The Family Migration Project
The Essay
My grandmother has been dead now for about two decades, but her life and memories still continue to shape me. Her name was Janice Brigel (once married, Perry), and she was The Boss. I am still haunted by what I don’t know about her. I found out several years after her death that she’d had dreams of becoming a dancer stolen from her by a car accident that left her in a bed with a broken pelvis. At the time, medicine dictated bed rest, so there she lay.
My grandmother came from sturdy German stock that had settled in Ohio. What I remember of her is colored by the lens of childhood, though looking back as an adult I picked up on a few things. When she was still alive, we would visit Ohio every year, sometimes twice per year to visit her and my grandpa. Early on she earned the nickname “Gat” from me, as I for whatever reason decided that Janice was pronounced “Gat.” The house my grandparents lived in was magic to me. They had a side attic I was convinced housed some sort of mythical, magical object that would transport me from somewhere fantastic and far away from the mundane world.
Most of what I remember about my grandmother was that she made the rules, and she drank Jim Beam while smoking cigarettes at the kitchen table. Gat was probably the classiest lady I’d ever met: she dressed up when we went out, and a lot of her social manners rubbed off on my mother. She was a lady of the people, and from some of the stories my mother rarely tells of her, she was also friendly with the mafia in Ohio. I don’t know at this point whether I believe it or not, but it has always added to the mythological presence of my grandmother in my life.
My mother was born in Ohio, and grew up the same place my grandparents had always lived. They had lived in that house their entire adult lives, up until the point that we moved my Grandfather into a nursing home. When she met my father, my mother fell head over heels, and they eventually got married. When his college internship forced him to go to Florida on and off, she decided to make the move down with him for good. He ended up with a permanent position at the company, and they started their lives together and had me.
A huge reason for my attention to these two women in this project stems from a lot of the conversations my mother and I have now that I both my brother and I are leading our adult lives outside of my parents’ house. I can remember growing up and my mother calling Gat like clockwork on the corded phone. There were times my dad would open the phone bill and curse the amount of time my mom had spent talking to her mother at whatever ridiculous rate the phone company charged. I grew up listening to my mother talk about how much she treasured the relationship she had with her mom, and how happy it made her that she and I had such a strong relationship. “You try to do better each generation,” she’d say to me. “As great as my relationship with my mother is, I think ours is even better.”
It wasn’t until after my grandmother died that I began to hear how like her I was. “You know your grandma Gat always wore cool glasses.” “She would be so proud of you.” “You are so much like her sometimes.”
Janice Perry has become a mythological character in my mind. I like to think about how our lives and attitudes might match up. As I grew into adulthood, I began to think of her when I would struggle with taking control. “What would Gat do? Would she take this shit? I bet she’d be honest about her thoughts.” You see, my grandmother worked jobs bossing the good ol’ boys around. She was probably a feminist, and certainly made sure her opinion was both heard and counted. There is always an energy and a sense that she did not bull shit around. My mother did not inherit this trait as much as her sister, but somehow passed it on to me. And so I often hear things like “You’re so much like your grandmother.”
As to where I am in my life currently? I think a lot about moving around. When I was a teenager, I wanted nothing more then to move away from Florida and live a completely different life. I wanted to go to art school in another state. I wasn’t going to stick around all of the familiarity. But somehow, I did. I think my teenaged self would be really really miffed with me, but I am happy. Looking at my mother, and the relationship that we have I sometimes wonder how she managed to move so far away.
My husband and I are at the point where we are looking to buy a house and start a family. I can’t help but think about my mother in all of it. She moved 1,000 miles away from her childhood home and her family to be with my dad. She had children 1,000 miles away from her mother. I can’t imagine raising my children (her grandchildren) away from her. Our regrets would seemingly overlap here: I wish I’d been closer to my grandmother. I wish she could have seen more of the things I’ve done in my life. Something my mom said to me on my wedding day that echoes in my mind when I look into my husband’s eyes: “She would have loved Es. She would have said he had kind eyes.”
My grandmother chose to live her life making a home for her daughters after her dream was taken away from her. My mother chose to make a home far away from hers, working a career that she loves while staying in touch and sharing her long distance life with her mother through letters and phone calls. I choose to live near to my mother, doing a job I love. I call her frequently, and visit at least once a week. It makes me happy to go and do things with her, and know she’s only a short drive away. I can only hope that my eventual child and I share the same special bond that I share with my mother.
