The
piercing sound of his voice made me shiver as I sunk deeper and deeper into my
chair. At seven o'clock on that Mexican night it was 90 degrees out, yet
as the harshness in his voice began to grow my bare legs and arms became
covered in goose bumps. The chair I was in was probably four times my
size in width and height. I gripped the leather bottom and hoped that by
some miracle, I would get lost in the chair and maybe become invisible to his
imposing stature as well as his painful words. Fear struck through me as
his voice boomed. It was like lightning in the great storm of his anger
breaking I, a paralyzed tree, into pieces. I was scared.
Growing up, my picture of a grandfather has been anomalous
compared to the average child’s. My grandfather is not the cute little
old man who falls asleep sitting on his porch reading to his grandchildren.
My grandfather is a businesses man. He is the head of my family, he is
strong, and he is powerful. Instead of having a warm and fuzzy man with a
lap which calls to a child , mine is one who tells me to sit up straight in my
own chair and behave like an adult. He is a giant in intellect, physique,
and in his overall personality while I feel the size of one of the ashes which
falls off of his cigar as he gently taps it on his ashtray. I am awe
struck in his presence and easily crushed, like that ash, by his every move and
word. Yet he is my grandfather and I will have no other like him.
He is the one person in my life that truly evokes fear in me yet he is also the
only person in my life that I would call my hero.
I close my eyes and can see him perfectly. His midnight
black hair and the deep, rich, brown of his skin continue to make him stand out
when compared to others his age. As a child, I remember sitting next to
him at the pool one day and resisting my urge to go play connect the dots with
the black and brown freckles which cover his body. Although, now, his
hair is slowly graying and he has begun to stay out of the sun this is how I
will always envision him--tanned, young, and always with equanimity.
Even if he has just rolled out of bed, he always looks classy and always looks
put together without a hair out of place.
His features tell the story of his heritage. It is easy to
see his Eastern European roots in his nose yet Cuba shows through in his
milk-chocolate coloring and his accent. Although he learned English in
school and has lived in this country for over 45 years, there is still a lilt
to his voice unique to his own and certain words which he will never be able to
pronounce. Spending much of my time around my grandparents, as they live
only five minutes away, I grew up constantly confusing the words “three” and “tree”
because my grandpa cannot pronounce the “th” sound and says them both the same.
At dinner a few weeks ago, I even taught him how to say the word “composer”
which he had attempted to say for five minutes and resulted with “cahmpahzer.”
The rare moments when I can teach my grandfather are experiences which I will
never forget. He teaches me so much about so many things, even if he can
learn one simple thing from me like how to pronounce a word I am so happy.
Like pronunciations of words which are unique to my grandfather’s
conversations, there are certain gestures and facial expressions, which I will
always associate with him. I have learned to know what he is thinking and
feeling simply by the way he stands. When his hands rest on his hips as
he poses for photographs I can look into his eyes and know that he wants to be
remembered. As he crosses his arms and rests them on his chest I sense
that he is growing fed up or uninterested. His elbow moves on to the
table and his chin rests in his hand and I know that there is something else on
his mind and that he is thinking deeply. Then of course, when he says one
of his famous jokes or employs his trademark sarcasm he smiles wide showing all
of his teeth which are slightly yellow from smoking for so long. His lips
stretch from one side of his face to the other like a long slice of the melon
he has for breakfast nearly every morning. Part of me craves to see that
smile, yet the other becomes frustrated and will always wonder why I cannot be
as quick on my feet and as clever with my words as he is.
My brothers and I attempt to jokingly, but truly out of
affection, mimic him. Secretly, I think all three of us yearn to earn a
simple smile or a laugh out of our grandfather whose opinion matters to us so
much. Although my family and often my grandfather find humor in our
renditions, deep down we know that no matter what we do we will never be as
great as he is--never as funny, never as respected, never as smart, never as
tactful--we can only aspire to be so.
