Losing Touch: Generational Distancing

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By Radical Rhymes

I was watching my youngest play sport this week when an older lady came to sit next to me. Initially, I was irritated. Ironically enough I was trying to write an article for RSR and the fact that she wanted to talk was an unneeded distraction.

As usual I felt torn. Should I be the good guy and just listen, or should I politely tell her that I’m busy? I chose, through slightly gritted teeth, to listen. She was not very familiar with the game but she was excited by the fact our team were going well, and she wanted to talk about her grandchildren. That softened me.

At the interval her grandson wandered over to talk to her, but he didn’t stay very long, because the team called him over to sit with them. As a kid he wanted to sit with his mates, I get that. It’s also fairly standard for young people to feel smothered and embarrassed by their older relatives. Nevertheless, it made me feel very sad.

My own experience with grandparents was, in all honesty, a tad strange. You see, I was an accident. My mum was virtually forty and my oldest sister was near twenty before I made my entry into the family. Mum thought I was the first signs of the menopause… Pregnancy was a shock for them all.

What this meant was that I didn’t have any grandparents. Well, I say that, but the truth is I had a step-grandfather. Possibly. Grampy was meant to be my step-grandad but I believe he was my real grandfather. He was a lovely man, but my relationship with him was untethered and uncertain.

That was hard enough for me, but it must have been terrible for dad. He never knew for sure who his own father was. My grandmother never told him. The myth she created was that his dad had been a senior officer in the Navy, a man just passing through. I don’t believe it, or her.
Dad looked like grampy, he had his mannerisms, and he looked exactly like my uncle and auntie who were definitely grampy’s kids.

So, why the lies? Why the secrecy? Why the cruelty of never revealing to my dad who’d fathered him? Short answer? Shame. Presenting yourself as a single mother – even in those days – was better that admitting that you’d been sexually intimate with an underage lad.

Grampy was my real grandfather, I have no doubt about it. But that uncertainty prevented me from having a closer bond with him. And then he passed away when I was only five. No input from the older generation, no softer, gentler, more patient care that I saw offered to many of my friends.

My own children had two grandmothers who they loved and who loved them. In those relationships I witnessed how wonderful they can be. They would read to them, talk to them for hours, delight in watching endless kids programs with them. Although the petty me used to resent the way my mum would look past me to see if they boys were with me, I fully appreciated the love she gave them. And how much did they get away with?

Like anything in life though, there was a cost. When both grandmothers passed away in a short space of time it hurt my boys deeply. The grief is something they are still working through, and they will be doing so for a while. You can tell them how fortunate they were to have that love in their lives, but it doesn’t really help; not in the short term. One day though, they will understand it.

So, when I see kids these days avoiding their grandparents because they are too busy, or they are embarrassed by them it hurts me. Now, I’m not blaming the kids, not remotely. This is our fault as a society. We’ve allowed older people to be regarded as a nuisance as unproductive, and as surplus to requirements.

We are frequently too focused on our jobs, our phones, on making the most of our leisure time to repay the love and care we were given as children and young people. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to slow us down, to see what’s important, that the older people in our lives, and those on the periphery, are the keepers of wisdom, that they matter.

At the end of the game the boy’s grandmother looked me right in the eye and said: ‘ I hope that they remember the little old lady that came to watch them play.’ It brought me up short, and through a lump in my throat, I assured her that he would, that they would. It was hollow though, and she and I both knew it.

Age. It gets between people; it creates barriers that should not exist. I hope, sincerely hope, that the investment that that committed grandmother makes is someday recognized. My fear is that the understanding might come too late.

Age is a stage, it’s just the turning of a page. Let’s all try to remember that.

Radical Rhymes is a professional artist working with a range of media – predominantly animal/human portraits and landscapes – including, most recently, hand painted furniture. You can see his work on Instagram Radicalrhymes1969 or on Twitter @RhymesRadical.

For commissions, please contact him on Twitter via Direct Message or by email at: radicalrhymes@outlook.com His work is also available to buy on Etsy

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