My grandmother came from sturdy German stock that had settled in Ohio. What I remember of her is colored by the lens of childhood, though looking back as an adult I picked up on a few things. When she was still alive, we would visit Ohio every year, sometimes twice per year to visit her and my grandpa. Early on she earned the nickname “Gat” from me, as I for whatever reason decided that Janice was pronounced “Gat.” The house my grandparents lived in was magic to me. They had a side attic I was convinced housed some sort of mythical, magical object that would transport me from somewhere fantastic and far away from the mundane world.
Most of what I remember about my grandmother was that she made the rules, and she drank Jim Beam while smoking cigarettes at the kitchen table. Gat was probably the classiest lady I’d ever met: she dressed up when we went out, and a lot of her social manners rubbed off on my mother. She was a lady of the people, and from some of the stories my mother rarely tells of her, she was also friendly with the mafia in Ohio. I don’t know at this point whether I believe it or not, but it has always added to the mythological presence of my grandmother in my life.
My mother was born in Ohio, and grew up the same place my grandparents had always lived. They had lived in that house their entire adult lives, up until the point that we moved my Grandfather into a nursing home. When she met my father, my mother fell head over heels, and they eventually got married. When his college internship forced him to go to Florida on and off, she decided to make the move down with him for good. He ended up with a permanent position at the company, and they started their lives together and had me.
A huge reason for my attention to these two women in this project stems from a lot of the conversations my mother and I have now that I both my brother and I are leading our adult lives outside of my parents’ house. I can remember growing up and my mother calling Gat like clockwork on the corded phone. There were times my dad would open the phone bill and curse the amount of time my mom had spent talking to her mother at whatever ridiculous rate the phone company charged. I grew up listening to my mother talk about how much she treasured the relationship she had with her mom, and how happy it made her that she and I had such a strong relationship. “You try to do better each generation,” she’d say to me. “As great as my relationship with my mother is, I think ours is even better.”
It wasn’t until after my grandmother died that I began to hear how like her I was. “You know your grandma Gat always wore cool glasses.” “She would be so proud of you.” “You are so much like her sometimes.”
Janice Perry has become a mythological character in my mind. I like to think about how our lives and attitudes might match up. As I grew into adulthood, I began to think of her when I would struggle with taking control. “What would Gat do? Would she take this shit? I bet she’d be honest about her thoughts.” You see, my grandmother worked jobs bossing the good ol’ boys around. She was probably a feminist, and certainly made sure her opinion was both heard and counted. There is always an energy and a sense that she did not bull shit around. My mother did not inherit this trait as much as her sister, but somehow passed it on to me. And so I often hear things like “You’re so much like your grandmother.”
As to where I am in my life currently? I think a lot about moving around. When I was a teenager, I wanted nothing more then to move away from Florida and live a completely different life. I wanted to go to art school in another state. I wasn’t going to stick around all of the familiarity. But somehow, I did. I think my teenaged self would be really really miffed with me, but I am happy. Looking at my mother, and the relationship that we have I sometimes wonder how she managed to move so far away.
My husband and I are at the point where we are looking to buy a house and start a family. I can’t help but think about my mother in all of it. She moved 1,000 miles away from her childhood home and her family to be with my dad. She had children 1,000 miles away from her mother. I can’t imagine raising my children (her grandchildren) away from her. Our regrets would seemingly overlap here: I wish I’d been closer to my grandmother. I wish she could have seen more of the things I’ve done in my life. Something my mom said to me on my wedding day that echoes in my mind when I look into my husband’s eyes: “She would have loved Es. She would have said he had kind eyes.”
My grandmother chose to live her life making a home for her daughters after her dream was taken away from her. My mother chose to make a home far away from hers, working a career that she loves while staying in touch and sharing her long distance life with her mother through letters and phone calls. I choose to live near to my mother, doing a job I love. I call her frequently, and visit at least once a week. It makes me happy to go and do things with her, and know she’s only a short drive away. I can only hope that my eventual child and I share the same special bond that I share with my mother.