Be Your Family Griot~~~
I was blessed to have known all of my grandparents, maternal and paternal. I loved getting together and telling the family stories. As they aged, I wished we had recorded them in more than just our memories.
The Griot
I first learned of African griots when teaching an excerpt from Roots by American author Alex Haley. Because there was no written language in ancient Africa, the griots memorized the local ancestry and history and passed that down through the oral tradition. The role of the griot continues in West Africa today.
The Griot tradition of West Africa | Sibo Bangoura | TEDxSydney
Debra, the Modern Griot
A few years ago, my then 80-year-old aunt recorded her memories of growing up with her first generation Italian parents, my grandparents, in New York City. She sent the audios to me with instructions to listen and then email questions to her about where information needs to be filled in. Then she emailed back with the answers. Maybe we’ll write a book? Well, this is a start.
The genesis of this project began four years ago when I read Elizabeth Street, a memoir by Laurie Fabiano that crosses generations starting at turn of the century Italy, then to immigrating to Elizabeth Street in New York City, and finally on through to Hoboken, New Jersey, and more current times. I told my aunt about this book which she read and enjoyed and actually have been encouraging her to write down our family stories for years as my father, her brother, passed away over 20 years ago.
Every year I call this aunt for her birthday and she loves to tell me the stories as part of her birthday celebration. “Write them down,” I would implore. One day I got a voicemail from her that she sent a happy surprise to me in the mail. Voila. The CDs.
Some of these stories I heard before though not with all of the details.
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One story sticks with me still. I never heard this one. Why? Maybe because my Italian grandfather, whose family hailed from Parma, was a humble man. He is my hero here. It had to do with his worker who became his friend. It was the 1940s and 1950s in New York City. My grandfather sold fruits and vegetables all over the Bronx. He had one worker, and this man went by the nickname Slim as he was very tall and slender. They would go out for breakfast or coffee or lunch and my grandfather would say, “If he’s not getting served, then I’m not getting served.” Slim was not only tall and slender but Black and these were far less enlightened times, but my grandfather was wise and good.
One fair-weather day when Slim chose to ride in the open back of the box truck while my grandfather drove, there was a thump and a cry. Slim got hurt badly in the back of that truck. My grandfather rushed him to the hospital and visited him there every day until he could go home. Slim did not have medical insurance so my grandfather paid his medical bills setting up a payment plan, a dollar a week to the hospital until the debt was done. Back then a dollar was a lot of money, and it was also a lot especially for someone like my grandfather. Of course, Slim never rode in the back of that truck again.
And my grandfather? I wish I could ask him but I think he’d say how Slim was not just a friend but family. Not only do you do the right thing, but you take care of family. My grandfather had a deep love of people. And a great sense of humor. But that would be another story and I don’t want to leave out a mention of my other grandparents.
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His wife, my Sicilian grandmother, loved to cook Italian food and called me a cucumber in Italian, which is some sort of endearment. She had many siblings, as did my grandfather, and each had a story. Their youth was spent on the family farm in Canton, Ohio. This farm was more of a farm-ette as their property was around two acres and all of the chickens and produce were raised to feed their own family. I have been thinking about how useful it would be to have such a farm-ette during these days.
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Now for my mother’s side of the family. When I was in the seventh grade, my teacher assigned us to interview a grandparent about their youth. My German grandfather, on my mother’s side, was so happy to reminisce about growing up in New York City during the Depression. He recalled being sent to the butcher to ask for a bone for the family dog. The butcher knew his family did not have a dog but always gave him that bone which his mother used to make soup for the entire family.
He said they didn’t have much but they were happy. My aunt had said the same about her Italian family too. They were poor in money but rich in experiences and love.
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My French and Irish grandmother grew up in a convent in Westchester, New York, from the age of 5 when her mother died. Her father kept her older brother at home but sent the girls, my grandmother and her sister, to be raised by the nuns as he thought that would be best. He felt limited by the needs of their gender and young ages. My grandmother said she lived a sheltered life there. And when she married my grandfather, she was clueless. The pharmacist was her confidante with regard to sex, as clearly the nuns were not going to be helpful there; and the butcher gave her cooking lessons.
One of my favorite stories was the first time she cooked a chicken. The butcher told her to take it home, pluck it, and wash it well before cooking. She said she plucked it, stopped up the kitchen sink, put the chicken in it like a baby, filled it with water and soap, and washed away. She giggled when she would tell about lifting the wings to scrub under them. She was washing it well!
They had a lovely dinner after which she and my grandfather were sick for days! This is one of so many stories that really makes me laugh out loud where this grandmother is concerned. I miss her. I miss them all.
Their stories are a way to keep them with me.
I am grateful for the stories.
Becoming Your Family Griot
There are many more tools today for recording your family stories than in ancient Africa. You can be a modern-day griot like me. Or set those youngsters out on a history hunt to claim the griot title for themselves.
A Family Search article explores many benefits of learning our personal histories: core identity, connection, compassion, resilience, selflessness, and self-worth.
“As we dive into our own family histories, we see events unfold on both a global and personal scale. Our family history goes beyond the names and dates we find in our trees. It’s about what makes us who we are. It’s about people with whom we can form deep connections. It’s about people who lived and breathed and suffered and triumphed. It’s about roots and branches and leaves and entire forests. It’s about all of us.”
Read also on Medium.