Dear Sweet Pea: Remembering Grandma Frank

"The people who shape us never truly leave us. They continue living in the stories we tell, the love we give, and the lives we help shape."

Dear Sweet Pea,

In your annual birthday letter, I typically recap all the incredible things you’ve done over the past year. But this year, I wanted to do something different. I wanted to tell you about my grandmother, your great grandmother, Grandma Frank.

See. I was blessed with two extraordinary grandmothers. There’s Grandma Tu Tu who taught me about the Lord, kept me in church, and in the malls. Baby, we tore those stores down! 

And then, there was Grandma Frank. 

Grandma Frank was a once in a lifetime experience. She was a lively, radiant woman, whose personality was as bright and as vibrant as her colorful wardrobe. She was a chain smoking, coffee drinking, gambling, curse word connoisseur who was the true embodiment of unconditional love, acceptance, loyalty, kindness, and forgiveness. That is, unless you owed her money. All of that went out the window until that debt was clear. Ask me how I know. But it was only to hold you accountable. Ensuring that you kept your word. 

Before learning I was pregnant with you, one of my biggest fears was that she wouldn’t live long enough to see me have children. But when I found out about you, I was so excited to tell her. However, her response didn’t quite match my enthusiasm. Upon hearing the news she looked at me and said, “Oh girl you’re not pregnant. You’re just fat.” That lady had zero filter and thought I was telling tales. But after convincing her that I really was pregnant, she rubbed and kissed my belly each time she saw me. And when you were born, she was over the moon. So much so, that no one else existed. She just wanted to know where “the baby” was. And my, how she marveled at your brilliance. 

She wasn’t a fan of cheap. Only the best of the best for her best. In fact, your Grancie and I had to convince her that you did not need $500 linens for your crib. Her response, “I don’t want my baby sleeping on no cheap stuff!” Only she didn’t exactly say stuff. 

And when I became of age, she told me to stay away from anything in a plastic bottle or a box. She didn’t want me drinking anything cheap. Because she knew that I was too good for it. And that it would result in a horrible hangover. 

Grandma Frank had a wild sense of humor. She once taunted me with your great-uncle Cory’s urn that held his ashes. She even sat it outside the upstairs door knowing I wouldn’t come out until the urn was gone. 

Oh and how could I forget how she would sometimes pop her dentures out at kids to get a reaction out of them. 

Grandma Frank was very caring. One time, I had gotten myself into a world of trouble. And she stuffed pillows down the back of my pants to protect me from the punishment that lay ahead. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that your Grancie made me remove the pillows—if you know what I mean. Later on, Out of concern, she slipped the sweetest four word note under the door that read: “Does your booty hurt?” I’m sure she already knew the answer, but it was the thought that counted. 

And her discernment was always on point. She was good for knowing what was going on, without actually knowing what was going on. If you know what I mean. I can recall her one day calling me on the phone saying, “It’s some funky stuff going down around here, Roc. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.” She never got to bottom of it (and she didn’t exactly say “stuff” either), but whenever she had that niggling feeling that something had gone awry, she was never wrong.

Grandma Frank may not have known or understood what I did professionally. But she knew what I was good at. Years ago, before I decided to seriously pursue writing, she said to me, “Roc. You’re an excellent writer. Pick up your pen and write.” She saw the writer in me long before I saw it in myself. And in her own way, she has singlehandedly given me a new vision for my writing career, and restored both my confidence and my voice as I write this letter to you. 

Grandma Frank loved my cooking. And regularly told me that I should be a chef. I would often hear her bragging about it on the phone to whoever would listen saying, “Roc’s an excellent cook! She makes a lot of Spanish food.” All while chowing down on a plate of lasagna, stir fry, fried rice, casserole, or anything else that wasn’t of Spanish origin. 

And she was quick! Grandma Frank’s one liners were chefs kiss. My personal favorite was whenever I asked how she was doing, she would reply, “Well, I’m doing everybody I can, Roc. Suckas twice.” 

