Losing RBG Feels Like Losing My Grandmothers Again
On Friday, like a large number of people in this country, I received a number of messages made up of a single expletive as news broke that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg had passed away due to complications from pancreatic cancer. My immediate reaction was disbelief, followed by bone deep grief. Both of my grandmothers passed away in 2017, and RBG has always reminded me of them. Her resolute demeanor in the face of challenge after challenge, her deep belief in and consistent advocacy for gender equality, her no-nonsense, practical approach to life, and her wry, intelligent sense of humor kept my grandmothers alive for three years after they departed this earth, and so losing her on Friday felt like losing all three of them. I can’t imagine I’m the only person who feels this way — so I’m going to tell you a little bit about my grandmothers and what they taught me, and why RBG meant so much to me, and I invite you to share stories of your grandmothers and your tributes to RBG in the responses. I want to hear from you. Grieving is a communal activity — people gather to mourn the passing of people who are important to them. Since I cannot join the people standing vigil at the steps of the Supreme Court, I will gather here with those of you who are reading this instead.
My grandmothers were close friends — even after my parents divorced in 2002, and even though they only saw each other in person once after that. They were both from small towns (Eaton, Colorado and Sultan, Washington) and I think that sense of shared history helped bind them together somehow. They spoke on the phone every week, comparing notes on their activities and their shared grandchildren and their husbands, who were both named Earl. They asked after each other every time I saw them. They had a lot in common — and a lot of the things they had in common, they also shared with RBG.
Like RBG, my grandmothers were proud of their families — and loved them unconditionally.
My mom’s mom, Virginia Norman, had five grandchildren, and she numbered us “Precious 1–5” by birth order — and, when my mother remarried and gained stepchildren, they became Precious 6 and 7. She hosted Christmas every year, and continued to make full Christmas dinner in the tiny kitchen in the retirement community they moved to when the house became too much. When I was in college, I would pass through Colorado on my way home to Seattle to spend time with her, and I learned quickly that the only way to avoid eating myself silly was to leave a bite of everything on my plate — otherwise, I would be served more. When I came out to her in 2012, she asked me very seriously if this was “the gay” (it was “the bisexual”) and then informed me that she and my grandfather had decided a long time ago that all that mattered was whether their children and grandchildren were happy.
My dad’s mom, Betty McCormick, was an only child of an only child and so she delighted in being a grandmother of five. She attended basketball and soccer games, posed for goofy selfies, and gamely wore family pajamas every year at Christmas. She didn’t cook — but she kept gumdrops and Swedish fish in a jar in the living room and pretended not to notice how often it needed to be refilled. When my brother was struggling to learn to read, she sat with him every week while he read to her. She refused to learn to use technology beyond the TV, referring to computers as “dot-dash” machines and maintaining that she would not learn to type, because she had always dictated to a secretary — so instead, she called and wrote letters and sent Starbucks cards to get us through finals.
Like RBG, my grandmothers believed in service to others.
Throughout her life Virginia was generous with both her time and her resources, supporting single mothers who were trying to get back on their feet by paying their rent and utility bills and watching their children while they worked. As my grandfather started to fail, she cared for him herself — even managing to get him off the ground after a fall more than once, though he was nearly twice her size. In her later life dementia robbed her of her ability to recognize family members and gauge time, but it never robbed her of her instinct to care for others — to make sure we were warm enough, or that we had something to drink or eat, or that the people in her memory care facility were introduced to each other (again and again).
A nurse at the start of World War Two, Betty was declared unable to serve overseas due to her eyesight. Determined to serve, she begged to be deployed anyway — swearing she would bring as many pairs of glasses as the army deemed necessary. Denied this, she ran the Air Force Hospital in Spokane and cared for servicemen who had returned home. Later, she would mentor countless young nurses and teachers throughout her career — and through theirs, as many called her for advice well into her nineties.
Like RBG, my grandmothers valued education.
