Mother’s Day Reflections from A Grandmothered Femme Who Chose Death Over Calling Ava

I have been estranged from Ava for longer than I was ever in her care, given that she left me with my grandparents in Trinidad during my early childhood to pursue dietician training in New York City, but the way the Trinidadian Facebook Rumour Mill likes to state I only ever get one mother, so I should cherish her, it is clear they need a reminder that Ruby Goorahoo raised me.

My grandmother is why I am still here, and few things give me as much comfort as the idea of being reunited with her when I can no longer afford to be here tomorrow in the event that there is some blissful afterlife that awaits. 

Ruby did not always understand me, especially as I entered my teenage years, soon after which, we settled on Turtle Island, but she never stopped loving me unconditionally, and for that, I will remain eternally grateful for her. 

I am unclear about all the details of how my grandmother became disabled in my childhood, but I know that she had experienced multiple heart attacks and strokes before I even turned 9, which limited her functioning, but never her grandmothering, as I was in her care from my birth until her final breath while enjoying a nap in between wrapping holiday presents in December 2004.

Although I never heard her identify as disabled even once in my lifetime, she had lost a great deal of usage of her right arm and right leg with her first stroke, which is why she had taught herself how to write with her left hand.

By the time she had joined us on Turtle Island, she had already had a triple-bypass surgery, while continuing to manage high blood pressure, diabetes, etc., and within a few years, kidney failure, which required peritoneal dialysis.

In case you are unfamiliar with the Trinidadian Facebook Rumour Mill, it is a collection of pumpkin-vine relatives who consider themselves exceptionally skilled at sharing opinions regarding how the fuck I live my life. 

When my grandmother would balk at any suggestion of Ava pursuing a romantic relationship after her divorce, I used to disagree with her perspective (that we only got one shot at love, and she had chosen poorly), but having seen how she chose a man over her children shortly after Ruby's passing, I have wondered if my grandmother just had more context than I did. If familiar with how my abusive ex has endangered my ability to afford to exist, you know I would never have chosen so poorly if given the ability to make an informed choice regarding that relationship, but life is not fair, as I know well.

Instead, when her attempt to manipulate me failed, she said that it was her house and therefore her decision. And she was right, as I would come to save her house's phone number as "Hellhole" in my Contacts list within days of when his shoes 1st appeared in the front closet of her house, earning him the title of Mr. Man, given that she never even bothered to introduce me to him.

If you have read my 1st 2021 essay published by CCF, you may be familiar with this flowchart that details what happens to women of colour when we bring forward issues, but I was 1st discarded by Ava long before white supremacy:

Over these decades, Vishnu, my other pathological liar of a parent, has tried to convince me that Ava felt sorry about her fuckery. But when I did something I have long said I would die before doing, i.e., reaching out to her for financial assistance, with the help of a social worker friend last year, Ava proved she was still an epic failure at mothering by threatening my friend, and using my desperate circumstances following my ex's financial abuse for a power trip, by insisting that I call her, as if I have not required blood pressure medication to manage the stress of dealing with her since she had to be removed from the the ER by security staff for harassment following my 2007 car collision,  which is how I ended up with a broken wrist, sprained ankle, totalled car, and nowhere to live. After a friend's family took me in following abandonment from Vishnu's mother and all his sisters, Ava would weaponize my queerness against me, as she called my friend's dad at his job, claiming that she and I were in a lesbian relationship in a vindictive attempt to get me unhoused. Ava told relatives that I would finally act gratefully when she let me back into her house after making me suffer, so I often wonder if all my adversity over these decades have come directly from what she most desired for me in 2007.

After Ava showed up at my friend's home, where she threatened her mother, I spent my 22nd birthday in dire pain, taking what felt like the most circuitous journey in numerous connecting flights to New York City for refuge at my aunt's home, as Ava's most hated sister turned out to be the only family I could count on, so I stayed with her that summer while my left wrist healed in a cast.

Just as my grandmother did her best to teach us about Hinduism during her life as part of parenting us, she imparted countless insights about how to live in a righteous manner, and I am undoubtedly certain that she never included "making one's firstborn child suffer" the way that Ava has epitomized over my lifetime, likely due to her uninterrogated biases about who I may resemble. 

Having exhausted most of my retirement savings since Ava pulled her latest power trip, I have continued to try to find paid work, while coming to terms with the reality that I may need to resort to a medically assisted death due to my inability to afford to live in the aftermath of $183,364+ in financial abuse at the hands of my ex, alongside constructive dismissal from the medical-industrial complex and the academic-industrial complex over the last decade, which has all further disabled me, which few likely understand as well as Ruby. 

In my grandmother's case, it was not white supremacist workplace trauma from the medical-industrial complex and the academic-industrial complex that disabled her, but I feel certain that my grandfather's repeated violations of their marriage over decades likely contributed to her health issues, just like my ex's exploitation of me over 6.5 years further disabled me. 

