Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

Have you ever taken stock of what you inherited from your parents and your grandparents? I don’t mean monetary goods, pictures, antique furniture, stuff like that, but values, rituals, hobbies, those intangible traits and habits that have been passed down, almost osmotically.

I grew up between several homes. I picked up my grandfather’s love of hats, my mother’s belief in spreading kindness, my grandmother’s sociability (that woman could work a room), and my father’s devotion to Philadelphia sports teams whom, despite the fact I’ve not lived in the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection in over twenty-five years, still elicit my die-hard support.

My grandparents also passed down superstitions, old-world beliefs and practices meant to ward off bad luck; for example, I do not split poles when walking with others for fear of inviting some misfortune. Once, cleaning the dining room, my wife accidentally swept my feet, which also portends bad luck. I quickly grabbed the broom from her hand and gently expectorated on the straws which, as legend goes, gets rid of the hex. Yes, I spat. She rightly recoiled. Having inherited my grandfather’s chivalry, I stand when a woman enters the room and I walk on the outside of a sidewalk, closest to the street, you know, in case some passing horse and carriage should splatter mud and sewage on my wife’s clothes. Utterly irrational, I know.

I could go on about all the ways my family has shaped me. Not all inheritances, however, are welcomed. Some should stay in the bygone period from which they emerged. I will never understand those few instances in which I witnessed my grandfather’s homophobia. Each time, it brought embarrassment and shame. He was a man of faith. And sometimes his religious belief blinded him to the humanity of others.

Today’s poem gorgeously illustrates the complex set of treasures and expendable habits and attributes we inherit from those who first showed us love, though in showing love back, we must make ourselves accountable to something greater than our familial units.

Heirloom
by Zeina Hashem Beck

I come from a line of women who describe
flinging themselves into death
but don’t. My grandmother always announced 
what she had swallowed. Always demanded to be taken
to the hospital. Always asked for more doctors.
Which means my mother hasn’t learned nothing gets fixed
by being broken over & over again. She keeps
to the sea, baptizes herself in it all year, avoids
altitudes. Once, driving around a mountain curve
at sunset, she asked, Don’t you wish you could just 
drive straight into the belly of this valley?
I rent apartments on high floors though I’ve seen
my body plunge. I stood on the other side 
of the railing twice. This scares me. I used to disappear
into the closet for afternoons. My grandmother’s 
been aging beneath her blanket for decades.
My mother hid in the bathroom & thought I didn’t notice. 
Once, in a fit of rage, she stirred a divine scent
on the stove & carried it to her sick mother, came back
with an antique vase from her parents’ house
& placed it in the glass cabinet. Engraved, throne-like.
One day I will carry that. I used to knock over
the bottles & boxes on the dresser with the back of my hand.
This scares me too. Now I walk down the street & pray
for the music. When I told my husband, 
If you listen close enough everything’s dancing, try
to guess the songs, he laughed. But I’m telling you,
beauty always comes, you hear me?
It always comes.

“Heirloom” by Zeina Hashem Beck from O © 2022 Zeina Hashem Beck. Used by permission of Penguin Random House.