Grandma Dollar

Even though I was born outside of marriage, and my biological father disappeared before I was born, everyone was pretty excited when I was born.  I was the first grandchild and the first great-granddaughter.

My great grandma spoiled me rotten.  She would give me anything I asked for if it was in her power.  Fortunately, I was well trained by my mother not to ask for stuff.  But because Grandma couldn’t visit me without giving me a dollar bill, her nickname became Grandma Dollar.

Grandma Dollar liked to take me to church.  I liked wearing long dresses, and she thought that was a sign of what a good girl I was.  She would make beautiful dresses for me, and show me off to her friends at church.

When we returned to California after nearly six years away, I couldn’t wait to see her.  So much had changed.  I wanted something to be the same – familiar.  Grandma was that.

I wasn’t.

As was my constant bane, my body had changed.  I had breasts and hips, and Grandma was concerned about my virtue.  If I had just awakened from a coma and someone said to me, “what’s the first thing you think of when you think of Grandma Dollar?” my answer would be, “she was so proud of me because I was going to be a virgin when I got married.”

For some reason, that was her greatest hope for me: that I’d be a virgin and not get fat.  Seriously, I was 12 years old and she took me to McDonald’s.  She asked the poor guy behind the counter how old he thought she was.  He stammered and stuttered, and finally, Grandma let him off the hook, and said, “I’m 77 years old!  And this is my great-granddaughter, and I’m so proud of her.  She’s going to be a virgin when she gets married.”  I promise that I’m not making that up.

At 12 years old, I was still laboring under the belief that I had to earn love, so I’d do anything for praise.  So when Grandma would brag to people about my virginity, I’d nod eagerly and soak up the attention.

Grandma taught me how to sew.  She made my prom dress for me.  She made my bridesmaids dresses when I got married at 18 (I was not a virgin, much to her chagrin).  She made me feel like she would move the world for me if she could, and I needed that in my life.

She passed away when I was in my junior year of college.  One day I stopped by to visit her in the hospital, and she was telling me that she was afraid to die; she was going to miss us all so much.  I tried to console her and then she told me that she was so disappointed in me that I’d gotten fat and lost all my beauty.

Have I mentioned how much I hated my body?