Grandma’s Testament

My grandmother quit drinking when she adopted several children, mostly boys and one girl, my mother. She worked in a furniture factory and they were poor. The old-days poor, the pre-food stamps kind of poor, but she made it work. No husband, raising rowdy boys and one sweet girl.

She had every reason to continue drinking but chose not to. Her life’s work got her an old house deep on the reservation. It was not fancy or glamorous, but it was her home. I grew up there with my cousin, we were Grandma’s boys.

We went to church every Sunday, not that we had the choice, and had a lot of friends and a normal upbringing—playing basketball, going fishing, and riding our bikes. It was a simpler time. We were never rich, but we never went to bed hungry either. Grandma made sure we had it better than she or her children ever did.

God was a major factor in her life. She loved salmon, going to powwows, following traditions, and visiting our other families in Oregon. She loved Native beadwork and movies with Native actors. My mother learned all her cooking from Grandma. Our holidays and birthdays always had frybread.

As Native as we lived, her savior was Jesus Christ. She was that Native Christian grandmother. I remember going to church services where the audience was fully Caucasian. A few times, they were mostly Mexican. It didn’t really matter to Grandma; she just wanted to hear the word of God.

She was strict but fair. All I was ever asked to do was be good, stay out of trouble. Even though church was never a driving factor in my life, I learned a lot from it. I was taught to socialize, to step out of my rez and meet other people, to worship and have fellowship with everyone.

Grandma’s children were raised with the same rules, but the results were not the same. Grandma hated drinking, never allowed it in her house. She would not hesitate to call the tribal police if they got out of line. The only time I saw my uncles drink, they were outside in the driveway. Grown men, tough guys, loveable uncles, left to do their drinking outside. They wouldn’t dare bring their beer to Grandma’s home; they loved and respected her too much.

It’s like their strict upbringing caused them to rebel when they became adults. I remember the graveyard of dead cars. Stories of how they ended up on our land would start with “We were out drinking with…”

My uncles were loveable drunks, not abusive. They had their friends, enemies, and tall tales that would amaze you. My Uncle Ron’s stories of hitchhiking alone could fill a book! Their drunken music of choice was AC/DC and the Beastie Boys. And now, I can’t listen to that music without thinking of them.

But they went too far. I saw a lot of jobs lost, jailtime, DUIs, and eventually death. No matter how much Grandma tried, she could not save them from their life choices—drugs, suicide, and poor health. The common factor was alcohol.

Sometimes I wonder how much pain she must have felt if she felt like she failed them. To do everything right, to do the best she could, but they could not avoid the alcohol spiral. What kind of pain were my uncles and mother going through to cause them to drink this heavily?   Grandma passed several years ago now. I wish I could talk to her again. I would tell her that she did not fail. That her foundation set up her grandchildren for positivity and great things. We saw her sacrifice, we saw the life she lived, and it influenced us as men. Why didn’t alcohol take us down like our uncles? It should have.

It’s not that we grew up into choir boys either. I’ve had my share of bad nights, close calls, and bad mistakes. I am not opposed to drinking, I just know my limit and often, I don’t really need it.

If Grandma Ilene could see us now, she would be proud. My uncles and mother as well, despite their rough lives, wanted me and my cousin to do better than they ever did. And thanks to grandma, we have.

Jorah Thompson is a student at Navajo Technical University.