The Matriarch

When I attended my great-grandmother’s funeral, I felt guilty for how much I cried. It’s hard to be sad when you aren’t supposed to be. I only knew her for 16 years. Most of my relatives knew her for much longer. They were raised by her, in her house, surrounded by her unconditional love. 

My great-grandmother, amongst many other personal nicknames, was called “The Matriarch.” She was the mother of seven children, eleven grandkids, and ten great-grandkids. She raised her children alone, an unusual experience for a woman in the 50’s, when women were encouraged to remain within the domestic social sphere. My great-grandmother had to exist in several spheres. She was a homemaker; she made her home on East Stalker Street a home to all, not just her biological children. Anyone who stepped within the bounds of the yellow-colored suburban home knew it as a haven. 

While a man of this era would typically provide for the family he helped establish, my great-grandmother’s husband did not give her that help. She worked several jobs to put all seven of her children through private school at Incarnation Catholic School. She defied the traditional role for a woman because her husband abandoned what it meant, at that time, to be a man. 

She was well-traveled, not only living within the confining schedule of her jobs and her family, but also taking opportunities to do things for herself and travel when she could. Later, she developed a sense of cohesiveness between her travel and her home life, using it as a form of fulfillment for her and her family. 

She was also quite the socialite. While my great-grandmother was busy with her family, her career, and her hobbies, she made time for others. She made an effort to listen to people when they needed her. She extended herself to strangers because she could. All felt her love, even those who were unfamiliar with her.

Her nickname, “The Matriarch,” was deserved, but I felt that she was more than just that. She could’ve been “The Workhorse,” or “The Mingler,” or “The Explorer.”

So, as I reflect on the moment in which I stood over her casket with hot tears streaming down my face, I realize that it is okay to grieve like that. Not just because she was my great-grandmother, but because she meant much more to a larger movement. She was a force for women of her time. She went beyond the societal expectation that had been placed upon her. She provided for the people she cared about and was able to do so while immersing herself in her interests. 

I feel that while I was mourning the loss of my great-grandmother, I was also mourning the loss of a quintessential feminist figure. My great-grandmother, alongside many other female pioneers, did everything so that I could do anything.