I think so much of him yet at the same time I will always fear
him. I speak with hesitation to my grandfather as I present a new idea to
him or something I have put great efforts into. There are so many people
in my life who think the world of me. They will oo and ah when I say what
classes I take, how hard I work, and what I have achieved. Yet my
grandfather will not. When I tell him I read fifteen books over the
summer he tells me I should have read twenty-five. If I express fear to
him or apprehension he waves his hand at me in dismissal. I often feel
that I constantly climb this ladder attempting to reach for the goals that he
sets for me. I tackle each wearisome step of that ladder reminding myself
that this is all for his approval and that my exhaustion, my efforts, and my
sacrifices will all be worth it. Each time I think to myself that I have
accomplished his desires, the steps of that ladder are continually moved
higher. For the past seventeen years of my life I have been climbing a
never-ending ladder. I grew up thinking he did this to hurt me. I
thought that, rather than encourage me, he focused all of his great might on
holding me back. Yet, I was so wrong. He was urging me ahead.
Yet as a young child, I had convinced myself that my grandfather
was specfically trying to hurt me. I did not know if maybe it was because
I was a girl or becaues I did not like history or golf like my brothers but I
knew that I was treated differently. More was expected from me than
anyone else in terms of my behavior, my knowledge, and my performance yet I was
unclear as to why. My earliest memory of my grandfather taking that tone
of voice with me that still haunts me when my father yells or when I have a bad
dream, was in Mexico at seven years old. I can still remember the smell
of papayas and our dinner cooking in the air. I had been excited
throughout the day feeling so lucky to have a night alone with my grandparents.
As we awaited our dinner, I pulled all of my efforts to try to act like an
adult and to impress my grandfather.
As we talked he asked, "Did you watch that movie about the
whale last night with your brothers?"
Although I stared intently at the screen for the duration of Free
Willy when my brothers and I watched it the previous night, I figured that
it was a "kiddy" movie, as my grandfather would describe it. I
thought to myself, at such a young age already worrying about how he perceived
me, that he would consider me more of a mature person if he thought that I had
not watched it. I decided to attempt to be funny at the same time.
"Me? Free Willy? Why would I watch a movie like that?"
Yet, as usual, no matter what I say to him or how I say it, what
I mean never comes off correctly. What I thought was sarcastic humor was
justly interpreted as rudeness, mockery, and impudence. As he lectured me
about how to talk to adults properly I cringed from embarrassment and hurt.
At that age, I truly did not recognize what I did wrong to deserve that voice.
I cried incessantly. This caused further scolding. As he told me I
was being overly emotional and overly dramatizing the situation, I continued to
cry harder. I could not stop. I started a trend for myself whcih I
thought impossible to break. Regardless of who my grandfather is yelling
at, regardless of what the topic is, I tear whenever I hear that voice.
While I hoped he would consider me an adult, I had achieved the opposite.
Rather than being the mature grandchild that he desired so greatly I became the
baby which he put aside as he waited for me to grow up.
Yet at seven years old, children cry. My grandfather spent
much of his parenthood as well as his time as a grandparent rather detached
from the insignificant trials and tribulations of a child's life. He was
focused on creating a business and becoming a prominent person in his industry
and became active in his children's lives when report cards arrived home or a
car was scratched. They grew to know him as a disciplinarian and, at each
encounter with him, grew stronger at standing up to him and more skilled as to
how to talk to him.
My dad continues to tell me that my grandfather’s purpose is to
criticize and correct. He likes to contradict people even his young
grandchildren and especially his children. I remember then telling my
father “If Grandpa likes contradicting so much tell him to go be a lawyer.”
What I had not realized was that being a lawyer was the profession which my
grandfather always wanted to pursue yet was unable to receive the education
which it required. I always regretted making that comment and it shed
some light as to why my grandfather pushes everyone else so hard.
My father and I have few similarities. One of these is that
we face the burden of being the eldest children and the brunt of the majority
of my grandfather’s words. Yet he is much more adept at not taking his
father’s judgments seriously and brushing off his words without a trace of
remorse. Although his children grew up with skin as thick as the accent
my grandfather would default to as he yelled at them, I had not and never
really did. I looked to my grandfather as my hero yet I sat back in fear
of him as if he were a tyrant.
