Rumbling Roots
When I stare in the mirror it is my reflection I see, but also my ancestors looking back and urging me forward. A son of immigrants, I sought to assimilate as quickly as possible. It is now I see that my idiosyncrasies and heritage are at the core of who I am and who I will become.
I look at young pictures of my grandmother Pauline and I see my father in her eyes, determined and hard working. She was a warrior and a caretaker, a fighter for her family. She had been treated unfairly by this world and pushed my father to a better life, taught him how to fish and not how to beg. When bone cancer haunted her later years, she led with love, and it is one of my regrets that I did not spend the time with her she deserved. We did not see eye to eye, her prudish nature ran counter to my riotous one, but her sacrifices led the way for my privileges, and for this I am grateful.
My grandad John was my favorite grandparent growing up, perhaps for no greater reasons than he made me laugh and he made me feel safe. Some speak the English language; others can dance with it—make up words that conveyed instant meaning and invent dialects all by themself. He served as a tank commander in British Palestine/early Israel—I remember him driving us around Essex in the same manner. When I was with my grandad John, I knew I was going to be okay. I am old enough now to know his flaws, he could be stubborn, selfish, and he had old world prejudices. I forgive his ignorance though he never asked for it. He didn’t care what others thought of him, and this was his power, he was unique. I carry John as a middle name and though I grew up an ocean apart, he is a major source of my English identity. His travels to Michigan with Ford strike me as the scouting trip for my own journey to the Midwest, his influence undeniable.
Family resemblance is a funny thing. I share the birthday of one uncle, but the appearance and temperament of another, Robert Foster, Bob. I scarcely remember meeting him, he died young of a heart attack, but when I see pictures of him boxing, hear the stories of those who loved him, and spend time with his children, I realize we are one in the same. Leaves from the same tree. It is his memory and the exploits of his sons that pushed me to try rugby at university. He was a sheep dog, a martial artist, a hiker, and a dreamer. I wish we could meet now, have a pint, and laugh at the silly things, but these are the wishes that don’t mean much in the harshness of life. It is on us to keep his memory and pass forward what we loved.
As we rehash the timeless argument of nature versus nurture, let us acknowledge that our environment shapes us, but there is always something living in the blood, rumbling in the roots.
