hadn’t happened yet. I hadn’t gathered enough courage to really speak my mind. What is age when I still feel like the quiet little girl who often tripped the lines of saying too much and being afraid to speak up? What happens when she grows up to become an anxiety-ridden switch of a mess, stuck between letting all the birdies fly…and worrying what others will think? Is she still scared they’ll come for her because she’s being rude? Even now, she is torn between trying not to hurt and working through her own pain.
Second, let me say this — I do not hate my family. I don’t appreciate how some of them have talked sideways to me in the past about situations. Talking down, sideways, kinda like I’m not all there. I’m sure all has been forgotten on their side. I’m the one keeping tabs so I can relay how it all makes me feel. I have felt slighted in a few areas of the maternal side experience, and I’m allowed to be upset about the events. I’m not as upset about it anymore. Making videos, venting to family, and finding peace as I age have helped. Writing about it helped. Talking to my mother and her mother, spiritually, have helped.
It’s deeper than some Pisces Moon havin’ lady ranting on social media.
That’s where it all started.
Backgrounds, Thoughts, and Courage
I was in Chicago during the Summer of 2021, putting the finishing touches on my paternal grandmother’s headstone. I had written the obituary in her funeral program and was thus given the honor of writing the epitaph of her final resting place. I didn’t want to! I was afraid. How could I possibly put into words all that she meant to this world? To me? Why were they leaving it all to me, the so-called “writer” who could barely hold the attention of the average reader? The whole world would be seeing this stone. She would be seeing this stone. It finalized everything — my Nana Ellen died in 2018, and we were finally healed enough to give her a proper headstone. It became far more than underestimating myself. It reminded me that there was unfinished business on the other side of my family tree.
I snarl as I type that. I promised myself that I wouldn’t get emotional. I wouldn’t “get like that”, and I would not start the muck-rake with this piece. A muck rake really isn’t the point of writing this. It’s a process of addressing hard feelings after years of thought and discovery. After tough conversations. It’s not a means of agitation, although that part cannot be helped to a certain degree. It’s a touchy subject on both ends.
I snarl, because of all the funerals and burials I attended as a child. Aunts, uncles, and uncle-grandpas with headstones. A grandfather, an aunt-grandma with proper stones. Cousins and the like — headstones. Interments in mausoleums. My maternal grandmother? Nothing. Years and years, by the way. It’s the kind of thing I noticed as a child, but didn’t have the guts to ask about. Good girls didn’t ask questions like that. No longer a girl, I want to know why my grandmother does not have a headstone after almost 30 years.
How dare you, Veronica Rochelle Williams.
Well sweetness, how dare y’all for not telling me that nice woman I had been hugging and visiting was my actual grandma! How dare y’all for letting me find out through a gosh darned program, and not taking the time to explain, fearing what my aunt-grandma would have thought. I’m watching first cousins give sweet speeches about her, and it wasn’t quite clicking yet, because it’s not uncommon for blood cousins to have different grandmas. I sat there in honorable silence because the modem was still dialing up, damn it. I knew better than to act up in church. It was a raw subject then, and it’s still one now. Sorry, but the Band-Aid comes off today!
I would have been over the moon to have so many grandmas. What kid WOULDN’T want to have three grandmas to love on them, care about them, and hug them? I wrote about this before, and let me tell you — I have had a lot of time to think about secrets and timelines. I’m thankful that at least one of mom’s sisters (may she and my mama rest well) took the time to sit with me and explain things. Of course it hurt her, but that was our family history. That was something she respected me enough to open up about. Her amazing daughters and son also opened up to me and laid it down even more. They didn’t shame me or talk to me like I was stupid. They never made me feel like I was a child in need of some kind of familial hierarchical verbal punishment to be put in my place.
I was respected. I was understood.
If any of my mom’s other sisters wanted to talk to me about this whole thing, the opportunity has been on the table since 1995. I don’t think it needed to be a heavy conversation, but it has been an overdue one. To have to piece it together myself (the parts that my cousins can’t really fill in) has been interesting. I can’t make my kin regulate my feelings, but holy crap — let us not act as if the digital age keeps us from being able to discuss! Zoom meetings, emails, FaceTime — it can be done.