Through my childhood I climbed my interminable ladder of
tennis lessons, piano recitals, spelling tests, and math exams working for one
thing only--to earn approval from my grandfather. Somewhere in Middle
School I realized how, as he pushed me, I was pushing myself. I looked
back at all I do and with what dedication I do it with and realized how
incredible it was. For a moment, I did not care whether he saw the wonder
in it. I saw that I had learned to push myself through his guidance and
look at what great things I could achieve. I was happy with pursuing the
unimaginable but not so much for him anymore, but for myself.
Throughout the rest of my life I have walked into classrooms,
leadership positions, even down the streets of an intimidating city, with absolute
confidence in myself. In the back of my mind I knew that if I could keep
my sanity through his looks of frustration, his arms waving as he yells, his
stubbornness, and his criticisms, I knew that I could face and conquer anything
else. While my grandfather created such fear in me towards him, he in
effect, made me discover such confidence in myself in so many other fields.
I am forever grateful to him. If he was not there urging me along, I do
not believe I would have the drive to achieve what I have. For this, he
is my hero.
He continues to amaze me as he tells me stories of all that he
and his family have sacrificed for each other. One story in particular
took place in Cuba. I remember being about eight years old the first time
I heard it. Now that I am older I understand it more. In 1926, with
many of their brothers and sisters in America already, my great-grandparents
began making preparations to move their growing family from Poland to the
United States. There were quota laws in place which regulated the amount
of immigrants coming to America from each country. Europe was rife
with inhabitants who wished to immigrate to the states therefore many who
desired to leave Europe traveled to another country with a larger quota and
entered the United States through there. Yet, when my family arrived in
Cuba, anticipating to stay only a few days, they remained for sixteen years.
When they arrived in this new strange place, American quota laws were changed
to regulate immigration based on country of origin rather than place of
residence. My great-grandparents were left with only one option -- to
make a life in Cuba, become citizens, and hopefully someday they could join
their relatives in America. My grandfather, Moishe Silverstein later to
be called Miguel which was Americanized into Murray and eventually changed to
Michael, was born on the first night of Passover during their first few months
in Cuba. We still do not know his exact birthday.
I remember once asking about my great-grandparents who I did not
know very well. My grandfather grew excited at the opportunity to tell a
story. I remember listening intently to his words. As I write the
words down on paper, I realize how so many of the phrases he uses in his
everyday vernacular are ones that I will always associate with my
grandfather for the rest of my life. I also see the value of his stories
for they are all part of me too.
“You see Emily, your Great Grandpa Max was the youngest child in
his family and all of his older siblings were already in the United States.
So my father was very eager to go there so he could be with his family.
What you have to remember is that it was not cheap to bring a family of five
over to America and still have enough money left over to survive. So my
father went to America to make some good money and see his brothers. But
to come to America you had to be a Cuban citizen and my father was not. He was
able to buy fake citizenship papers and hire a Cuban woman who spoke good
Spanish to accompany him as his ‘wife.’ He took a boat to Key West but
all the passengers on the boat were stopped and held by immigration because the
guards had heard a rumor that there were some non-citizens on the boat.
My father went to one of the guards and said ‘Can I just go to get some fresh
air and some coffee?’ but the guard did not trust him. So my father said ‘Here
you can hold my wife!’
I remember looking at him in absolute astonishment. I
stuttered, “He left my great-grandma Sonia in Florida!”
“No, Emily that wasn’t my real mother, remember? My father
played a trick on the guard and left. He grabbed a train to New York to
find his brothers. He spent about a year in New York.” I remembered
and kicked myself for having not understood correctly yet I now see the
parallels between the quickness that I admire in my grandfather with my
great-grandfather’s swift thinking as well.
