Taken from: my family’s Facebook photo collection. (Due to my desire to remain mostly anonymous, I can’t provide a link).
[Description: the central focus is on a baby grand piano covered in sheet music with a kitchen chair pulled up in front of it. The image is located within a large living room with various pieces of furniture, books, bags, and knick knacks that don’t matter to this blog.]
“We’ve always been a singing family, it came naturally. Our parents sang to us and some of us were singing tunes at just a year or so old.” – Grandma
On December 10th, 2015, my paternal grandma passed away at the age of 91.
She is survived by her husband, also 91, four children, seven grandchildren, and about 9 great grandchildren.
And I am one of her grandchildren. The youngest of my generation, the only queer and trans (to my knowledge), and until the great grandchildren were born, the only disabled from birth and mixed race kids in this line of the family.
I can’t describe how I experience my grief beyond ambivalence. On one hand, I feel sorrow about how I can no longer see or hear her actively again. On another, I’m one step closer to being free to not care about being me in front of the family.
Bridging the Gap Between Identities 