Dodging the Minefields, Loving the Role
On April 15, I went to a reading and panel discussion for Eye of My Heart, featuring Barbara Graham, Roxana Robinson, Anne Roiphe and Jill Nelson. Robinson—also a More contributor and author, most recently, of the novel Cost, was a standout, reading from a beautiful essay that was not only about being a grandmother but also a mother. Afterward, I asked Robinson whether her view of her own mother changed again upon becoming a grandmother. She felt that it had: “As Virginia Woolf said, we think back through our mothers,” Robinson said. “You see how your own mother did in this and you see how your daughter is doing in the role you used to play. It’s a wonderful layering upon layering of transparent presences.”I also grabbed the chance to ask Graham a few questions:
Q: What surprised you most about becoming a grandmother?
A: That I’m old enough to be a grandmother! I am a boomer after all—and we’re not supposed to age. Once I got over the shock of that, I’ve been stunned by how consuming grandparenthood is. I knew I would love my grandchild, but I had no idea that I would feel like a teenager with her first crush. I was also unprepared for the complications that go with the territory. As soon as you join the grandparent club, you realize very quickly that although you may love your grandchildren fiercely, you have absolutely no say in anything—where they live, how they are being raised—and you’d better not try.
Q: What made you decide to edit an anthology on grandmotherhood?
A; Initially, I thought I’d write my own book about my first year as a grandmother. I started keeping a journal right after Isabelle was born. I felt such a riptide of emotion and, being a writer, I recorded it. My son and daughter-in-law were living very near us then, and I was able to spend a great deal of time with the baby. But almost overnight my story changed. My son and his wife moved overseas when Isabelle was two months old. Not only was I devastated by their departure, I couldn’t write the book I’d planned. So I started talking to other grandmothers—and everyone had a story. Some were dramatic, such as the grandmother who is raising her mentally disturbed daughter’s son. Some were more subtle or humorous, but each was complex in its own way. And none of the stories fit the stereotypical, demeaning portraits of grandmothers that abound in our culture. I looked around, and I could find nothing smart or literary that told the real stories about grandmotherhood, the challenges as well as the joys. Eye of My Heart felt like a book waiting to happen.