I thought that I had made myself look stupid by not understanding
the story so I tried to redeem myself. “If Great-Grandpa Max did not have
real papers and he was not a real citizen didn’t he have the same problems
coming home?”
“Yes, my good granddaughter. Good thinking,” and he patted
my head. I smiled wide. It sounds like a weird thing for a
grandfather to say to his grand daughter yet it is a phrase my ears crane to
hear whenever we are together. He says it with such affection and such
adoration. But, foremost, he says it with a loving smile. The shape
of our lips match each other for those short moments. With pride, I pat
myself on the back and think, “My grandpa loves me.” It is those moments,
although few, that make up for my fear.
He continued, “To come back to Cuba my father had to pretend to
be a tourist. The problem that he faced is that he would not look like a
tourist visiting for the day with two big suitcases. So he took all of
the clothes he was bringing home and wore them! Now he had on two coats,
five shirts, six pairs of pants, ties, and socks. We met him at the boat
in Havana and didn’t even recognize him! All we saw was this huge fat man
walking through the street. When we got home he started taking off all of
the clothes and my eyes popped out. I could not believe how much he was
wearing.”
As he continued to describe this, although I was at such a young
age, I acknowledged how much my great-grandfather sacrificed for his family.
Although my grandfather didn’t illegally enter countries or risk his life doing
so, he sacrificed so much of his time and energy to make a life for his family
so that they could be proud of. He wanted his children and their children
to have a better life with more opportunities than he did. When I see how
hard he has worked and my ancestors have worked for me, I am given the
motivation to make sacrifices for their honor. Although studying one more
hour or doing one more extra-curricular is trivial in comparison, I put all the
energy I can into living up to all my family has done for each other. As
my grandfather talks about his father with such pride and such love, I hope
that someday he will talk about me in the same way. He is my hero, I just
wish he knew what respect I had for him and for all of the things my family has
done for me.
Along with his stories about our heritage my
grandfather also likes to tell about how he served in World War II.
Although I did not realize this until I was much older, he also likes to insert
some poetic license into his stories. As a child I would gaze at him as
he would tell about his man-to-man combat with other soldiers and how he barely
made it out alive. He would point to the scars running down the center of
his chest, like the indentations I would make with my fingers on my play-dough,
and tell me that he was cut in an intense fight. Where he was missing two
toenails, he told me he was captured and tortured by the enemy and they took
off his toenails one by one until he was able to escape. I used to have
nightmares that soldiers were running after me with nail clippers. At
such a vulnerable age, he was so convincing. I assumed everything he said
was the truth.
Although he never admitted it to me personally, I learned that
the scars on his chest were from his pacemaker and his replaced valve and that
the toenails were simply ingrown and were removed. My grandfather has
tried to mask what he considers his weaknesses to his grandchildren. I
used to wonder if this was out of embarrassment. I know it kills him to
say, “Emily I can’t help you pick colleges because I never went to college
myself. Although I am right about many things I will not try to advise
you on a topic I know nothing about.” My grandfather has never said
something like this to me ever in his life until now. He knows everything
and the fact that he admitted that information so readily confused me. I
realize now, that my grandfather does not advertise his “weaknesses” because he
is ashamed but moreso because he accepts them. I do not think he feels
the need to gain pity from others and he does not want people to think less of
him especially his grandchildren. Through his stories of his adventures
and most importantly through his character, my grandfather has tried to instill
in his grandchildren that he is invincible. He wants us to believe that
he can accomplish everything. He also tells true stories about how during
his trips to Mexico and India movie directors would ask him if he would like to
read for a part in a script. Although he always declined, he will always
remind his grandchildren that he could have been a movie star. One day I
asked my father why he did not read for a part and my father answered that he
knew he had to work and be with his family. I thought that was amazing.
My grandfather wants us to think of him as famous, distinguished, almost
legendary. He wants us to consider him our hero. What he does not
realize is that he already is our hero.
