The Day Water Came From Rock: A Tough mans tribute to a lovely lady
I've lost my soft landing. The one person that was my relief between the rock and the hard place that was my very rigid father and my grandmother who raised me. I got to know her later in life, and we are very different people-She was very kind, very smart in networking and re-conciliatory I'm more combative, reserved and everyone that works with me knows I am a tough man. But she was my defender from the criticisms I got, she stood up for me. Now she is gone, but she helped make me strong. I will stand on my own fortitude now. That's why we celebrate her-she left us all better"(paraphrased)
At this point I felt a warmth begin to cover my face. A dampness I hadn't felt in awhile. Was I freaking crying?Impossible. I can count on one hand the number of times a tear hath left my face in moment of sadness, joy or injury. I'm a tough man like my father before me.
I pull a very subtle move of rubbing my nose and wipe away any traces of water upon my cheeks and hope that my tinted glasses would prevent what I supposed must be rapidly reddening eyes. I looked over to my sister who had my cousin's hand firmly clasped in hers and her black nail polish made me feel uneasy for some reason.
She grips his hand even more tightly and I hear the unmistakable sound of silence come over this packed church. A church that ZZ Mbeeta , my grandmother , the family matriarch had insisted my father build for the community before she could ever recognize his own house. The house stood strong and beautiful, a testament to the persistence of the old woman and her uncanny ability to get the "tough man" to do what she wanted.
The tough man's speech had broken through the quiet hum you hear at funerals at times, with people reconnecting since the last time they saw each other at the funeral of such and such. Laughter is muted and hushed to avoid impropriety. Even though now the word funeral is becoming an archaic term . Celebration of life. That's what it is.
I look back up at the podium and see him get more teary eyed. He hunches over a little, and looks at the casket before him. For a second he has a look I can't quite make out. His lips seem to quiver but only slightly. His pupils dilate and a deep breath is sucked into his body as if it had been in short supply fromt he last intake.
He looks vulnerable.
"The Buddhist faith teaches us that life is a cycle and like the Reverend says, we should celebrate when we are born and celebrate when death comes. I didn't call this woman mother till i was much older. We were separated when I was 3 days old because of the measles we both contracted. My mother was my grandmother till i was seven. She raised me. She was strong and sophisticated and had what few women had in her day, an education, royal blood and her own money. ZZ I would see now and then, she was warm and kind and not very much like Grandma Bagaya. In my life she was the one that was the kindness, the quiet strength. She loved me very much. '(Paraphrased)
Pride may not let him show it, but we all know it. He is misses her. I wipe away another set of those dastardly salt laced eye liquids. I've never seen this man like this. Never seen him do more than sigh when faced with adversity. I just assumed he was impenetrable, invulnerable. A very infantile way of looking at one's father but still this is the man as I knew him. Not as a man whose eyes could redden, whose voice could crack and who loved his mother with the affection and depth that was letting slip as he spoke.
He continued to speak and I continued to feel deep cuts to the image i had of my grandmother and father. He spoke of how she got him to do things for her he would never do for others. How she wrote him letters, beautiful letters and never needed a ruler to draw straight margins.
He spoke of how she used to pinch his nostrils when he though he was dodging his fulfillment of a promise. And also to alert him to the alarming rate at which his nose is growing. He recounted a story of her asking him to build up the church building in which we now sat, and how she had a sense of humor that was very dry.
He never broke down or lost composure, but we saw a side to him that perhaps only she ever got to see. So much so that afterwards I overhead a few of his work mates wryly comment on this very point. "Mzee also has a heart", they said.
As I lifted the coffin to carry it out with the rest of my family, I couldn't help but feel like I'd learnt something about 3 people today. I'd learned about how my grandmother used her charm and kindness as a weapon against her more combative nuclear family members, and how she had a knack for writing(I wonder what comments she'd leave on this blog!).
I learned that my father is the way he is for a reason and he knows it. That he also hurts. The tough man is only tough because he knew where he could go to be weak and vulnerable. That he is different from the rest of his siblings because he only got to know his birth mother when he was grown. Much int he same way I feel I'm getting to know him now that I need a shave on the regular.
I learned why I am aloof at times and why I have a natural tendency to think before making commitments because they mean a lot to me, why I feel things deeply and yet at the same time have a thick enough skin(Insert fat joke here) to laugh at myself. Argue nature versus nurture all day long, but definitely looking at your family tree you see reflections of portions of yourself. Your sharp nose, your slightly worrisome need for a strong drink by noon, your penchant for going off on random tangents while writing!!
I am the poorer for not knowing more about this woman, but I feel I've learned through the celebration of her life , more about the tough man, about myself and about where I come from. It's the smallest fraction of what this woman's life meant , as evidenced by the packed house, the high quality of accomplished children and grandchildren she prayed and looked over-but it's a big part. She made the tough man vulnerable. She made water come from the rock. She was the re conciliatory one-helping me reconcile the man that I am with the man that raise me. And perhaps giving me a leg up to finding out who I am and who I can be.