Obligations
I felt obligated to speak my mind in a post when I came back from the cemetery. I felt fluffed up because the memories of that place came flooding back. All the death that took hold of my family until I was well into my early teen years, all the dresses and decorum, and the long limo rides to Blue Island to close yet another chapter of our family. All the somber rides I took to say goodbye to this one and that one, playing the morbid game of greeting the previously buried every time. Coping with dark comedy, but sobering up to say hello to mom, grandpa, and eventually — my maternal grandmother. Flowers, tears, repass after repass. Thick sepia-toned programs, organ music, “The Lord is my Shepard…” — I know funeral protocol like the back of my hand, even as a Buddhist. That was my childhood. Yes, that was their mother. She was my grandmother. I stand by what I said — she deserves recognition. We are all here because of her.
There was no stone, so I had to use memory and markers to remember where she was. “Do you know where she is?” asked my dad and grandma when we’d come to visit our people. Of course that bright-eyed fool knew. I knew because from 1991 to about 1999, I was there burying somebody with my kinfolk. Yes, I knew. I ran to say hello to her, still not knowing she was my biological grandma. I was but a child paying respects to my family on both sides.
Let me be very clear — I thought the “grandma” part of her name was a term of endearment. In the Black community, especially in Southern culture (migrated to the North, in this case), think back to how many people you called “mother”, “mama”, “aunty”, or some variation. How many were really kin? How many were close family or something like that? I did not know she was my mother’s mother. As far as I was concerned, my aunt-grandma was my maternal grandma, because she raised my mother. That part is a long story, but not a hard one to understand. I asked my mom’s sister and my father all about it, and neither one of them made a big deal. It was life, life happened, and I was well into my late 20s hearing about it. Nobody held back. The only person missing was my mother.
Back then, when my maternal grandmother was in the casket at the family church, I was scanning the program, and I saw my mother’s name among her girls. My mother, with all my aunts. Yes, I knew my aunts were her daughters. I never concluded that my mom was also her daughter. I knew she was my aunt-grandma’s family. Still, the wires did not cross because I wasn’t sitting there thinking of how the branches on the family tree all fit. Not at that exact moment. I was confused but had enough sense not to cause a scene or ask questions. I was taught to be classy, not to make noise in church, and not act a fool in public — a trio of rules I often fumbled, but tried not to screw up on purpose. I wasn’t going to lose TV and Nintendo time. I didn’t want to hear the sternness of my dad’s disappointment. I knew something was different.
I let it go.
Who was the woman I visited in that nursing home, to hug her in my nice yellow Easter dress? Did it hurt her to see me? I looked so much like my mother when she was a little girl. How did she feel seeing me come into any room? I remembered the gentleness of her hugs, and the sweetness in her eyes. I felt bad that she was bedridden in those moments. I did not get to know her before that time period. I knew her as Grandma B (I will not be putting her full last name.) and did not know the rest of her story until I got to talk to my inner circle.
Was it all going to be need-to-know? Probably. All that I asked and found out happened years before the headstone finalization. All that I found out after filling in the gaps. The pain I feel? This is something I need to resolve. I am honestly not sure if I can. I have devoted hours to Ancestry’s website, going so far as to provide my DNA to learn more. The percentages of my heritage continue to change, but my feelings do not — people who got to witness her living days in her prime, people who had their parents explain who she is — I don’t think they get it. Because my mother isn’t here, it runs deeply.
I also don’t want to open wounds at the same time. I’m not going to sit here and say this aunt and that aunt are all cold-hearted. This subject is probably just as hard for them. I’m sure they all cared for Grandma B because she is their mother. I do not expect every single one of them to put down their retired lives to cater to my questions. Yet at the same time, if we are family and are all in the circle — when do I get the answer as to why she still does not have a stone? Do they think I deserve to know? The unknown leaves a lot to be assumed, and I’d rather not do that.