Bright and resourceful, Virginia arrived in Denver after graduating high school on the promise of a scholarship for further education. The scholarship didn’t exist, so she went home, wrangled a $50 loan from the richest man in town, found herself a job making beds in a rooming house in exchange for room and board, and paid her own way through school — and then repaid the $50. She parlayed that education into a good job, which led to another good job, and eventually into the management ranks at Mountain Bell. Later, when her grandchildren were born, their Christmas gift every year was money to put in an account to pay for college — money that paid for a large chunk of my own education.
After serving as a nurse, Betty came to believe that further education of nurses was needed. She returned to school and received a Master’s in Education, and then became a teacher and later the Director of Nursing Services and Education at St. Luke’s Hospital in Spokane. Deciding that there ought to be a four year degree for nursing in Eastern Washington, she and another nurse went to the President of Washington State University to advocate for the creation of a four year nursing baccalaureate degree. As she liked to tell it, they “stopped at the church on the way to the meeting to pray, and on the way back they stopped at the bar for a cocktail because they thought [they] had earned one” — and they had. The Nursing School at Washington State was the first four year nursing program in Eastern Washington, and celebrated 50 years in February. She received annual updates from every class she led until the day she died.
Like RBG, my grandmothers expected everyone’s best effort.
Neither of my grandmothers ever spoke of the considerable challenges they faced in any way that would even hint at complaint. Instead, they simply identified them and then identified ways to either overcome or get around them, and they expected this kind of resourcefulness and no-nonsense approach from the rest of us as well. Betty was fond of saying that there was “no way but up” to go — no matter how well or how poorly things might be going — and this influenced my own philosophy of “practical optimism”. We were expected to work hard, to do our best, and to never complain if something didn’t go our way. Instead, we they taught us to pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off, and learn something for next time.
Like RBG, my grandmothers had great senses of humor.
Both of my grandmother’s were great story tellers, and they had a wealth of stories to tell. The daughter of a farmer, Virginia rode horses bareback all over their land and cheerfully related stories of killing rattlesnakes by smacking them on the head with a piece of knotted rope to her rapt grandchildren. Betty told hair raising stories of playing on log jams and diving into the water below as the logs creaked and shifted and hilarious stories of the mischief she got up to with her pets — especially with her dog, Laddie, who caused unending chaos wherever he went. Both of them enjoyed puns, delighting in birthday cards with clever wordplay, and they weren’t above participating in the planning of a good practical joke.
Like RBG, my grandmothers understood the value of a legacy.
They kept documents and pictures and stories — the history of my family. Both of them maintained genealogical records, and albums and boxes of photos and other memorabilia. Virginia travelled widely after her children grew up and left home, and she documented everything — down to what she and my grandfather paid for dinner. They believed in the importance of knowing where you come from, knowing what the people who came before you had done and sacrificed so that you might have a good life. They believed in building things that would last — family, community, education. They taught us that it was important to stand up for what we believed was right, no matter the cost.
That is the story of my grandmothers, and of RBG.
RBG, who adored and was adored by her children and grandchildren.
RBG, who fought relentlessly for gender equality and served her country as a federal judge for much of her life.
RBG, who was a scholar and a professor, and believed that women has just as much a right to an education as men did.
RBG, who scheduled her chemotherapy sessions on Fridays so she could recover over the weekend and not miss any time in court.
RBG, who responded to being compared to the Notorious B.I.G. with a wry “that makes sense, we’re both from Brooklyn.”
RBG, who knew better than anyone the important of legacy — of her legacy, but also of the legacy of this country and everything that it stands for.
I don’t have any more words to describe the sense of loss that I’m feeling— that so many of us are feeling right now. So, in the absence of my own words, I would ask for yours. Tell me about your grandmothers. Tell me about RBG. Tell me what their legacies mean to you, and what you learned from them, and we can mourn and celebrate them together. And remember — part of the legacy of the country is its voters. Get registered. Make a plan. Make sure your voice is heard. VOTE.