Bye Bye ZZ..and thank you
At this point I felt a warmth begin to cover my face. A dampness I hadn't felt in awhile. Was I freaking crying?Impossible. I can count on one hand the number of times a tear hath left my face in moment of sadness, joy or injury. I'm a tough man like my father before me.
I pull a very subtle move of rubbing my nose and wipe away any traces of water upon my cheeks and hope that my tinted glasses would prevent what I supposed must be rapidly reddening eyes. I looked over to my sister who had my cousin's hand firmly clasped in hers and her black nail polish made me feel uneasy for some reason.
She grips his hand even more tightly and I hear the unmistakable sound of silence come over this packed church. A church that ZZ Mbeeta , my grandmother , the family matriarch had insisted my father build for the community before she could ever recognize his own house. The house stood strong and beautiful, a testament to the persistence of the old woman and her uncanny ability to get the "tough man" to do what she wanted.
The tough man's speech had broken through the quiet hum you hear at funerals at times, with people reconnecting since the last time they saw each other at the funeral of such and such. Laughter is muted and hushed to avoid impropriety. Even though now the word funeral is becoming an archaic term . Celebration of life. That's what it is.
I look back up at the podium and see him get more teary eyed. He hunches over a little, and looks at the casket before him. For a second he has a look I can't quite make out. His lips seem to quiver but only slightly. His pupils dilate and a deep breath is sucked into his body as if it had been in short supply fromt he last intake.
He looks vulnerable.
"The Buddhist faith teaches us that life is a cycle and like the Reverend says, we should celebrate when we are born and celebrate when death comes. I didn't call this woman mother till i was much older. We were separated when I was 3 days old because of the measles we both contracted. My mother was my grandmother till i was seven. She raised me. She was strong and sophisticated and had what few women had in her day, an education, royal blood and her own money. ZZ I would see now and then, she was warm and kind and not very much like Grandma Bagaya. In my life she was the one that was the kindness, the quiet strength. She loved me very much. '(Paraphrased)
Pride may not let him show it, but we all know it. He is misses her. I wipe away another set of those dastardly salt laced eye liquids. I've never seen this man like this. Never seen him do more than sigh when faced with adversity. I just assumed he was impenetrable, invulnerable. A very infantile way of looking at one's father but still this is the man as I knew him. Not as a man whose eyes could redden, whose voice could crack and who loved his mother with the affection and depth that was letting slip as he spoke.
He continued to speak and I continued to feel deep cuts to the image i had of my grandmother and father. He spoke of how she got him to do things for her he would never do for others. How she wrote him letters, beautiful letters and never needed a ruler to draw straight margins.
He spoke of how she used to pinch his nostrils when he though he was dodging his fulfillment of a promise. And also to alert him to the alarming rate at which his nose is growing. He recounted a story of her asking him to build up the church building in which we now sat, and how she had a sense of humor that was very dry.
He never broke down or lost composure, but we saw a side to him that perhaps only she ever got to see. So much so that afterwards I overhead a few of his work mates wryly comment on this very point. "Mzee also has a heart", they said.
As I lifted the coffin to carry it out with the rest of my family, I couldn't help but feel like I'd learnt something about 3 people today. I'd learned about how my grandmother used her charm and kindness as a weapon against her more combative nuclear family members, and how she had a knack for writing(I wonder what comments she'd leave on this blog!).
I learned that my father is the way he is for a reason and he knows it. That he also hurts. The tough man is only tough because he knew where he could go to be weak and vulnerable. That he is different from the rest of his siblings because he only got to know his birth mother when he was grown. Much int he same way I feel I'm getting to know him now that I need a shave on the regular.
I learned why I am aloof at times and why I have a natural tendency to think before making commitments because they mean a lot to me, why I feel things deeply and yet at the same time have a thick enough skin(Insert fat joke here) to laugh at myself. Argue nature versus nurture all day long, but definitely looking at your family tree you see reflections of portions of yourself. Your sharp nose, your slightly worrisome need for a strong drink by noon, your penchant for going off on random tangents while writing!!
I am the poorer for not knowing more about this woman, but I feel I've learned through the celebration of her life , more about the tough man, about myself and about where I come from. It's the smallest fraction of what this woman's life meant , as evidenced by the packed house, the high quality of accomplished children and grandchildren she prayed and looked over-but it's a big part. She made the tough man vulnerable. She made water come from the rock. She was the re conciliatory one-helping me reconcile the man that I am with the man that raise me. And perhaps giving me a leg up to finding out who I am and who I can be.
Bye Bye ZZ..and thank you
Comments
this is the best blog post I have ever read ....ever
Now that's profound. Too often we think of never showing one's vulnerabilities as a weakness. I like this take on it.
Thanks for sharing a beautiful post, Joel