By Deauwand Myers
Deauwand (at seven years old): "Grandma, I didn't know that."
Grandma (Alice Missouri Myers): "What you don't know could make a world."
My maternal grandmother's favorite color was lavender. She was beautiful, with deep-set dimples and perfect teeth, an infectious laugh, and skin so pale, the color of milk with a few grains of coffee. Honestly, I thought I was adopted. The vast majority of my family and extended family looked...white or something near about. Younger me was a gold complexion but my years of playing outside under the hot and humid South Carolina sun made current me decidedly chocolate.
I became the color of my maternal grandfather (Arthur Plato Myers), his shock of full, white, white hair a striking display. A seminarian, in his youth he was a butcher at Lippoff's, a kosher butchery. So beloved was he that the owners insisted he come by whenever he wanted for complimentary meat. They insisted he do this for the rest of his life.
When I visited them in Philadelphia, I ate things I never ate in South Carolina: kosher white sandwich cheese, matzah balls and most fascinatingly, beef bacon.
Granddaddy would bring these foods when he, Grandma, and Aunt Vickie would visit South Carolina. Oft, during their visits to South Carolina (almost always in summer) they'd take me on grand road trip vacations to far-flung destinations: Nova Scotia, Canada, Cheyenne, Wyoming, the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, Lake Sakakawea, The Badlands, North Dakota, Mount Rushmore and the massive Crazy Horse Memorial of The Badlands of South Dakota. (Carved into the side of a granite mountain, this monument of the famous Native American warrior was commissioned in 1948, and only Crazy Horse's head has been completed. When finished, only the Statue of Liberty would be a larger monument on earth).
These vacations were magical for me as a young child. Swimming pools, buffet breakfasts, unique state cuisines, massive beds, hot tubs, long naps while driving, my awe as we drove through dangerous curves off highways tunneling through mountains, my (eccentric) delight of traffic jams and the beauty of all the places we visited still make me smile. They, all three, loved me.
Granddaddy died, ironically, while picking up meat for a repast in which he would officiate the preceding funeral. Having packed the meat in the trunk, he sat in his car, the key into the ignition and his heart simply stopped. Forever. Years later, my grandmother died in her sleep.
I, of course, loved my parents with all my heart. But my sadness in their passing was tempered by the fact they lived long lives, my grandfather into his late 70s, my grandmother into her mid-80s.
This wasn't the case with Terra.
Funny, smart, very much pro-Black, generous, with her long, thick black hair and supernaturally white teeth, whilst in Korea, she and I were very good friends.
We vibed on similar wavelengths, from fastidious fashion and personal grooming (although for me this was a simple shower, fresh haircut, nice outfit, and Dolce and Gabbana's Light Blue cologne; hers was a far more intricate and an exceedingly expensive, affair), politics, movies (in which I inevitably fell asleep for ten minutes in the middle therein); we both believed in giving good gifts. We always agreed on where to dine. She loved my cooking. Well, everyone loved my cooking, but I digress.
We never had an argument. Not once.
Looking back on it now, I wonder about that something that was irretrievably perishable about our relationship, like strawberries or sashimi outside on a warm day.
Terra was excited about returning to America after her long tenure as a teacher in Seoul for the majority of her adult life. She was accepted to a great graduate school program and she would reunite with her family, who loved her more than I ever could.
Then, suddenly, she died.
A mutual friend of ours called to inform me. She said it like a seminarian, which she is. It was comforting. I don't remember much after that on this particular night. Best I don't. I do remember, after my fourth martini far past midnight, asking to no one in particular "how?" She was in her mid-30s. What a waste of human talent and potential.
Unlike the words widow and widower, there is no word for a friend who lost a friend, at least that I could find.
I wanted to console her mother and brother, but what would I say? It would be inadequate. I sent pictures to the major Facebook group she administrated. I think there are hundreds of her and me, like at the opening of Black Panther.
I wanted to ask her what her Thanksgiving plans were this year, as this is when I held Thanksgiving parties at my place. Now, I'll never know.
