For My Bama

30 Sep

** A short note. This is the eulogy that I wrote for my grandmother. I have gone back and forth over whether or not to post it but ultimately the decision was made for me by my friend Miriam who has been my guiding light through this grief journey. She believes that we all need someone(s) to be witness to our lives, to our death, to our grief, to our success. And so all of you who read this are a witness not only to my process and experience, but to the life that I was able to bear witness to. In this way, Bama’s legacy is able to spread even farther and you all get a glimpse at what a magical person she was **


There is a painting on my wall. I always say that in the event of a flood it is the only non-living thing I will take with me. It measures 4 foot by 2. It is made up of pinks, oranges and yellows – a beautiful African sunset. There is a tree off to the right side; I think it is a baobab, although it very well might be a marula. Running towards the tree is a giraffe. The giraffe is…imperfect. Too small with awkward, stumpy legs, its neck – however proportional to the rest of the animal it may be – would never reach far enough to allow the giraffe access to the leaves. If it were real this giraffe would surely starve. But I love it. I love everything about the painting. I love the detailing on the leaves, the grasses that seem to move, this one cloud that is absolute perfection – the rays of the sun illuminate its shape so clearly that I am certain that this singular cloud is real, living in an otherwise painted landscape. But the giraffe – I always come back to the giraffe. It is framed by orange, more orange than exists anywhere else on the canvass. It is something that other people might not notice but I do. I notice because I remember when Bama painted it.

She was having trouble getting the giraffe right and try as she may her hand never seemed able to recreate what was in her mind. I sat in the airy, pastel living room of the house in Florida completely in awe of her ability to recreate this magical sunset again and again and again, each one more colorful than the last. Eventually she settled on a giraffe – I don’t know that she was enamored with it but it was good enough to stay in the painting which occupied the space above her bed for decades in a perfectly chosen gold and black frame. Of all the paintings she ever created, and there are quite a few, it is by far my favorite. Partially because I feel I was part of the process – although I probably got in the way more than anything else – but also because of the bold and beautiful colors. I love colors and so did Bama – I learned that from her.

When I was younger I was quite partial to oversized t-shirts and sweatshirts, generally in dark blues and blacks. I remember one day I was hanging out with Bama and she said to me,

“Bekahboo, why don’t you wear more color? You have my skin tone, see?”

She was sporting a beautiful, billowy turquois top that just set her off. She put her forearm against mine and she was right – I had the exact same olive skin tone and so, after a discussion, we got in the car and headed to Nordstrom’s – her favorite department store – to look for clothes. We rode the escalator to the top and there in front of me was Plum, Nordstrom’s answer to the needs of the young adult market. She bought me a couple of tops – one of them was neon pink and strapless if I remember correctly – and it changed my life. I have had a color-heavy existence ever since. Except, of course, for that one day I showed up at her house fresh from a shift at Banana Republic wearing a black turtle neck and dark jeans and she said,

“Bekahboo, you look lovely in black. Why don’t you wear it more?”

It turns out that to Bama, I was perfect no matter what. And she, in turn, was perfect to me.

Bama’s was the first phone number I ever memorized. Her house was where I went when I wanted to hide, to feel safe, to eat those weird raspberry-shaped candies she had lying around for awhile, and to learn how to make things like corn bake and latkes. It was where I went when I wanted to laugh. I like to flatter myself and think that I share her sense of humor. And, in fact, if she were here right now she would probably tell me I did and then look at me and say,

“Well, you didn’t lick it off a bush!”

Which, the more I think about it, is a really weird saying. Sometimes I think maybe Bama didn’t get her due entirely. Papa was sort of an out-sized personality with his schemes, loud voice and serial obsessions but Bama was always there, always consistent, always ready with a funny comment and a smile. She was the real star of the show. The real Hollywood.

So, I guess before I stand here talking for the rest of the day I will just say this: we were lucky to have her for as long as we did. And we are lucky that her humor and her artistic talent was passed along to each and every one of us. Except for maybe my dad who is not really very artistic at all but tells a hell of a joke about a coffin. Bama, I love you, I miss you and your giraffe painting is safe with me forever.

One Response to “For My Bama”

  1. Scott Frank October 2, 2019 at 10:43 pm #

    ❤️

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