September 16, 2011
Gramma and Grandpa holding Rodney
When I first started this gallery project, I had a bit of an epiphany. I had just created a new piece of work which included a picture of my Gramma with my Grandpa and my Uncle Rodney when he was a baby. This picture was poignant to me because it comes across as a happy picture. Knowing what would happen to the family several years later, it's also strikingly heavy. This picture seems to encapsulate a sense of hope - everything is new, the future full of promise. I knew then that I could create a whole series of work that explores my family's history - one of alcholism and abuse.
Several years after this idyllic snapshot was taken, my Grandpa died. And Gramma was left as a widow and single mother of four (in the 1960s when such things were not as socially acceptable). Needing to provide for her family, she was forced to find work which she did as a bartender. I don't know the details - perhaps this was something she'd done when Grandpa was still alive; maybe she meant to take the work on temporarily. Whatever the case, she ended up working that job until she retired.
I don't know if she'd always been a drinker, but I know that she was certainly drunk much of the time when my mom and her brothers were growing up (and indeed when I was growing up). The kids sort of raised themselves and must have been left on their own quite a lot. I've heard many stories from my mom and uncles over the years of my Gramma coming home drunk and beating them over some insigificant transgression. In her grief over my Grandfather's death, she turned to one of his friends for comfort. And then my Uncle Joe was born. This friend of my Grandfather was married and had a family of his own. My uncle grew up not knowing his father and not wanting to. I wonder what that must have been like for him - having grown up now knowing my own biological father, I can make a guess that he - in the very least - felt like an outsider. A bit of a loner. And I try to imagine what it was like for my Gramma - a widow, single mother and new mother to an illegitimate child. The anger she must have felt to have lost her husband - who, from what I can puzzle together, was the love of her life - must have been immobilizing at times.
Several years after this idyllic snapshot was taken, my Grandpa died. And Gramma was left as a widow and single mother of four (in the 1960s when such things were not as socially acceptable). Needing to provide for her family, she was forced to find work which she did as a bartender. I don't know the details - perhaps this was something she'd done when Grandpa was still alive; maybe she meant to take the work on temporarily. Whatever the case, she ended up working that job until she retired.
I don't know if she'd always been a drinker, but I know that she was certainly drunk much of the time when my mom and her brothers were growing up (and indeed when I was growing up). The kids sort of raised themselves and must have been left on their own quite a lot. I've heard many stories from my mom and uncles over the years of my Gramma coming home drunk and beating them over some insigificant transgression. In her grief over my Grandfather's death, she turned to one of his friends for comfort. And then my Uncle Joe was born. This friend of my Grandfather was married and had a family of his own. My uncle grew up not knowing his father and not wanting to. I wonder what that must have been like for him - having grown up now knowing my own biological father, I can make a guess that he - in the very least - felt like an outsider. A bit of a loner. And I try to imagine what it was like for my Gramma - a widow, single mother and new mother to an illegitimate child. The anger she must have felt to have lost her husband - who, from what I can puzzle together, was the love of her life - must have been immobilizing at times.
Left to Right: Rodney, Gramma, Mike, Ronnie, Mom & Joe.
Tragedy and abuse seemed to hang over my family like an oppressive storm cloud. When I was five, my Uncle Ronnie died in a car accident. He had been living in Chicago and rarely saw or spoke to the family. He had come home for the holidays, in part to tell Gramma he was gay. On his way home from a night out with friends, his car skid on the ice and the car flipped in a neighbor's front lawn just two blocks from my Gramma's house. When the cops knocked at the door, my Gramma knew immediately that her son had died. I don't remember much about the days that followed except that they were very dark and heavy. Adults spoke in hushed tones. The excitement and lightness normally associated with Christmas were crushed like a cigarette under the heal of a boot. It felt like a void.
The abuse my Grandmother doled out was difficult for me to reconcile as I was growing up because I had always seen a different side of her. As a kid I loved going to her house; all of the cousins did - it was exciting and fun. We knew we could eat Rice Crispies with ice cream for breakfast and count on the cookie jar being full of chocolate chip cookies and Oreos. Sometimes - and this was a special treat - we'd go with Gramma to the VFW Hall and we'd get to sit up at the bar and order our own special cocktail - ususally a Dr. Pepper or A&W Rootbeer - which we'd sip through a tiny, red straw. We'd also get a whole candybar to ourselves - I always opted for a Whatchamacallit or Butterfinger. It was a thrilling day out. It was only when I got older that I realized that this wasn't a special outing for the sake of our entertainment; it was so Gramma could have a drink (or two, three, four). As an early adult when I was working as a bartender I recall thinking "wow, this smells like Gramma!" as I poured my first bourbon and water.
The abuse my Grandmother doled out was difficult for me to reconcile as I was growing up because I had always seen a different side of her. As a kid I loved going to her house; all of the cousins did - it was exciting and fun. We knew we could eat Rice Crispies with ice cream for breakfast and count on the cookie jar being full of chocolate chip cookies and Oreos. Sometimes - and this was a special treat - we'd go with Gramma to the VFW Hall and we'd get to sit up at the bar and order our own special cocktail - ususally a Dr. Pepper or A&W Rootbeer - which we'd sip through a tiny, red straw. We'd also get a whole candybar to ourselves - I always opted for a Whatchamacallit or Butterfinger. It was a thrilling day out. It was only when I got older that I realized that this wasn't a special outing for the sake of our entertainment; it was so Gramma could have a drink (or two, three, four). As an early adult when I was working as a bartender I recall thinking "wow, this smells like Gramma!" as I poured my first bourbon and water.
Gramma and Joe
Not all of the memories of Gramma were bad. She could be a lot of fun. But in her last years she seemed to drag the family through a mire of guilt and anger. She left a wake of sadness and hurt for all of us to suffer - even the cousins who had idolized her in their youth. In a way, this project will be a way of telling that story - of making sense of this inherited history. It's also a way of addressing tough issues and, hopefully, bringing a sense of healing to my family. I've asked my family to get involved by providing me with memories of my Grandmother - the good and the bad. One of the first responses came from my Aunt Becky, my Uncle Joe's wife. She told me that once when Joe was 12 he'd spilled some red hot peppers on the kitchen floor. Gramma came home from work, drunk, and proceeded to beat him into a corner. This is a new story to me. It occurs to me that no matter how many stories I hear (which are in some ways all the same story), it's always upsetting and ever-surprising.
The piece I'm currently working on predominantlyfeatures Fisher Price toys imagery. I want to somehow frame this against a backdrop of broken childhood. I think my uncle's memory might be just the one to use.
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