She was always concerned about me too. I was pescatarian for a few years during my 20s, and had lost a significant amount of weight—all intentional. Grandma Frank was worried about the fact that I ate a lot of beans. So, she one day called me into her room and asked, “Roc. Are you poor? Are you in dire straits? Beans are poor man’s food. And no one your age is eating beans like that.” After explaining to her that I wasn’t eating meat and that beans were a good source of protein, she still didn’t get it. But she told me that if I needed something to eat, to go in her kitchen and take what I needed. Because to know her is to know she kept that deep freezer or as she liked to call it, “a box” filled with meat. 

Grandma Frank was my safe space. At times when I couldn’t sleep, she always—well, after begrudgingly putting her cigarette out—let me sleep in the bed with her at night. Even as an adult, I could always lay next to her whenever I was scared, or if I needed to calm my nervous system, or just take my mind off of whatever was troubling me. She was always there.

And we shared the best secrets. Like when she would sometimes let me stay up late and watch Def Comedy Jam with her. And countless other inappropriate shows that no child under the age of 18 should watch. 

She also kept a lot of my deepest secrets. I could talk to my Grandma Frank about any and everything without the fear of judgement, and knew that whatever I told her, stayed with her. 

Grandma Frank was a giver. She gave and gave and gave, without expecting anything in return. Because if she had it to give, whether you asked for it or not, it was yours.

Like that time I was in between jobs, she handed me her debit card and gave me her PIN number. And told me to take what I needed, when I needed it, until I got back on my feet. And to not worry about paying her back. 

Or when she discovered HSN, QVC, and ShopNBC, and sent me watches, jewelry, and countless handbags while I was away at school. And when I returned home, she ordered new coats for me every other week because she was concerned about me standing on cold bus stops and train platforms, commuting to and from work. But I put my foot down when she tried to order a 50 inch faux fur coat. That was just going too far. And she had the nerve to try to justify it saying, “It’s not like it’s a real, Roc. It’s fake!”

Grandma Frank was a fighter. She never gave up. She gave everything her all. And was ready to square up with anyone who dared do me wrong. That included friends, relatives, employers, or whoever I was dating at the time. She didn’t play about me.

She was also a woman of her word. Many years ago, she told me that if I didn’t name my first born after her, that when she died, she would haunt me for the rest of my days. Well as you can see your name clearly isn’t Frances, and not even a full hour after she transitioned, she made good on her promise. I awoke around 1 am and soon after, a transformer blew, knocking the power out for four hours in the middle of a heatwave. That was nobody but her getting started with me already. And I can only imagine what other shenanigans she has in store. 

I’ll never forget, at my baby shower, she held my hand, looked at me, and said, “Roc? Is that you? Thank the Lord. I’m so glad you could make it.” Perplexed, I looked to my left and my right and replied, “Girl, this is my baby shower. I’m happy YOU could make it!”

Grandma Frank believed that if you’re going to spend the money. Spend it on good shoes, good food, and good bras. She wanted you to always walk on a solid foundation. Be fueled and properly nourished for the work ahead. And well supported. And when you start wearing bras, you’ll understand. 

She gave the best advice. If it was too hot, she told me to be still and think cool thoughts. If it was too cold, she would tell me to crank the heat up as high as it could go. Because the bill has to get paid anyway. If I was upset, she would say, “Oh you mad? Well scratch your booty and get glad.” Although she didn’t exactly say booty. And if I was sad, she would give me the biggest hugs and tell me to cry it out. Because crying was good therapy. 

I had several nicknames for her. I often called her Frankenstein, Frankenberry, Frankfurter, Frank White, Pfeffernusse, and Periwinkle. But I was always her Rocky Docky.

Grandma Frank was more than your average grandmother. She was my best friend, my confidant, and my gossip partner. Grandma Frank was home.

Sweet Pea, if you take nothing else from what I have shared, know that my grandmother, your great grandmother, Grandma Frank, is, was, and will forever be a remarkable woman. Who produced your Grancie, a remarkable woman. Who gave birth to me, your mommy, a remarkable woman. And I now have the pleasure of raising you to be a remarkable woman. 

We are the fruit of her tree planted on soil that was nurtured and tended to by generations of remarkable women. Because, baby, we don’t come from no weak stock. 

We are because she was.

And she was because of God’s grace and His unconditional love for us. 

With love,

Mommy