Yooooooo, grandparents, right?

We all got em, and they’re all fucking racists. I mean, I do, and, being a white guy, I’m assuming that, even if my own particular experience isn’t, in fact, universal (a ‘fact’ which I’m suspicious of), it’s at least quote-unquote universal in the sense that I can expect that you are all aware of it and will appreciate me referencing it. Am I right, folks? Don’t understand that as an actual question that suggests interest in your own subjectivity, because, like I said, I’m a white guy and, as such, I expect we are all here to have my idea of fun. Woo. I don’t know if this is a common enough thing to evoke the kind of nostalgia and reassurance that we’re all here for, but my two grandmas were absolute polar opposites in temperament. Is this a thing? Grandma on my dad’s side (we called her Grandma Big, because she was like 4 ft. tall) was just the nastiest old woman you’d ever want to meet. Had a scowl and a bad word for everyone. Grandma on my mom’s side (we called her Grandma Auncie, which was also not her real name, but rather some old Hungarian shit that I never knew what it meant, maybe related to organized crime) perpetually sounded like her fucking cookies just finished baking, all sweetness and light. (My mom, of course always reminded us that it was all an act, that the Grandma Auncie she was raised by was a heartless killer.) That’s definitely recognizable, right? I got you with that one, I know it. Don’t tell me you’re not nodding your head and smiling and feeling warm about that shit. But anyway, totally different grandmas. For real, I always felt bad for Grandma Big, though. My grandpa (Grandpa Big, he took her nickname when they married) was the star of that relationship. He lived one of those Don Draper Depression lives where he built hisself up from nothing, and everyone (except him, of course) breathlessly repeated the details of his mythic origin at any opportunity. The bullshit story was that his stepmom tried to kill him with a cleaver, so he left home at twelve and started working. He taught himself how to play multiple musical instruments and toured with big bands. He went off to fight in The Big War. He had an offer tour and make a good living as a musician, playing in a notable band, but he gave it all up to marry my grandma. He built the house my dad grew up in with his bare hands. Of course, everyone also acknowledged that Grandma Big had her own story: she married my grandpa. I have no idea why she was so sour and dissatisfied all the time. The Fucking Greatest Generation. I know this is relatable. Don’t you sit there and act like it’s not.