Every time he says, “My good granddaughter,” every time he tells
a story about his parents, every time he showers us with a glimmer of his love,
sunlight in the thunderstorms of fear, I know that he is my hero. I will
be forever grateful to him for all that he and his family sacrificed for my
future and I will always try to live up to their expectations. I will
always listen, nod my head and smile as my grandfather tells a story of his
fights during battle. I will look at him and someday I will find a signal
so he can realize that despite whatever weaknesses he might think he has, he
will always be my hero. Although I will still sink down in my chair as he
lectures me and sometimes even tear, I will take the steps to start standing up
for myself. For what have I learned from my grandfather? Although I
consider my hero godlike in so many ways, he is just like me. He has
faults and I have mine. As his voice grows and he stands up taller I can
stand up taller too. I know I can have his confidence.
When he called last week, he started talking about colleges with
me. I expressed my concern that I will come off like so many others.
Typical Long Island girls are ubiquitous on college campuses with the
same interests, same level of intelligence, and the same priorities.
Although that may be my address, it is most certainly not my personality.
I know that deep down I am unique yet struggle on a daily basis not to blend in
as nondescript with the stereotypes of so many like me. I often
question whether or not the admissions offices, which hold so much of my future
in their hands, will be able to see that.
My grandfather asked me, “What do you think your strongest
attribute is? What makes you stand out?”
I thought, and just like when I was eight years old,
painstakingly went back and forth on the best answer--the answer which he was
looking for. I responded, “I would think that I would be an asset to a
college because of my affinity for languages and my strong leadership skills.”
He said, “Well, although I will not deny that, I am going to sell
you short.”
I panicked with confusion as to what he would say next.
“When you walk into a room, no matter what grades you have or
what scores you get on a silly test, you mesmerize people. There eyes
come up from their newspapers and their troubles and say ‘who is that girl?’
Not only are you attractive and well-dressed but most importantly you are
poised. Even if you are not going to admit it to me, I know you know that
girls envy you everywhere and boys attempt to collect the confidence to just
say a simple hello to you. When you see people stare at you walking down
the street I know you are self-conscious but they are staring at you with
jealousy and desire not distaste. You will captivate these colleges with
your charm and they will see that you deserve the opportunities which you want.
Now I don’t know very much about these college things but I know about first
impressions. You will make an unbelievable one.”
I am used to my grandfather criticizing not praising. I was
convinced he was trying to reprimand me on something or another. All I
thought was great my grandfather thinks I can get into college because I’m hot.
This is just wonderful. There goes all my never-ending ladder climbing.
I should not have bothered. I would have been better served making
endless trips to the make-up counters and boutique windows rather than school
resource rooms and libraries. But I decided to stand up for myself.
“Grandpa what do you think I’ve done with the past five years of
my life? Waste them away working so someone could tell me none of its
going to matter? That I will get into college because I’m attractive? Do
you know the time I spend teaching my classes, waking up mornings to work with
teachers and go to clubs, and going to committee meetings? I do it all to
make everybody proud and you are telling me that I will get into college
because I dress well and can smile right. This is just great. I
wish someone could have told me this back in seventh grade. Maybe I would
have spent more time primping if it mattered that much!”
At that point, I took a deep breath and realized that was not
what he meant. It was so far off from what he meant. I was grateful
that he could not see my complexion as it grew ever so florid. I
wished I could have abjured all that I had just said. All I wanted
to do was take it back. I was convinced he would start yelling about how
I took an inappropriate tone with him. It was a flashback to that day in
Mexico. I was glad that, when tears would inevitably start, that he would
not realize I was crying.
He left me baffled when he responded. “Ah, Emily you have
finally gained a voice. Maybe you will use it more often, no? I
simply said your good looks and charm will add to all of your many selling
points. Your poise and way with people will not get you everywhere but
they will help you travel very far.”
Now I wished he could see me and that I could see him. I
was smiling and I hoped he was too. I answered, “Well I get all my good
looks and poise from my grandfather you know.”
He laughed. I love knowing that I made him laugh. “That’s
right my good granddaughter. That is right.”