I used to spend every summer with my grandmother and her husband, who I called Papa, in Washington D.C. I had my own room, my own special jars for fireflies, and my very own seat at the dinner table. My grandfather always called me Boogie because I liked to dance. Not once in my life had I heard my grandfather call me anything but Boogie until the last time that I saw him.
I was 13 when I spent my final summer at my grandmother’s house. My grandfather had been especially cranky those weeks that I was there. Every move my grandmother and I made provoked him. He would yell and cuss that we were leaving the house too often or making too much noise when we joked with each other. He became angry when I sat in “his” chair at the dinner table to read during the day. I knew he had a bad temper over the years, but I was always Boogie and he was Papa. That was the world, as I knew it.
That summer, he stopped calling me Boogie and started calling me every bad name in the book. To describe his behavior towards me as anything less than verbal abuse would be an understatement. I sobbed for hours in my room after each time he cursed me out—calling me names as if I was a grown man who had stolen his last dollar. My grandmother pleaded with him to control his temper, reminding him that I was just a child. Finally, he told me I couldn’t stay in his house anymore and I spent the remainder of my summer at an aunt’s house nearby. Adding insult to injury, the subsequent years were filled with hang-ups whenever I called and horror stories of how he treated my grandmother. I never set foot inside of my grandmother’s house or spoke with the man I had called Papa again. I was no longer Boogie and he had become Bernard to me. The world as I knew it had come to an end.
Over the next couple of years, I experienced firsthand why they say there’s a thin line between love and hate. The “thin line” is the obsession you develop with that other person. I became obsessed with thoughts of how much I hated him. Not only did I fantasize about what I would say about him at his funeral, I fantasized about what would cause his death. I know it’s disturbing but I just couldn’t fathom how he could treat me so terribly when he loved me, but more importantly when I loved him back.
The other day, I finally visited my grandmother at her house for the first time in over 10 years. I’d stopped hating my grandfather, but there were still unresolved feelings. I was nervous as I considered what I would say to him on the drive over. I have had this conversation in my mind at least once a month for the past 10 years. In the past, I thought I’d curse him out, cry, or even say nothing at all in silent protest. Of course, I wondered what he would say to me.
He stayed in his room for four hours while my grandmother and I cooked. He knew I was there, although I appreciated the extra time to prepare myself to see him face-to-face again. My heart raced when I finally heard his heavy footsteps moving closer through the hallway. I barely recognized him when he appeared in the kitchen. He had shrunk to about half the size of the man I remembered and could hardly walk now. His eyes bulged out of his head and his skin had become a dull grey. He asked my grandmother if I was “Pat’s daughter” and went through the motions that one goes through when the child they once knew has become an adult.
My grandfather acted as though nothing of significance had transpired between us, like I was a long lost cousin or an old high school friend. He told me he was glad to know I was doing well and offered me food a few times. He couldn’t believe how “big” I had gotten. I reminded him that it’s been 10 years. He laughed as he recounted how I used to call him Papa and he called me Boogie. I asked him how he was doing and engaged in small talk with him. He asked if I’d be staying with them while I was here. I said no, but thanked him for the offer.
I didn’t get the apology I had been hoping for that night. I didn’t ask how he could treat me how he did over the years. I didn’t say or feel the things I thought I would, either. What I did do was forgive my grandfather for the first time in ten years and was finally healed from the experience. I definitely didn’t do it consciously—it just sort of happened. Yes, I had told myself that I had forgiven him in the past, but had never actually felt it. Maybe knowing he remembered me as “Boogie” made me remember that he used to be my “Papa” and that I had once loved this man. Did he know what he did was wrong? I’m sure. Did he understand the consequences of his actions? I doubt it. Will he ever formally apologize to me? I doubt that too. That’s okay, though, because true forgiveness isn’t conditional, but it sure is gratifying.