I went off on Instagram that day because I felt something in my spirit. It was hard visiting Nana Ellen’s home without her being there. It was harder to finalize her resting place. It escalated when I went to the cemetery to see her, mom, and grandpa — and still could not find my Grandma B. I came year after year to find her. Yes, more stones had been placed there, but I went all the way back to the fence to try and find her. I could not. It made me feel awful — my memory had failed me, time had changed everything, and the people who were capable of giving her a rightful stone had not. Yes, I went off on that post.
My mother is not here to discuss this situation with me. She died in 1988. I cannot say if things would have been different between her and the sisters on this matter, but at least I wouldn’t have these missing pieces connected to her absence. She is the biggest missing piece. She is also the reason this becomes very personal for me. I will not call this issue a burden, but I’m carrying a load of feelings and emotions rolling into one another concerning a mother, a daughter, and a grandmother.
The Mother: I don’t have any memories of my mother. I learned more about her by asking questions. In my youth, my family took the time to tell me about her. Everyone had a story, and I learned to love her more from those stories. I have one tape of her voice. I sound a lot like her. I’ve been told that I have taken on a lot of her characteristics. Obviously, there’s a lot of pain and grief over losing her. A lot of guilt because I don’t remember her, but have asinine memories of things that happened around the same time. It feels like a lot has been erased due to trauma or simply the fact that I was very young.
She sacrificed a lot to have me, and the after-effects took her from this world. In the end, all she wanted was a family of her own, her art, and to teach her students. I honestly do regret my own existence because of that, but my Nana Ellen and dad have told me over and over that I can’t blame myself for what happened. My aunt in California told me the very same in 2001. To lack memories of her and my maternal grandma feels like a huge gaping wound that won’t heal.
She isn’t here to explain things as the daughter. There are things her sisters could fill in, but it’s different when it’s your own mother. Somebody who wouldn’t have the distancing bias. Somebody who would have taken the time to explain things at the funeral. I know it would have been different because she opened up about so much of it within the time she had with my father. I believe that she would have understood my pain. It’s silly, but I imagine us talking about it over flavored coffee and teacakes.
The Grandmother: I hold a lot of uncontrollable guilt about not knowing Grandma B was my maternal grandmother. This isn’t something that makes me love my aunt-grandma any less. I want to fully stress that. She was just as wonderful of a grandma figure. She was graceful, poised, and very proper. She is the reason I like tea and big bags. We had our differences, but I loved her dearly. I only wish that I could have gotten the teapot from her display case that we talked about. I Googled her address and looked at the home I spent part of my childhood.
It was a warm and lovely place adorned with tasteful furniture and a comforting mothball smell. I teared up knowing it was sold but saw myself dancing in the living room mirror. I thought of the weird turtle decoration she kept by the door. I recalled her perfect soft-boiled eggs and the way she broke bread for the birds out back. She was very good to me, and I will never forget her. I have pictures and memories because she and her husband were front and center in my life. It broke my heart when uncle-grandpa T died first, and aunt-grandma M died later. Witnessing their internment in that mausoleum broke my heart. I would never get to ride in grandpa T’s Cadillac ever again. There would be no more Tic-Tac talks and hilarious disagreements over inappropriate PBS documentaries about bees. I could write a mini-book about her fabulous jewelry and designer bag collection. I was privileged to have memories of outings and holidays with those two. Memories that will last me until I leave this life.
I do not have those same memories of my maternal grandmother. I’m struggling to even recall if she ever spoke. I cannot remember her voice, but I remember the warmth in her eyes. I never questioned the visits as a child. I never shied away from the hugs. I embraced her as family but didn’t quite know just where or how she fit in. I just felt like it was my duty to be kind to her, loving, and give a good hug. That’s what you did — you visited the sick and lonely. That’s what they taught us in church, anyway. Looking back at that now, I feel horrible. Comparing childhood pictures of myself and my mother, I feel worse. She lost mom way back then, and in came her chubby copy waddling into the room, and she couldn’t tell me who she really was. I cannot write enough poems, I cannot apologize enough. She deserved so much better. She deserved far more time with me. I guess I felt jealous and stupid later on because everyone knew who she was. Everyone had a memory of her. I have my own, but why couldn’t everything just be out in the open?
Why did it all have to be a secret? Why did I have to find out the way I did, with no explanation?
