Tracking Identity - A Memoir By Brad Gilbert

 

Grandfather

 

My grandfather never liked my first name. Perhaps for this reason everyone called me Brad growing up, and having a brother named Brian made it easier to remember. Brian and Brad rolls off the tongue better than Brian and Eric, apparently. It is even easier to call the two boys with brittle bones, who are five years apart, the Gilbert Boys. I think people meant well in a subtle freak show kind of way. I am just kidding. It wasn’t subtle. I always looked at it like we were the Duke Boys of Edgar County, Illinois.

Grandpa was the grumpy sort, an often drunk lovable character full of grandpa-isms. His old-timey way included subtle racism. I learned to call it ignorance. When my mother was killed, Brian and I went to live with our grandparents. I am not sure if they were divorced at this point, but if they weren’t divorced, they might as well have been. The couch was his bed and the living room his bedroom. Well, it was his room. He often stumbled through the door in the middle of the night after hours of drinking. Whether divorced or separated or emotionally distant from my grandmother, it didn’t matter. He hung around to help raise my brother and me.

If my grandpa, pronounced grampa, lived today, he would be rather hip, in fact he might even push the line to hipster. He was stuck in his ways but also ahead of his time, especially when it came to things like his use of brill cream. He had a greasy slicked back 50s hair style. That dark hair contrasted with his sky blue eyes. When I say sky blue, I mean sky blue. His eyes were striking. I bet my grandmother’s initial attraction to my grandfather came about because of those eyes. He was tall and lanky too. That didn’t hurt his chances with the ladies either. He reminded me of the Fonz, even if he was a bit shy when sober. A father of four children, he endured the loss of three of them, including my mother, before his own passing. Most people loved him, but his relationship with my grandma and his only surviving daughter was complicated beyond love. Grampa fought in the Korean War and remained in the National Guard most of his life. He was a proud veteran.

My grandfather became like a father to me. He accepted that role when my brother and I moved in with them. He worked at a local printing plant. It was literally at the corner of our block and next door to my grade school. My grandfather walked to work. It saved gas money. He came home for lunch to save money on food. Some of this saved money came back to us, but much of it did not. Brian did get an endless supply of paper to support his growing art skills. Often after work grampa picked me up, put me on his shoulders, and carried me to the break room at his job. I bought candy out of the vending machine. It was a win all around.

What did he did do with all that saved cash? You already guessed the answer. He used it on alcohol. If we’re being specific, beer – Budweiser right out of the can. He spent much of his time outside of work at a local bar called Poor Robert’s over on Main Street in downtown Paris. We didn’t see him at home much. That’s what happens when you’re a Cat’s in The Cradle kind of parent. He promised to come get me and my brother. He promised to take us places and do cool things. He promised and he promised, but more often than not he left us staring out the front door wondering how late it would be before he came back home. A sure fire way to see him was at the bar. That’s right. He actually took us to the bar to hang out. Welcome to small-town America. Being a kid in a bar is not all bad. I got to sit right up on that old bar and watch people get drunk all day, watch people avoid their families, watch them spend money they didn’t have on paper pull tab lottery tickets in hopes of winning it rich. I didn’t realize it then, but I was seeing a lot of people waiting for life to happen. Some people give up, because giving up is easier than fighting. It is easier to sit in front of a row of empty beer glasses than to pick yourself up and do the hard work of making your life better.

When grandpa came home drunk during the day, it meant he had to be there. It meant my grandmother or the babysitter had some place else to be. It also meant that when my grandmother arrived back home she endured his verbal abuse. I witnessed it more than I care to remember. I am not sure what kind of regular bickering goes on in the average American household, but in our house it was a weekly affair. When grampa came home drunk before dark arguments happened. He never laid a hand on my grandma in front of us, but the fear that the verbal attacks incited caused her to cry. We felt the potential for physical violence, and that is a type of emotional blackmail. Many altercations blur together, but one sticks out in my mind. I was playing in the living room at the age of 12. Grampa stumbled through the back door. An argument began. These arguments revolved around something he forgot or neglected because he was drinking. In my self-prescribed role as protector, I checked on my grandparents because the argument escalated. I entered the dining room just as my grandfather let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.

“Well, I got rid of that damn cat for you, didn’t I?” he yelled.

That damn cat was my damn cat. They told me that cat ran away. My grandmother blamed it for her bad allergies. The very same allergies she still experienced weeks after they lied to me and got rid of my cat. Supposedly while grampa was driving to another town to give the cat away to a friend, the cat jumped out the car window into the woods just outside of Paris. That story gives me some satisfaction, in the midst of the betrayal and dishonesty. Even the cat wasn’t having it. This situation destroyed what little trust I still placed even with those close to me. It also strengthened my belief that the truth always wriggles its way into the light. These interactions devastate a child. The constant altercations reinforced my bond with my grandmother. It reinforced a very natural dislike of alcoholics. Still, I had a hard time sleeping until I heard him walk into the kitchen at the back of our house. Although he was not really there for us, or anyone emotionally, I felt safer when he was home.

My grandfather was popular in the local bar circuit. He solidified his identity through his grandchildren. Taking in two crippled grandkids is seen as rather noble. Grampa wanted to be a decent man. He showed his love through gift giving. Buying things for my brother and me was easier than spending time with us. Although he was a man set in his ways, grampa wound up learning quite a bit from us.

Growing up in his time, the general consensus of people with disabilities was that of sickly, helpless individuals. People to be placed in homes. People unable to lead normal lives. I never questioned my future. I was that intense independent type from the get go. My grandmother saw it. She reminded me that while I was physically different from some, my life would be fulfilling. It would be on my terms, and my only limitations were the ones I gave myself.

The prospect of college and independence was exciting. Brian and I talked about it often. During one of these conversations, my grandfather made it clear what he thought of these ideas. After a day of drinking, grampa stormed into our room.

He yelled, “You can never live on your own. You will always need help.”

His basic stance was that individuals in our physical situation would never lead any sense of a normal life and to think otherwise was foolish. Maybe fear was his motivation for saying such a thing. Losing three of his own children at a young age made him perhaps overly protective, so maybe it was a protective love winding its way out into the open. There is another possibility. The thought of us leaving made him consider his role in our lives. There is a consequential identity loss as caregiver and all-around hero if my brother and I actually moved away from the home in which we had grown up.

When I ponder these explanations for his outburst, I do not mistake them for the truth. Feelings are complicated, but they don’t always run parallel with reality. After grampa’s rant, direct in my brother’s face, a fire sprang to life inside of me. I wondered. Is this how people see us? Years later another relative told my brother how things would be when we came to live with them. What the fuck? Right? From even those closest to us, there was very little expectation of leading an independent life much less a full one. My grandmother never really commented on the subject. I think she was the first to open her mind to the idea that Brian and I could lead lives comparable to that of anyone else. Either way, the Duke Boys of Edgar County, Illinois were determined. Once a fire starts inside of me, it rarely goes out on its own.

Let’s discuss baseball. Oh shit, I love baseball. I spent so much time at the local American Legion ball field watching my best friends play. There is something magical about the sights, sounds, and smells of a humid Midwest night at a little league game. I relish that feeling of summertime baseball. Let it be known I cannot recall that anyone in my family went with me to any of these baseball games. In fact, it was through baseball I started to find my independence. My grandparents never showed interest in going with me, so I took myself. I am not moaning and crying about my grandparents’ absence at games. I am pointing out something more nuanced. Attending little league games pushed my ability to be independent. Eventually baseball even led to a firm bond with my grandfather. A lifelong Chicago Cubs fan, grampa watched every game at home. Come to think of it, grampa never going to...