Deauwand Myers (deauwand@hotmail.com) holds a master's degree in English literature and literary theory, and is an English professor outside of Seoul.
 |
Grandma (Alice Missouri Myers): "What you don't know could make a world."
My maternal grandmother's favorite color was lavender. She was beautiful, with deep-set dimples and perfect teeth, an infectious laugh, and skin so pale, the color of milk with a few grains of coffee. Honestly, I thought I was adopted. The vast majority of my family and extended family looked...white or something near about. Younger me was a gold complexion but my years of playing outside under the hot and humid South Carolina sun made current me decidedly chocolate.
I became the color of my maternal grandfather (Arthur Plato Myers), his shock of full, white, white hair a striking display. A seminarian, in his youth he was a butcher at Lippoff's, a kosher butchery. So beloved was he that the owners insisted he come by whenever he wanted for complimentary meat. They insisted he do this for the rest of his life.
When I visited them in Philadelphia, I ate things I never ate in South Carolina: kosher white sandwich cheese, matzah balls and most fascinatingly, beef bacon.
Granddaddy would bring these foods when he, Grandma, and Aunt Vickie would visit South Carolina. Oft, during their visits to South Carolina (almost always in summer) they'd take me on grand road trip vacations to far-flung destinations: Nova Scotia, Canada, Cheyenne, Wyoming, the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, Lake Sakakawea, The Badlands, North Dakota, Mount Rushmore and the massive Crazy Horse Memorial of The Badlands of South Dakota. (Carved into the side of a granite mountain, this monument of the famous Native American warrior was commissioned in 1948, and only Crazy Horse's head has been completed. When finished, only the Statue of Liberty would be a larger monument on earth).
These vacations were magical for me as a young child. Swimming pools, buffet breakfasts, unique state cuisines, massive beds, hot tubs, long naps while driving, my awe as we drove through dangerous curves off highways tunneling through mountains, my (eccentric) delight of traffic jams and the beauty of all the places we visited still make me smile. They, all three, loved me.
Granddaddy died, ironically, while picking up meat for a repast in which he would officiate the preceding funeral. Having packed the meat in the trunk, he sat in his car, the key into the ignition and his heart simply stopped. Forever. Years later, my grandmother died in her sleep.
I, of course, loved my parents with all my heart. But my sadness in their passing was tempered by the fact they lived long lives, my grandfather into his late 70s, my grandmother into her mid-80s.
This wasn't the case with Terra.
Funny, smart, very much pro-Black, generous, with her long, thick black hair and supernaturally white teeth, whilst in Korea, she and I were very good friends.
We vibed on similar wavelengths, from fastidious fashion and personal grooming (although for me this was a simple shower, fresh haircut, nice outfit, and Dolce and Gabbana's Light Blue cologne; hers was a far more intricate and an exceedingly expensive, affair), politics, movies (in which I inevitably fell asleep for ten minutes in the middle therein); we both believed in giving good gifts. We always agreed on where to dine. She loved my cooking. Well, everyone loved my cooking, but I digress.
We never had an argument. Not once.
Looking back on it now, I wonder about that something that was irretrievably perishable about our relationship, like strawberries or sashimi outside on a warm day.
Terra was excited about returning to America after her long tenure as a teacher in Seoul for the majority of her adult life. She was accepted to a great graduate school program and she would reunite with her family, who loved her more than I ever could.
Then, suddenly, she died.
A mutual friend of ours called to inform me. She said it like a seminarian, which she is. It was comforting. I don't remember much after that on this particular night. Best I don't. I do remember, after my fourth martini far past midnight, asking to no one in particular "how?" She was in her mid-30s. What a waste of human talent and potential.
Unlike the words widow and widower, there is no word for a friend who lost a friend, at least that I could find.
I wanted to console her mother and brother, but what would I say? It would be inadequate. I sent pictures to the major Facebook group she administrated. I think there are hundreds of her and me, like at the opening of Black Panther.
I wanted to ask her what her Thanksgiving plans were this year, as this is when I held Thanksgiving parties at my place. Now, I'll never know.
Deauwand Myers (deauwand@hotmail.com) holds a master's degree in English literature and literary theory, and is an English professor outside of Seoul.
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