Thankful for Grandma Christine
Hello my lovelies. As we come to the end of a wonderful Pride Month, I thought I would tell the story of when I knew that being an out gay person was going to be okay. I told a version of this story when I first started writing for Dallas Voice, about nine years ago. I’m revisiting it now because, hopefully, my writing skills have improved but also for my younger audience — assuming that I have made some new fans.
My grandmother on my dad’s side was the best person I have ever known. Her name was Christine Love, and she babysat me a lot when I was little. In fact, my sister and I would spend most of the summers at her place in Mineola, Texas.
She encouraged me from a very young age to do art of any kind. She had an amazing eye for making something out of nothing. My grandpa was a trashman and would bring home the craziest stuff he could find, and my grandma would make it into something pretty that she would display in her glass cabinets. She would paint on anything from plates to beer bottles. She would make beautiful, elaborate, crochet doll dresses out of beer cans and yarn. She would repair broken things and paint them to give them a new life in her eclectic house.
Every morning when I woke up, she would rip off a big sheet of butcher paper from the bolt she had in her kitchen, lay it on the table and ask me to draw her something while she made breakfast.
While she made the most amazing biscuits and gravy from scratch, I would draw whatever I could think of. My go-to was a furry little “Cousin It”-looking critter that had sunglasses and sneakers.
Some days she would ask me what he would be doing in a jungle, so I would draw him in a jungle swinging from vines like Tarzan. Some days she would want me to draw him on a Pegasus or on a boat.
I was always a very pissy little kid and hated to be outside too long, so she would keep me busy with arts and crafts. Sometimes she would ask me to tell her a story, so I would make up complete and utter bullshit, and she would nod and laugh, always seeming interested in whatever I was saying.
She had other grandkids, but I knew I was her favorite. I was a really good kid around my grandma, because the worst thing I could think of was her being disappointed in me for any reason. But the thing I worried about the most was losing her.
Every time I prayed, my first “ask” was that God keep her safe so I could see her again. Seriously, I have such a clear memory of every time we would be in my dad’s truck, leaving my grandma’s house, I would say a little prayer to please keep her well so I can see her again.
Except for once.
It was Christmas Eve when I was in the sixth grade, and we had spent the first part of Christmas break at her place in Mineola. It was a great Christmas. With our parents being divorced, my sister and
I were selfishly looking forward to double gifts. My grandma got me a cassette player with a microphone so I could record myself (Apparently, I liked to talk). My dad got me a little television set for my bedroom, plus we got lots of toys and junk that occupied my thoughts as we drove away from my grandma’s house.
So I was too wrapped up in my “stuff’ to say my little silent prayer.
My grandma died three weeks later.
I knew the moment that she died. I was sitting in math class. The windows were open because it was a beautiful day in January. It was sunny and unseasonably warm (It’s Texas, so what does that even mean?), and a nice breeze blew into the classroom. The smell on that breeze was unmistakable: It smelled like my grandma — a mixture of the Virginia Slims she sometimes smoked, a slight whiff of something frying in bacon grease and the sweet floral scent of her perfumed soap. It was undeniably the smell of her house, but it was mostly the smell I remember when she hugged me.
I knew in that instant that she had passed.
My mom picked us up from school that day, and when we got home, she asked us to go upstairs into my room because she had something to tell us. Before she even shut the door, I said, “Grandma’s gone, isn’t she?” I just shrugged when she asked how I knew. I went on a long walk; I cried and cursed myself for not saying my little prayer.
The night before her funeral, she came to me in a dream, and we talked while sitting at her kitchen table. She told me I was going to be alright — and I was, eventually.
Since then, I still dream of her, and we sit at her kitchen table, and I ask her advice when I am at a crossroads in life.
When I was 16 and suicidal about people finding out I was gay, she told me to hang on and stop being stupid. When I was 17, and the only gay people I ever saw on TV or movies didn’t look or act like me, and I questioned ever finding happiness, she told me to hold on and watch for a sign. Three days later, while skipping school, I got the sign that I believe she sent.
I was moping around downtown Dallas, depressed. I stopped and sat on a bench at the San Jacinto Plaza water garden. As I sat mesmerized by the dancing water jetting into the air, looking briefly like people flipping and diving summersaults before disappearing into the ground again, I saw something that changed my world.
The water parted, and at a table diagonal from where I was sitting were two guys having lunch. They were both very average-looking guys. In the few seconds that the water went down in the middle but high on the sides of us, they grabbed each other’s hands, leaned forward and kissed. It was quick but I saw it, then they were hidden by the water again.
My heart leapt — not because I was seeing something I had never seen before, but because of the normalcy and the way they looked at each other. I knew in that moment that being gay was more than
I was seeing in the media. I just needed to see it in real life to know it was out there and was a possibility for me.
I am not the naïve young boy I once was, and I am not sure I believe in signs anymore. But I know with all my heart that those dreams when I talk to my grandma are absolutely real. When I pray, it is more of me talking to her and some of the other impactful people that I have lost.
My grandma Christine helped me come out. She helped me decide to be an entertainer. She gave me the okay I needed to pursue my dreams. She always told me I was going to be famous and encouraged me to find my art. If she were alive today, she would be Cassie Nova’s biggest fan. I think she would be proud of me.
I miss her every day, and I cannot wait until she visits me again.
To celebrate Pride this year, say thank you to the people that have always encouraged you to be you! Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nova