Eulogy for Grandma

A few words for an important woman in my life.

“Man reckons with immortality, and forgets to reckon with death.” - Milan Kundera

Sharon Loretta Fein, née Dennis, was born in 1938 in Detroit. She and her three siblings lived in the Chandler Park housing projects. Her mother was a stern Irish disciplinarian from Kentucky, her Lebanese-Irish father a gregarious gambler and alcoholic salesman who— when Sharon was in high school— got in trouble at the race track and moved to Chicago to evade loan sharks. Sharon stayed on Detroit’s east side, watched a piece of the American interstate system built in her backyard, took night classes at the University of Detroit, operated a switchboard at the Detroit Bank, married another eastsider, and eventually moved out to the northwestern suburbs before having two kids She quit her job to raise her family and lived out in the lakes area of Oakland County for the remainder of her life— rarely traveling— becoming the glue of her immediate family in the wake of her husband’s semi-absentee parenting style. She toiled away at motherhood and grandmotherhood,  saw her generations she raised grow into adulthood and, this week, passed away peacefully with her children by her side.

That’s the hasty life story of Sharon Fein, known to me as my grandmother. But as always, there’s so much more to her and the people whose lives she blessed. When I was younger both my parents worked and I spent as much time with my grandma and grandpa as I did my mom and dad. My grandpa was fun and gregarious and charismatic, a fan favorite of friends and family, but it was my grandma who was the foundation. She took care of me, fed me, carted me around town in her faded gold Toyota Sienna. Despite her usual ambivalence about sports, she caught the Detroit Pistons fever in 2004 and we watched almost every playoff game together, then would rewatch the championship DVD habitually over bologna sandwiches and Vernor’s. I remember her taking me to Safety Town as a toddler, a summer camp where they’d teach us about pedestrian safety measures over carpeted crossroads, then secretly buying me fast food on the way home. Once, she took me to a memorabilia shop and bought me my first sports piece, a LeBron James Cavaliers away jersey, and instructed me to lie to my grandpa about its true cost. My grandma had a rough life and a rocky relationship with many of those around her, but never with her grandkids. We had the type of relationship that’s a saccharine ideal for a grandmother and her grandson. When you think of doting grandmas, there should be a photo of Sharon Fein slaving away in her kitchen; one could presume a five-year old Jameson in the next room drawing pictures of his favorite athletes. When I said goodbye to her over the phone today, it was a difficult feeling to end things so artificially, with hundreds of miles of distance between us, but that doesn’t define our relationship. The hundreds of hours we spent with the world melted away around us is what I’ll hold on to in perpetuity. In a selfish way, I’m glad I moved out of the state around the same time she began to decline— I don’t remember her as an old helpless body withering away from COPD and dementia but as a resilient woman with the biggest heart to ever exist.

The strength of the emotions in my nostalgia could carry her image inside me for the rest of my life, but what I really hope to take from my grandma is two of her finest traits. The first is her character— she loved her family unconditionally. In an era of increasing identity politics and divisiveness, she kept her personal views out of her interactions with her occasionally dysfunctional family to such an extent that I’m not even familiar with what her personal views were. She would do anything for her family— even when they wronged her— and dedicated her entire existence to them, always giving her loved ones the benefit of the doubt even if they objectively did not deserve it. The second trait I hope my grandma engendered in me is resilience. She’s the single strongest person I’ve ever met. In some ways, she never stood a chance— her family was in poverty for most of her childhood. Her dad was an alcoholic. Her mother was abusive. Later in life, her genetics betrayed her and she couldn’t put the bottle down until she was well into her 70s. Her traveling salesman husband (bless his soul) was selfish and partially absent. Through it all, she was there. Through her disease and the world’s cruel indifference, my Grandma was the only constant present in the life of my mother and uncle. She made sure they were ready for life every morning and she helped wherever else she could, emotionally and financially. Sure, my mom may have had a complicated relationship with her. Who wouldn’t, considering the circumstances? But she never gave up. She was always there. And, as she ages, her kids recognize and appreciate that fact more. You never know how long it will take for your actions to positively affect someone you love. 

A few years ago, I decided to ask my grandma incessant questions about her life, and recorded it for posterity. My grandpa would regale anyone who listened about his own life, but my grandma was inscrutable in her selflessness. I realized she wouldn’t be alive forever and didn’t want her life story to die along with her person. We spent several hours talking about everything— the clubs she frequented on 6 Mile as a youth; her Lebanese grandfather’s tribulations as a soap peddling immigrant in Cullman, Alabama; the multiple buses she had to take to her job at Detroit Edison. Documentation is important to the preservation of a cultural milieu, but it’s also just as important on an individual level. Think about how often the fabric of people’s lives are lost to history. Old cultures placed an emphasis on the oral tradition of elders for a reason— it’s how civilization and its customs and traditions get passed down. If you remove the singularity of each life and let it slip away to the ether, how are you ever going to retain the true images of anthropological wisdom? Everyone’s story is equally important, but when it’s your own family, your own grandparents, it means more. If I could impart any wisdom that I’ve gained in my 27 years on earth (which isn’t much), it’s to talk to your grandparents or oldest living relatives. Learn about their lives, what makes them tick, the things that matter to them, and the events that shaped them. The most surprising part about my hours-long interrogation of my grandma about her life was that she was surprised anyone cared— that made me sad. If we don’t care about the lives of those who share our blood that came before us, what is worth caring about? History begins as soon as it leaves the present.

Anyway, grandma, I’ll miss you. You played an integral role in making me who I am today. It’s difficult to acknowledge the inexorable march of the world after the most important people in your life leave it. You had a difficult 86 years but gave your all to all that matters: righteousness, kindness, and love. I thank you for existing. May your  memory be a blessing. I’ll carry it until my own sun sets.