“Why do you feel obligated to talk about this?” — My Cousin, one N.E. of Chicago.
The Daughter: I felt obligated because it was on my heart at that moment. I removed all the posted arguments between her and my other cousin who really understood it. All that drama under a post that I refused to stow away. I never answered her thesis statement of DMs talking sideways to me after my secondary response. Oh goodness, I got mad on Insta! I did that stupid thing they’re always accusing Millennials of doing, front and center. The pain of not having my mom here, the weight of memories, and the finalization of goodbyes for the grandma who was a big part of my upbringing — it all came crashing down underneath my fast, fat fingers.
I resented being talked down to. I deleted that cousin and unfollowed her. I thought of the wild crap her mother said to my dad the day of Nana Ellen’s funeral. I thought about how a small handful of the family came and went from that side. How nobody else contacted me. How I would have to go and chase them if I wanted to really talk. How, exactly as I stated in my post when it was something legal that required my sign-off, suddenly I was easy to find. Otherwise, an afterthought here in Tennessee. How everything shifted once I became of age, and suddenly…Veronica who? Yes, it all goes both ways, but I will say this — the ones who really seek me out, know how to reach me without pretense.
I felt totally obligated because that’s the matriarch of the family. In comparison to the relationship and honor Nana Ellen received, I feel like Grandma B deserves triple the flowers for all she has been through, and the least that could be done would be a nice headstone. Throw rocks if you want to, but I have the director of the cemetery in my contacts. At any time somebody would like to donate and get it started, I am here.
I would do it myself, but I promised my Aunt Barb that I would not completely start a family fire. I don’t know if I legally can. After all, I am just one of many of her grandkids, and I guess the one who ain’t supposed to be front and center kicking up dust. She died in 1995, so when do we get over this and that, and honor her properly? When do we acknowledge who she was?
Resolve, Head On
I promised I would not get emotional. I broke that promise today. Not to cause trouble, not to wag fingers, but to get this all off my chest. I am tired of the fear that makes me stop and edit. It makes me feel like my voice isn’t important. I’m not the little girl with the poofy ponytail anymore. I don’t appreciate being talked down to, so as to put me in my place. I try very hard to keep calm and be mature because my grandmas raised me as such. My mother would have expected that of me.
I’m thankful for those willing cousins who understand the complicated struggle. I’m thankful that I am in a place now where I can express the confusion of my youth, the grief as I grew up, and the wisdom of understanding certain situations. There’s a bit more to it, but out of respect for that line of business, I won’t go into details. On the surface level, I didn’t know who my maternal grandmother was. I felt slighted hearing all the stories of who she was decades ago and felt stabbing guilt not being able to properly acknowledge and love her as I was with Nanas Ellen and M.
I can no longer worry about who resents me, who doesn’t think I should say anything at all, or where they think I should compartmentalize all my feelings. I’ve done all the holding in I can possibly do. I wish that I had been told much earlier. I wish that mom were here to fill in the details. I wish that Grandma B and I had more time, and she could have told me in her own way. Any confusion could have easily been wiped. If she’s there with a stone, show me. One call, one pic. If you’re family and we haven’t already talked about this, come forth. Unless I am at work, I have nothing but time to talk.
Let us not hold back any longer, and reconcile with the past. Not to change it, but to understand it and myself.
As my dearly departed cousin Wilk told me:
“It’s all in the past, and can’t none of it be changed.”
I think I’m going to go tie-dye something.
My mother chose the name Veronica. Why? Could have been the flower, the saint, or just as an homage to my dad, so we could share a name via my nickname (Ronnie/Roni). It’s the meaning of this name that really makes me sit and think, sometimes. Maybe this lady saw my future long before I came. Maybe she prayed I would break curses, ask questions, and speak the hell up. I’m a screwball in a lot of ways, but I take expression and understanding very seriously. I like to try and work through issues. Resolve starts with me learning to get over some things, stop beating myself up, and stand tall.
It took months to get this all out. I did, indeed, tie dye quite a few things.
About the authoress: Veronica W is an aspiring writer and poet currently residing in a small town in TN. Her work can currently be found here on Medium, Instagram, and Amazon.
