It was easier, oh - so much easier, to see him as a relative living in a faraway land. Not that he isn't still living far away, but he's becoming so much more to me.
In a more and more insistent manner my family history is pressing itself into my life. Actually, maybe I am seeking it out, becoming more aware of the little signs in my everyday life. Who knows how these things happen.
My family's history has always been something of which I was proud - the diversity, the amazing stories of exotic places, adventures, and survival. My grandparents have lived lives that are inspiring in so many ways, and their stories have never seized to amaze or enthral me. I have listened to endless repetitions of journeys to China that took months, life in suburban Long Island, and once in a rare while second hand stories of those moments that are too tough to be spoken by those who experienced them.
The history that has been nearing my consciousness is the life of my maternal grandfather. Granpa's is perhaps the most difficult to deal with and understand, and I have a feeling that the signs I have been sensing over the last while are sparking some kind of consciousness within me, pushing me to, if not be able to understand, then at least reflect on the importance his life holds over mine.
Since moving to the UK three and a half years ago I have learned of a distant relative. I am sure my mother or aunts have spoken of her before, but she never registered in my world until my mom arranged for her to meet up with the whole family, who had come to London to visit me. She seemed lovely, a bit feisty, and certainly a very self-confident woman who rested in an awareness of herself. I was going through personal issues at the time, and was in no way interested in taking up her friendly offer of coming to stay with her in Devon. "What, me, visit some woman I've just met in the middle of nowhere? I don't think so. I don't care that she sees some obscure family link. Besides, I'm upset and confused and hurting right now."
Over a year later my mom came to visit and arranged for us to go to Devon to see her in the countryside. It was lovely. I then realised that my mom's side of the family are her only surviving family. My grandfather's cousin was her mother, which I think means that she is my second cousin once removed. The vast majority of her family succumbed during the second world war, which makes sense. So did most of my Granpa's. This link is seemingly obvious but never the less to me this link was hard to make initially. She is family. I just didn't know her.
We had a lovely time, and I have stayed in touch with her since, visiting her a couple of times. I like to think that we are building a warm relationship. I appreciate her a lot. I even dreamt of her and my granpa recently. Since then I have finally managed to join her for a meeting of the group of second generation holocaust survivors she attends. I snuck in as a third generation, as I had been hoping to over the last year.
Two days later Granpa had a stroke. The frequency of connections made in my head to my grandfather and to the hardships he has endured are becoming denser. I wonder if it's because I am "ready" now to deal with this now, or it is because he is getting older. Or because the very presence of her in my life is a reminder of the preciousness of family ties, and she sees the connection between the holocaust and our family's development. It's horrific to finally be opening up to realities my grandfather faced, only to realise how vulnerable and fragile the memory of it is in his hard worn body. Who will know his hardships when he has passed?
Today is Holocaust Memorial day. I have never observed this before, but it strikes me and strengthens my feeling that I am pursuing something of great importance to me. My family history. A history that reaches beyond me and you, and touches on something deeper in all of us. I'm sorry to say it, but it's love, darling, and hope.
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4 comments:
When I stood in Auschwitz, I realised that I didn't know my own family history and I never would, because those people were all dead and gone and what was left was conjecture and second hand family stories that seem to change each time I hear them. My Great Uncle may still be alive, some where in the UK but I don't know him. I met him once in Copenhagen, but there were too many other stories to tell, happier stories, so I never did find out what happened.
I find there is sometimes a risk of suffering vicariously because I don't know what happened.
Having children made the past seem less important. Its all about the future now. Finally.
I like your blog. Am also interested by infiltrating the second generation group. Is this our group at the Wiener Library? If so, we are secretly amused (but not encouraging a repeat).
Moif, I hope to have that feeling myself when I start procreating ;)
Until then I think I'll continue my search for understanding of myself through my history... I guess you're saying that for you, now, your great uncle is less important. I kind of envy that, and maybe those happier stories are all you need to know for now. Although, I think family history is inherent to who we are and become, and perhaps the future may be based on a sturdier base if we understand those aspects better.
Michael,
Thanks for the kind words. I'm not entirely sure I understand your comment in terms of interest in infiltrations, secret amusements and repeats. if you care to elaborate then I'd prefer if you would do so by mailing me at streetwise@post.com.
Opulently I agree but I dream the collection should prepare more info then it has.
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