Belén Yudess ’25
Copy Editor
The first poem I ever wrote was about my dead paternal grandmother. Using a classic abab rhyme scheme, I relied heavily on floral imagery to portray the intensity of my grandmother’s beauty and resilience. At least that is the message my four-year-old self hoped to convey to our extended family and friends as I read my poem at her memorial service. So many people were impressed by my ability to write at such a young age. They made it seem as though what I had done was something special, an action to be applauded. But even then, writing was as natural and familiar as breathing; it was the greatest love my grandmother gave me.
My Grandma Reba was diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) when I was three. I remember my grandmother’s physical decay, her transition from the cane and grabber to the electric wheelchair we would race on the sidewalk. I remember her smile, sweeter than the 7-11 slurpees my dad and I would bring her everyday after Pre-K. The one thing that I don’t remember is the sound of my grandmother’s voice.
My dad likes to tell me I remind him of his mom: we both never shut up. But the version of her that I remember is silent. She was stripped of her vocal abilities just as I was beginning to fall in love with language. As my capacity to speak in complete sentences and hold tangible conversations improved, she became limited to one-word iterations on a good day until even that was gone. That is when she introduced me to the art of writing. My grandmother and I would spend our time writing notes to each other. We wrote stories about flowers and butterflies, combining our imaginative powers to create new worlds free from the confines of her dank hospice room. She was patient as I learned the intricacies of noun-verb sentence structures and watched wide-eyed as I discovered the connections and discrepancies between how words sounded versus how they were spelled. Writing was freedom; freedom from the communicative limitations imposed on my grandmother by her disease, and freedom from reality itself as I familiarized myself with the infinite fantasies I could bring to life on the page.
My grandmother passed away sixteen years ago, but she continues to live in the heart of every piece I have written. And beyond that, I see her spirit reflected in every smile born from the kindness of compassion and the joy of a passion fulfilled. My Grandma Reba was an overly-involved, overly-enthusiastic, and overly-dressed (she could never be found without ruby red nails and a matching set of jewelry) individual who dedicated her life to love; a love of her community, her family, and the possibility of a world that shared her same zest for being alive. One of my grandmother’s favorite artists was Frank Sinatra and I think that is fitting because nobody embodied Sinatra’s classic hit “My Way” like she did. No matter how many “blows” she took, she persevered with a heart brimming with laughter and arms ready to welcome you home. She’s been on my mind a lot lately as I reflect upon the person I hope to be each day.
People sometimes comment on my tendency to hold multiple commitments at once, but the truth is, that is part of how I follow my grandmother’s guidance. Every article I write, student I tutor, resident I laugh alongside as we make lunch in the kitchen is my attempt to pick up my pen and write about a young woman that would make her proud.
