Two Generations Collide

The streets are bustling with intent and enormous conversations of weekend plans in New York City. I feel consumed by the noise yet seamlessly content. The warm golden sunlight reflects onto the sky rises so perfectly during this hour. I put my headphones in and transport to my own soundtrack thumping to my own rhythm. Finally, my first week as a new journalist at my dream job has been completed. I feel unstoppable, on top of the universe, my universe.

This is a completely new scene for me. But I can’t contain myself of the beauty, the freshness, the change, the opportunity to start a new chapter separate from my previous life.

I smell some familiarity of San Diego and I am greeted by my past life as my “favorite tunes” playlist continues to encapsulate my entire being. As I step down towards the train platform, I daydream of my high school self. The scene of my high school hallways shake my memory with the haunting “Renee, you look so much better with straight hair” voices as the boys walk passed me during homecoming week, loud enough for me to internalize for the rest of my days. My soft, brown skin wasn’t accepted by my fairer skinned peers. None of them understood me, my Caribbean culture, and they didn’t want to. They continued to tease my hair, how it refused the laws of gravity to straighten down my back. So, I continued to sit in the back of each class to eliminate the comments about my hair blocking the view. Yet, somehow, I found it within myself to stay true to myself, my heritage; and what made me different, despite my struggles with the ever-present European beauty standards.

The song switched and I quickly blinked back into reality when I scanned my train card allowing me to proceed to the bustling platform. My head carelessly bobbing to the music as people bump, push, and craszily gather around me.

The train zoomed through the tunnel as more people ran down the stairs to the platform. The train slows to a stop, doors screech open, and people start switching on and off the train. I was able to find a place to sit to begin my train ride to my newly found home. The train doors loudly close shut jolting it forward. I shuffle my hands through my bag filled with knickknacks of things I can’t seem to part ways with. I finally feel what I'm looking for: my beloved journal. I can’t go anywhere without it. It comes with me everywhere. When I have something to write about, I have to write it then and there. I place it on my lap and begin to write when my Granddad’s memory moves through me like never before.

I am serenaded by our favorite song “Red, Red Wine” that consistently blasted through all of our adventures during the summers I spent with him in Trinidad. The memories of him captivate me to write about our memories. I am transported to the humid breezes of beach days sipping on Carib beer and eating mangoes from the neighboring trees. My hair was able to be itself and so was I around the kindness of the Caribbean -- something that was similarly felt in San Diego, but not fully encapsulated like the energy of Trinidad’s. Our weekends were spent at fetes in Tobago with the friends I made throughout the years. We were all inseparable during those months. Granddad loved how I was able to feel completely and totally at home. My skin getting darker with each late night spent under the sun providing me all the energy I needed to carry myself through the rest of the year.

DING

The train arrived at my stop. I blink back into reality as I frantically close my journal and dump it back into my bag to join the bustle of the everyday New Yorker. The walk to my loft is no more than ten minutes, but I enjoy the scenery so much I take my sweet time to return home, taking pictures of the large buildings around me like a tourist. But something about this day seems different than the other Fridays before. Something felt…. off. I snapped out of this thought. I just figured it was my overthinking brain talking louder than usual.

As I tirelessly dragged my feet to my doorstep, I looked down to see a brown wrapped, rectangular package addressed to me. I turned the key to unlock my door and slowly picked it up. Something didn’t seem right. No one had my new address except for my immediate family. Suddenly, I was filled with worry and nervousness. I quickly closed my door behind me and stumbled to open the package to find a beautifully bound black notebook with my name embroidered on the cover. “Oh, shit,” I uttered to myself. “I need a glass of wine for this one.” With the tall glass of wine poured next to my couch, I scrunched myself up to open to the very first page. My palms, sweating with nervousness. I couldn’t stop my head from thinking about the endless possibilities of what could follow the filled pages. The first page read:

“My dearest Renee,

If you have received this, it means I have finally passed away. This is my gift to you, sweetheart. May you never stop wandering. May you never stop exploring. May you never stop writing.”

Love,

Granddad”

The notebook dropped to the floor as my life suddenly flows in slow motion. “I knew something was off about today. It didn’t seem right today.” My thoughts fall out of my mouth as tears flowed down my face like tsunamis. The words struck me with such intensity, passing through my veins, jolting me into a state of nothingness. Nothing mattered, nothing served importance, and everything surrounding me ceased to exist. I was frozen in time.

I looked down at the floor where the notebook was scattered. I noticed an envelope fell out of it. My thoughts started to quiet, my breathing became more manageable, but everything continued in slow motion. I reached for the envelope that was also addressed to me. Slowly opening the envelope, my fingertips fish out the check. $20,000 addressed to me from my granddad. My hands shake with confusion. The utter shock of questions that start forming in my head begin to take control.

So, I reached for the notebook to continue reading. Maybe there was more for me to read. Did he leave me this money by accident? Was this an inheritance? What kind of gift is this? What do I even do with this kind of money right now?

“I know this is a lot for you to handle and I apologize for springing this onto you at once. I just didn’t want you to lose focus on your goals. You are a capable young woman who has so many things to worry about and I was lower on the list. That is okay with me. It always has been. Renee, here is some money I have saved for you all this time. All the summers you have spent with me were more than gifts to me, it saved me from the quiet of my life. You are the light of my life and this is just a small token of my appreciation for you, my greatest granddaughter. I love you more than this life we have shared together. As you continue to read throughout this journal, you will read all of our adventures that I catalogued along with our pictures. May you never forget your time here on our island. May you never forget where you came from. May you never lose your love for mangoes and long sunny days on the beach. My old age finally caught up with me. I am much happier now, please know that. I will always watch over you from above.”

I couldn’t control any of my emotions. I loved my Granddad more than anything this world offered me. He introduced me to journaling and the beauty of it. He pushed me to pursue my dreams of living in the big city lights working as a journalist, to be greater than anything I ever hoped for. My heart ached with pain and confusion. How shall I ever move through my life now?

The buzzing of my phone startled me to jump from the couch to answer it. I heard my mother’s voice on the other end as she softly said “Hi, my sweet Renee. I already booked your flight to Trinidad for your Granddad’s funeral in the next coupla days. He told me he wanted you to do the eulogy.” My world was collapsing inwards on me without any time to recover. All the news coming at me all at once overwhelmed me. My mom could sense the worry within my cracking voice. We continued to catch up between the uttered words between my crying. I slowly calmed to gather myself into the person my Granddad always envisioned me to be.

A few days passed and I found myself emotionless on the flights to Trinidad and Tobago. The flights felt like the longest, most painful travel back to my home. They felt different. Like I was going to visit, not to return home like before.

The days following my arrival were a blur, but I kept looking down at the eulogy I drafted for him.

“Granddad, thank you for teaching me how to paint beauty with my words. Pictures so vivid our imaginations can only envision, only for us to capture. As your soul leaves this earth, it seems like I still have a piece of you in the journal you left me. How could I ever repay you? I am forever grateful for your presence and will cherish our small moments the most. You shine as if I have my own lighthouse, bringing me home over and over again.”

The rest of the eulogy happened so fast my brain couldn’t fully comprehend the words I was reading, yet it all rang true. Just as before, the notebook, his smile, and his lasting impact on my life forever held a dear place in my heart.

The trip was short, sweet, and hard to remember. As I turned the key into my loft, kicked my shoes off, a sigh of relief was released. The black notebook greeted me as the check of $20,000 accompanied it on my coffee table. I open my bag fiddling through it to find my journal and all I could write is

“Now, what do you do with this money? The answer is simple. Invest it into something that could help our home. Granddad would love that.”