Today would be my grandmother’s 99th birthday. It feels like an important anniversary. Maybe even more so than next summer when we mark 100 years.
Most of you know her as Hana Dubová, the fierce woman who is the heart and soul of We Share The Same Sky. I know her as Mutti (which means mother in German). That’s what all of us descendants called her.
This past weekend, my cousin Elana (Hana’s eldest grandchild) came from Philadelphia to visit me for a short 36 hours in Maine. It was the first time in more than a decade that we spent quality time together and we made the most of it. We walked the dog in the woods, ate fish & chips sitting on a dock, and soaked in sunshine at a local beach. But most importantly, we ate an ice cream cone to honor our grandmother’s birthday. That is what Mutti wanted us to do on her birthday once she was gone; she asked us to eat ice cream.
Elana remembers my grandmother differently than I do. She's five years older than me, grew up living nearby my grandmother, and at the end of her life she even lived with her. “Mutti was my biggest supporter,” Elana told me when she joined me in conversation on the first season of Along The Seam. “When I was a kid, it felt like my mom, who is Mutti's oldest child, and my grandmother kind of came together. They were like a package deal… Mutti was very different with us than she was with the rest of the world. I noticed from a very young age that she was tough with the rest of the world and very soft with us.”
Mutti certainly was tough. In my memory, it was a core characteristic. When we were kids, she would chase us around the house with her pointer finger and poked us in the stomach until we simultaneously laughed and cried. Sometimes she would even light her acrylic nails on fire just to put the flame out in her mouth. I remember a holiday meal when everyone was talking over her and she slammed her fist on the table and stated “I demand respect.” And, even in her softer moments she was tough. She would take our child-sized palms and circle them with her forefinger so slowly that it tickled and say “Life will give you callouses, but with each one, your skin becomes thicker.”
Mutti died in 2010 at age 85. I always felt like her death was a perfect one, even though she spent years battling depression before the cancer came. In my memory, her physical health declined quickly and therefore she wasn’t in too much pain. She died at home, in bed and surrounded by her family. We all got to say goodbye.
“Every day for months we would wake up in the morning and I would make her breakfast because she didn't really want to eat.”
That’s what Elana remembers about Mutti before her death.
“And every day she would say to me, ‘Elana, you're a psychologist. Explain it to me. Why was I strong my whole life and now I'm like this?’”
From that perspective, her death doesn’t feel so perfect.
“I think it's because she was in survival mode her whole life,” Elana told me. "And for anyone who has ever been in survival mode, you don't break down. Survival mode is the opposite. It's the adrenaline. You're trying to stay alive. And I didn't really say these words to her, but my theory was, well this is an accumulation of your entire life finally coming to a head. She never allowed herself to fully feel. And, zero judgment. I don't know that I could if I were her. I think her breakdown was just her body and her brain being like, we can't hold onto this anymore… I think that was the end of the survival mode.”
In honor of my grandmother’s 99th, I want to share a piece of her writing that lets her speak for herself. Yes, us descendants have our memories and our assessments of what her life and legacy means to us, but if it’s possible (and especially on a birthday) it’s more important to hear from the person themselves.
My grandmother wrote the essay below in 2004 when she was 79 years old, and titled it Vulnerability. I regularly have students of all ages study this piece and it proves as not only a wonderful read, but also a compelling writing prompt. Hana wrote this when she took a writing course called “Memories and Memoirs.” The teacher had prompted the students to pick any word and write about it, so she chose vulnerability.
Sometime soon, I’m going to take inspiration from this piece and write something that picks apart the word “tough.” I’m not going to write that today though. Instead I’m going to eat more ice cream and I encourage you to do the same.
Vulnerability
An Essay by Hana Dubová, 2004
Vulnerability is a long word, and at least for me, somewhat hard to pronounce. It is a harsh word, like some other words that begin with the letter vee. Vulcan, Vulgar, Vulture, Vulnerable. The dictionary says it means subject to being wounded, robbed, plucked, attacked. You are also assailable and liable to increased penalties. In the game of bridge, if you are vulnerable and fail to make the hand, you lose extra points. However, if you make the hand when you are vulnerable, you get extra points, which is one good thing I know about being vulnerable.
We are all born vulnerable. What human is more helpless than a newborn baby? Who is more vulnerable than a child, an adolescent? And of course, we stay that way our whole lives, to the day we die. The 150,000 people in the path of that mind boggling tsunami were totally vulnerable.
It is wise and best not to think about our vulnerability too much. It could lead to despair. It is far better to think about our strengths. Pretend we are wearing a soft tailor-made suit of armor. Nothing can pierce it as we go forth like one of King Arthur’s knights. It’s hard to do that. You have to put up a good front, a stiff upper lip. If our armor is made right, we can bend a little. Stoop down to pet a dog or pick a flower. It’s hard to cook in it, or do housework. But it is best to keep it on at all times, especially at special occasion times like Christmas and birthdays, so you don’t start thinking sad thoughts of the past. And, it’s good to have it on at wakes and funerals, and other sad times like when the Eagles lose.
Sometimes it is therapeutic to be vulnerable. Like at the movies when you know it is make believe, or a bad version of a true story, or even just a lot of crap, you still find yourself laughing and rooting for the bad guys, or hoping the ditzy blonde gets the rich old man, or that the talking animals find happiness. Whatever it is that takes you out of yourself for two hours is good vulnerability.
But, on the other hand, when you sit down to do your writing class homework and you realize quickly that the word you have chosen to explore has so much potential to drive you up a wall because you know every living person on the planet, and all animals too, are so very vulnerable to just about every horrible, awful, scary, terrifying, wonderful, loving, happy, pleasurable thing on mother earth, and that there is very little you can do to dodge it except plow right through and hope to avoid the bad and enjoy the good, that all I can say is next time I’m going to pick an easier word. I’m sick of being so vulnerable.
To spend more time with Hana and We Share The Same Sky, you can:
Listen to the podcast • Buy the book • Visit the exhibition • Teach her story
Thank you for sharing. I so enjoy reading everything you share ...it feels like an old friend coming to say hello. My heart has a little space that is filled by your grandmother's story and yours ...so thank you for continuing to share your life, thoughts and emotions. This is what I love about Substack - sitting at the southern most end of Africa ..and connecting so intensely with someone at the other end of the world...and with a history that connects.