The Inherited Void

"I grew up without grandparents." For most of my life, here's what I used to say when someone would ask me about my parents' parents.

A few days ago, a new perspective hit me; what would their version of the situation be?

That's a habit I'm trying to take up: whenever the situation doesn't work with me or triggers me for some reason, I now try to think of someone else's perspective in the situation. I actually don't believe it's something I would have been able to do a few years ago but I guess, that's what you call getting older, right?

The facts are clear: grandparents are important. But, how important? Apparently, they're significant figures of one's life when growing up. They represent older age, past opportunities from life and their consequences. They're living examples of a life lived. They're someone's heritage and help carry memories down generations, tales and stories that give people a sense of belonging to a community or, at least, to a family tree in a frame. Having grandparents and knowing them is witnessing where you come from. It is seeing the truth written in your name and knowing the names of those who lived before you and somehow, still live through you.

In my opinion, this topic requires a little disclaimer: not having knowledge of my grandparents doesn't make me an orphan, and I wouldn't dare compare myself to those who have actually lived such a life. Some of my opinions have similarities when it comes to getting to know yourself, your history and therefore, building up your identity but everyone's situation and life is different, I try to keep that in mind.

In my case, my siblings actually knew our grandparents and had some time to "appreciate" their presence, whereas I did not.. Moreover, I grew up with the perspectives shaped by my parents' narratives and the least I can say is that, they weren't very positive ones. So, what should have been fun memories is, in my mind, an empty dust-covered box. Did it affect me somehow? I think it did, unconsciously. I can't miss what I haven't known but I do realize there's something missing when I talk with others' grandparents. I like to hear them talk about their young years, their wedding day and even their own parents... I would ask for the names they remember and for some details about who they were and what they were doing. When it comes to telling stories of the past, they are two kinds of people: those who'll hold grudges and never let go and those who have long forgotten about the grudges and only remember what really did matter; the love, the moments they shared and the few laughs they had along the way. I'll let you guess which ones looked the happiest to me. However, I've noticed that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for these tales.

People my age and younger, I can see you roll your eyes up from here. Yes, I know you're tired of hearing those stories again and again but to me, they're special. A part of me is afraid that because you have heard those stories so many times, you won't cherish them the way I believe you should and at some point, they'll just get lost in time. Not having stories to cherish of my own, I borrow yours bit by bit and try to fill in my empty box with them... Having no one to tell me where I come from gives me some kind of priviledge: the story starts with my parents and then, there's me. I get to be whomever I want, with no past, no history, no heritage. A white page waiting to be filled up with sketches and failures. My failures and no one else's.

Spending hours listening to those you're only hearing, I realized people will tell you 'it was better before...'. But, what I think they mean is that when they were younger, they felt less lost. They understood the world they were living in, they were close to what was happening. They were in the action, they were the action. At their time, they knew the codes, they understood what was asked of them and they had control over what was coming. They weren't left on the side of the road, they were part of our society. They aren't anymore.

The truth is, I had grandparents, just like everyone else. And as much as I want to be honest with you, I mostly want to be honest with myself: I have very few memories of them. These people did exist and they had their own stories. I'm not sure I would have wanted to know them, though. But again, I don't know if that feeling comes from my childhood memories or from the perspectives shaped by my parents' narratives. Hence my wish to hear their side of the story now. Now, that I'm older. Now, that I might understand. I wish I'd get to spend an hour with them around a coffee served in those tiny white bowls made of French porcelaine with those ugly but sweet sheperds hand-painted on the side... I wish I could ask them all of my questions even though I can easily imagine they wouldn't have all the answers. They didn't have them when they were alive and it wouldn't fair of me to assume that they would now just because they're dead. Right?

Don't think I didn't have any older figures to refer to while growing up. Neighbors and family members were there at some point. They were present, they told the stories, they made the coffee and they sat me on their knees. It was nice but it wasn't the same and eventually, they'd go away because they weren't tied by a family bond that I had, for a moment, thought was unbreakable. They moved on with their lives, moved away even, for some of them. And, a few years later, passed away. Again, I'll be honest: some, I miss and some, I don't. What I miss most is the feeling of cohesion, knowing that I belonged somewhere with people that I knew and I could trust. People that had the same social codes, the same language, the same references, people who knew where I came from and what it meant to come from this place.

Over time, the sense of trust I began to crumble, replaced by frustration, when I saw how easily relationships could be broken over disagreements. Parents understand the reasons, children face the consequences. Other biases and unspoken rules taught me that it wasn't my place to ask for details.

The story I'm telling here is quite simple; you can't miss what you don't know but society tells you you're missing something and as a result, you start to miss a faceless shadow. I've always looked with envy to what people had and I hadn't. Not because I wanted to own the same shoes or the same pen. But, because I wanted to feel the same feelings, to remember the same joyful memories, to see the same smiles...

Now, I've made my peace with the grandparents-less child that I was. I pick up snippets of tales and memories around and listen to those who want to share stories. I ask how life was and through their eyes, I see a different time, a different world. This one isn't better or worse than the one we live in now, it's just different. I like different, different is a place I like to wander in. It's a place of endless discoveries and untold legends.

While the absence of grandparents has left a void in my life, I've come to realize that I'm not defined by what I lack, but by what I choose to create. I've learned to appreciate the stories shared by others, and to find my own sense of belonging in the connections I forge. And who knows, perhaps one day, the stories I gather and the life I build will become a heritage for others, a testament to the power of resilience and the enduring human spirit.