From Observation to Inquiry

"The Book of 'I Love You, Grandpa'"

I thought I might just write about the development of my "writing identity" in more detail for this one. Though admittedly It's hard to think of ways to make this "multimodal", if that is indeed referring to different forms of media. I'm sure I'll get there as I write this. I think the most formative, and possibly the earliest memorable, experience with writing I had in my grade-school years was a short composition I had written about "Bob, the Computer Demon". This was just a cute way we had of referring to glitches we had with the pc, and eventually extended to every electrical appliance in the house. If I'm remembering correctly, he had a distinct fondness for our microwave. But I digress. I believe the contents were something like my sister was writing a paper on the history of corn (one of the most boring topics I could think of, her being 6 grade levels higher than I) and having to go into the paper to stop him.

The contents of the paper are largely irrelevant, and it was what you would expect from a gradeschooler. What I remember most about that paper is how good it felt to have someone else (my mother, and later my teacher) truly enjoy something I had written. It was the feeling of being good at something, sure, but it also went a little past that, into that deep human need for connection. Being at most 8 at the time, I didn't really "connect" with a lot of people on a deeper level. Especially being something of an outcast. But every time I think back on what the first instance of writing really "clicking" for me was, it always comes back to that paper.

There's only one other instance that sticks out to me like this. I think closer to middle school, I had an assignment to call a family member, and make a "book" about them. The book included mostly pictures, with little blurbs about what those photos meant, and I believe a page or two essay with a sort of "biography" about them. At the time of its writing, that assignment fully meant nothing to me other than a grade and a chance to call my grandpa, whom I adored. When I got the grade back, we sent it over for him to keep, maybe hang on the fridge, and that was the end of it. Until he got very sick.

Around that time, early middleschool, maybe late elementary, we got news that Grandpa had developed a Glioblastoma. Brain Cancer. It was stage 3 by the time they caught it, and it wasn't looking good. There were calls almost every day in the house as the cancer remissed, came back, and developed to stage 4. At one point, me and my siblings were taken to buy new dress clothes, "just in case we need them." It was that same day that we got the news. I still remember playing with my new shiny black shoes on my lap when my mother got the call. She started crying. I knew immediately what the news was without her saying anything. That illness had taken my grandfather from me. I started crying too. We hugged, and tried to release all the weight we held in our hearts out through our eyes.

I think we were already planning to go up to say our last goodbyes when the news hit, because we were driving up to New York soon after to where my grandfather had resided. I don't remember a lot of the visit. I remember seeing his face in the coffin looking so waxy. Even through my tears, I couldn't help but reach out and touch it to confirm the feeling. They had likely caked makeup on to him to combat the pallor of death. I remember afterwards, going to a pizza place across from the funeral home with my dad, and talking about the quality of New York pizza like nothing had happened. But what I remember most fondly about that trip, was something that was said to me. One of my family members recognized me by name. My little book, my micro-biography of my grandfather's life had made it's way into the hands of the nurses caring for my grandfather. They loved it.

Through this book, they got to know my grandfather and his life a little more than they would have otherwise. His time on the Port Authority, his honors for his service, the fact that he loved to build and create and tinker. How he would teach me things, and make sure I had the best possible time at every visitation. How much he loved his family. How much I loved him. When I got home, I had a letter waiting for me from the nursing staff, a picture of that biography, made of purple construction paper and bound with yarn. I didn't appreciate it like I should've at the time. I don't remember exactly, but I think it was... not irrelivant, but it didn't change the fact that he was still dead. But over the years, it became one of the most important examples to me of how writing can connect people. I hadn't even really thought of the broader implications until typing this out, but really that book wasn't about his life per-say. It was about how much I loved him. It was "The Book of I love my Grandpa". And that's all it had to be. It's the single greatest example I can think of to this day where my writing has really conveyed what I felt to the reader, and allowed them to share in that for just a little. I sit here now remembering it, my heart a little lighter, and my cheeks a little heavier.

I think this is why when I write something, I struggle to write anything less than something I've put my whole heart into. Of course I can write papers and papers for classes with strict requirements, content, and deadlines. But I don't write for myself as much anymore, if at all these days. Even this was written with the intention to just bang out an extra credit assignment at the start. But it became a little more as I continued to write. I've sent word home, asking for proof that that book existed, knowing that it's probably lost to time. But for now, as for "multimodal", I hope you'll consider the tears shed in writing, this brief look at my heart (the first in a long while) to be sufficient.