Yesterday I attended my grandmother's memorial service. She passed away on January, 3rd. Being only the second service I have ever attended, and the first for someone close to me, I had no idea what to expect.
I can go on and on about how she was a story-book grandmother, but I want to tell you about another side of her. I have always known that my grandmother was an activist. She marched for civil rights, and protested the war in Vietnam. However, I had not met her friends and heard of her true devotion. Her best friend said that my grandmother once told her, "Join the resistance, and there will be no resistance!"
For me, this service helped to explain why I do what I do. The legacy and commitment to social and economic justice that I have received is something I take very seriously, as did my grandmother and my parents. Even the minister made mention of her drive to fight for the common good.
I have always been driven in this fight, but now it is intensified. Like I said, my grandmother is the first person I have lost that was close to me. I have been very, very fortunate in that respect. Having never lost someone, I never felt that there might be someone watching down on me. That awareness makes me strive harder to make her proud.
Generation after generation of my family has fought hard for the greater good. Some sons inherit their father's factory; I inherited a war. Not a war in the common sense of the term, but a war nonetheless. A war against intolerance and cruelty. A war that, in all likelihood, will forever go on in every democracy. A war that transcends race and social status. I am a soldier in the progressive army; always fighting to move our country forward, step by step. To all those who oppress others and lack sympathy for those in need; we are coming for you. "Join the resistance, and there will be no resistance!"
I will miss you grandma.
PS: here's a quick video from Barack in Leesburg on 10/22:
A little story about my mother. She was an oxymoron: a liberal Southern Baptist. She vainly fought the reactionary elements in the Southern Baptist Convention for years, but almost always with humor that eroded their defenses.
At her memorial service, a preacher with whom she'd had many a battle spoke up during a time of personal sharing. He told a story about a state Baptist meeting; a preacher from SWVA wailed, "I've never seen a dancing foot attached to a praying knee." My mother made her way to the aisle, kicked off her shoe; hiked up her skirt, and said "Well then, preacher, lookee here!"