My husband and I were sitting outside enjoying the first somewhat cool night since spring. The fire crackled and I relaxed into a glass of wine. It had been a while since I had felt like that.
It’s been a helluva summer. In addition to a raging global pandemic that has upended almost every aspect of our lives, my Gran, Wanda, has been in and out of the hospital for the past few months. Despite her age, her recent medical issues caught us off guard. Gran is a combination of tough and stubborn not seen since John Henry died just to beat a machine.
My family, those few who remain, have been unable to visit her and we have struggled with what the next step should be for her. There have been times of pulled tight tension, but as of late last week everything seemed to be getting settled. Gran was doing much better and we were all getting along. We had navigated the treacherous terrain and as I watched our fire crackle and dance around the dusk, I was happy. Relaxed.
Then the texts started.
“Noooooo, not RBG. Not now.”
“Oh sh*t! This can’t be happening. RIP Notorious.”
“I am distraught. God help us all!”
“F*ck.”
Despite the warm fire, my entire body went cold. RBG, like my gran, was supposed to be immortal. Through an otherworldly amount of will, they would live and fight forever.
Gran and RBG are only a year apart in age, both born in the midst of the Great Depression, one in Brooklyn and one in the Appalachian coal-fields. They both had two children. The other thing that they had in common was that they were mouthy, tough old broads who fought for what they believed in and they didn’t give a good damn what people thought of them. They were liberal, independent women before those sentiments existed on t-shirts and bumper stickers.
And, that’s when I broke. For months, I’ve stacked sandbags on top of sandbags to beat back the tsunami of tears that had been threatening to drown me for the past few months but when I read about the death of a hero, one who reminded me of the person who, despite our differences, has taught me of grit and perseverance and loyalty and of speaking my whole damn mind, the sandbag wall collapsed.
I stood alone in the corner of my kitchen and I wept. I wept for Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the Supreme Court Justice, I wept for Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the ferocious women’s rights advocate, I wept for Ruth Bader Ginsuburg, the mama, wife, grandmother and person.
I wept for my grandmother, thankful that she was still here, but understanding how lonely it must be to outlive so many of those you love – including a daughter and grandson. I wept because there have been times that she has driven me crazy and made me hella anxious. I wept because if she hadn’t collected all the broken pieces that my parents left when they went to prison, I have no idea what would have happened to my brother, sister and me.
Everytime I thought that the tears had stopped, a new round would come.
Tears for democracy.
Tears for having to do the same work, but backwards and in heels.
Tears for others trying to regulate my body.
Tears for 73 cents on the dollar.
Tears for how ugly we’ve become.
Tears for this century old fight.
Tears for my girl.
Oh, the tears for my girl. Tears that we haven’t done better for her; that she has to go to school on a computer every day; that she sees the vile, unabashed, hypocritical, misogynistic, homophobic, racist toxicity that is spewed and even at her young age knows how wrong it is.
But, then I took a little comfort when I saw her sitting on the couch, snug under her favorite blanket, sketching away in her notebook. After a while, she came up to me and handed me what she had been drawing – a picture of RBG. She said, “Mama, I know that you’re sad and you’re scared right now because we lost someone who did so many great things for our country, but we got this ‘cause we’re strong women.”
That is when the tears stopped.
I understand that my words probably won’t change any hearts or minds, and they will most likely get people riled up with me, but that’s fine. I’m gonna use them anyway.
I’ll speak my mind, even if my voice shakes.
I’ll go down fighting.
For Wanda.
For Ruth.
For Conley.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
Thank you 💙