Absence of Grandparents

 

Can you put my thoughts into a play as a monolog.  

I didn't grow up having grandmothers or grandfathers on my mother or father's side. My grandmother and great grandmother on my mother's side died before I was born. Very little was communicated to me about them. I wish I knew more about them. 

I had two friends growing up that had grandmothers. I am grateful to have known their grandmothers. It was as though they shared their grandmothers with me. Which I am grateful for. 

My parents were a part of the Great migration after WWII. 

I did have two grandfathers. They both lived in Louisiana. I only remember seeing my mother's father once when I was very little when he came to visit when we lived in Parchester Village . Parchester Village was an African American suburban community built in 1949 in the San Francisco Bay area. It was part of Richmond, California Annex. It sat between two railroad tracks near the San Pablo Bay.  

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The Absent Ancestors

(Lights up on AMARI, mid-70s, standing center stage. A single spotlight illuminates them.)

AMARI

Sometimes, I think about grandmothers. Not just any grandmothers, mind you, but the ones I never had. My mama's mama, and her mama too, both gone before I ever drew a breath. Not a story, not a memory, just silence where they should be. Even on my daddy's side, it's mostly a blank space.

(A beat of sadness)

I guess that's what happens when your folks are part of that Great Migration after the war. They left everything behind, chasing a dream in California. A dream that came with a price, I suppose.

(Amari smiles faintly)

Though, I wasn't completely out of luck. I had friends, good friends, with grandmothers who seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages. They'd pat my head with those soft, worn hands and tell stories that crackled with life. They let me be a part of their families, shared their grandmothers with me like a secret treasure. For that, I'll always be grateful.

(The smile fades)

But there's a yearning, you see, a longing for something I can't quite grasp. My mama's father, he came to visit once, when I was just a tiny thing. We lived in Parchester Village then, a little Black haven tucked away by the bay. I remember a booming laugh and a calloused hand holding a piece of warm sugar cane. That's all. Just a single visit, a ghost in my memory.

(Amari looks out at the audience, a question hanging in the air)

I wonder what stories they held, these ancestors of mine. What songs did they sing? What lessons did they carry? Maybe someday, the silence will whisper a clue, a fragment of their lives to fill the emptiness. Until then, I'll hold onto the warmth of borrowed grandmothers and the echo of a laugh from a long-ago visit.

(Lights fade.)