My Grandma Died - Part Two

Yesterday was Albertha’s homegoing service. I mentioned in the previous blog that Albertha was not easy to get along with. I didn’t say much about it, but I wasn’t the only one in the family who struggled to get along with her. It’s funny because the pastor chosen to give the Eulogy is one who practically grew up with my mother and aunt in our home church. He became my youth pastor and went on to build his own church as a senior pastor. The first pastor we came to know at our home church died in the late 1990s, and the youth pastor, Pastor Mitchel, became the interim pastor for a while. At that time, he was asked to counsel my family because of the drama in my household that often erupted between my grandmother, mother, and aunt.
 
The day my grandmother passed, my mother made sure to contact Pastor Mitchel to give the eulogy. All of us except my grandmother left the home church when Pastor Mitchel left to build his own. She’s known two or three pastors since then. Still, I didn’t believe any of them knew her the way Pastor Mitchel did. I knew he would know what to say at her service, and he nailed it. He described her as “the real deal.” D for devoted. E for encouraging. A for anointed, and L for loving. He was right, and in his message he alluded to how, although she was the real deal, her delivery was sometimes harsh or even damaging. That was the thing about Albertha. She wanted control, not for bad reasons, but it was an unrealistic way of dealing with family.
 
People were allowed to speak, and now I’m thinking I should have, but I didn’t want to at the time because I hate the spotlight. I love attention, but hate the spotlight, if that makes sense. I only want all eyes on me when I feel like the moment is truly about me. Sometimes I feel like people use funerals as a moment to shine, and it annoys me. To avoid being what I can’t stand, I haven’t spoken at a funeral since I was eleven years old.
 
Anyway, if I spoke yesterday, I would’ve told this story:
 
Once, when I was about fifteen or sixteen. I was complaining about not getting what I wanted because “we ain’t never got no money.”
My grandmother called me into her room on a night when she happened to be home and pointed to her dresser. Her paycheck was sitting there, and next to it were several envelopes. She said, “You always complainin’ about money and how it should be spent. There’s my check. Pay the bills with it.”
I snorted, then looked at the amount on the check. I don’t remember how much it was, but at the time, it seemed like a lot of money to me. I scoffed and said, “Okay.” I shrugged my shoulders, thinking this should be easy. She got mad money. I’ll show her.
I started with the highest bill, which I believe was the mortgage, and worked my way down. I think there were two bills left and not enough money. I froze. “Grandma, this ain’t enough,” I said, feeling like a damn dummy.
She just looked at me—a knowing look in her eyes.
Then I said, “Your Avon money!”
At home she was Grandma; to others she was Bert, or Bertha; at church she was Sister Alberta, and at work she was Ms. Harley, aka The Avon Lady, and I was her inventory manager. The sunroom in our house was her inventory space. She had shelves and drawers packed with Avon products. (I used to steal the makeup in seventh and eighth grade.) She would receive orders at work and give them to me. I would bag the stuff and staple the receipt to the bag, like we had a real store. I would fold pages or circle products in the catalogues that she was low on; Grandma would order the stuff, and I would restock the shelves. Nobody ever made purchases through me, but I tried to get my hustle on too.  So the idea came on like a lightbulb in my head: Avon money!
Grandma looked at me and said, “Now you’re thinking.” Then she proceeded to show me bank deposits from Avon and how to pay attention to due dates, double up on certain payments, etc.

My other grandmother, Miriam, was a hustler too. Every once in a while, Gramma would say things in Spanish or randomly teach me a word in Spanish. I’m from the Bronx, where it’s weird if you don’t speak any Spanish at all. So I was under the impression that she learned Spanish when she came here. Nope. According to my dad, my grandmother’s hustle was traveling to Puerto Rico and bringing home items to sell in Antigua.
 
Now here I am in my early forties, trying to make the best of my many talents. Multiple streams of income are all the rage now, but Black people have been doing that for years. It’s weird to me that Black women have been deemed lazy in this country, when we’re the jugglers of everything. We don’t panic at the idea of working and managing children and a home. We just do it. My grandmothers were so smooth with their hustles. They didn’t boast or complain. They worked hard as caregivers, hustled on the side, and spent their money on things they liked and felt they deserved, as well as luxuries for the families. I remember calling my Gramma (Miriam) one day and complaining about the transportation office I worked in at the time, and she simply said, “Well, ya do what yuh have to do until you can do what yuh want to do.” It was very simple advice, but it gave me hope that one day I would be able to do what I want to do. In 2017 I’d earned my BA in English Lit, and self-published two novellas. Since then, I’ve started a freelance business, writing, editing, and coaching.
 
I’m currently working part-time in adult education and, for the last six months, since having surgery, I’ve been bent on finding a full-time job. Now I’m thinking back on the lessons and advice from my hustling bookends and wondering: is this the time? I thought I started doing what I wanted to do in 2017 when I self-published. I thought I was doing what I wanted to do when I got a job in education in 2019. I thought I was doing what I wanted to do in 2021 when I started my business. Now I’m like, maybe this is the time Gramma was talking about. I find a billion things to do with my time when I’m not working, one of them being job hunting. Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing. Maybe instead of searching for ways to give my time and talent to another organization, I should be nurturing my own.
 
Perhaps this was another ramble… I don’t know.
 
Thanks again to my difficult bookends. I’m going to take the hustle spirit and use all I have to do what I want. Now that y’all are probably back to gossiping about me, I feel like I cannot let y’all down.