Since my grandmother's passing over 2 decades ago, I have reckoned with how stigma limited her ability to identify as disabled and honour her access needs, as I work to do better for myself as I know she would want that for me. In stark contrast, Ava may have wanted my suffering from the 1st time folx back home commented that I looked like I was her most hated sister's baby, rather than hers, given how my complexion mirrors my aunt's in NYC, while Ava's skin tone likely contributes to traumatizing experiences, due to colourism.

By last May, when a writer who I still considered a friend (before he showed himself to be an opportunist), expressed an interest in a supportive BIPOC Mother's Day space that did not restrict any gender, I hosted one the next day, using the slide deck below, so I am sharing it in case any folx may benefit from engaging with these literary links and writing prompts to get through Sunday:

As planned, I presented a free virtual Disability Justice 101 webinar last week for the American Library Association’s Social Responsibilities Round Table's Health Equity in Action Summit, for which, the materials can be accessed below:

I am also re-sharing my memoir essay, Goodbye to Grims, which was 1st published in the Bronx Memoir Project: Volume V in 2021, as a tangible way of remembering Ruby Goorahoo, the disabled grandmother who raised me: 

Time: Approximately 730AM

Location: Home, not yet called the Hellhole

Had I known it would be the last time I would see my grandmother alive, I would have done everything differently that morning. But I barely looked at the woman who raised me as I frantically threw together and devoured breakfast before rushing out the door to my hospital job.

That morning, I am uncertain if I said even one word to Grims, the nickname I had the audacity to give her when she lost more and more of her cheerful demeanour, as her health steadily declined. Instead, I remember Ava saying, “You will never lose weight eating so irresponsibly!” 

Despite abandoning me in another country as a child when deciding to pursue post-secondary studies, Ava always had such a way of making her disapproval known, as she heaped spinach onto my bacon and toast that morning, along with an overflowing serving of unsolicited judgmental feedback. Decades had passed since she last practised as a dietician, yet Ava still thought that training gave her licence for unfettered fatphobia, packaged as care for a daughter. 

Time: Approximately 1030AM

Location: Intensive Care Unit, Peel Memorial Hospital

I answered the ICU phone as part of my usual clerical duties, and was surprised to hear that an aunt of mine was at the hospital looking for me. My mind automatically went to my paternal aunt who was pregnant. 

I looked around the nursing station for the Charge Nurse to let her know I needed to take a break. I imagined how staff in the Child and Maternity Unit would let me visit my labouring aunt freely as I used to work in that department. 

As I tried to find the Charge nurse, I reflected on my aunt’s joy over securing a white husband. Back in 2005, it was easy to envision my role as the older cousin to this forthcoming biracial child, as I was not yet critical enough of white supremacy to grasp the unadulterated fuckery that was Bruce’s “Pelau” nickname for my aunt! Now, I would demand a lot more answers from any colonizer who felt it was cute to call a brown woman by the name of our signature one-pot Trinidadian dish of rice, chicken, and vegetables, infused with flavourful coconut milk.

My blood boils thinking about that, but back then I still believed that white folx could be easily trusted, likely as a result of the debt of gratitude demanded of newcomers settling on this colonized land. In fact, decades later, I even have a lot less love for that aunt who would abandon me following the car crash that left me with a broken wrist, sprained ankle, and nowhere to live. 

Upon entering the Child and Maternity Unit, I was met with facial expressions of surprise by old coworkers, who assured me that they were not expecting a labouring patient from Emerg. As I desperately made my way there, worry fuelled each ominous step to the ER. 

Time: Approximately 1045AM

Location: Emergency Room, Peel Memorial Hospital

I walked into Emerg to find my maternal aunt, Jenny, muttering, “I don’t want you to be cold in this strong hospital air conditioning” over my grandmother’s ever cooling dead body, while placing winter gloves on her hands, and lovingly caressing her arms.

As the oldest grandchild, I went into problem-solving mode immediately as Jenny was not fit to pick up the children from school, so I insisted on getting them and internally composed a gentle revelation of our grandmother’s passing as I walked briskly to my car and later drove to them. 

I would be lying if I said that I recall the drive to that elementary school well, but I obviously made it there. I was met with confused reactions from my sister and cousins, and peppered with questions, as they had not expected me to pick them up that day. I thought it best to have this conversation in the privacy of my parked car as I struggled to maintain my composure. 

I looked around at these young children’s faces, and I was grateful to at least be an adult according to Canadian legislation as I processed this loss from which I may never recover. I could not imagine grappling with such a void while still in single digit years of life, like them. 

I know now that I should have taken a mental snapshot of their innocence, as none suspected the devastating news pursed upon my lips, while they absentmindedly shared updates about their morning of learning that I had just interrupted. In, went the deepest breath I could muster, as I explained that I needed to tell them something. Thinking back to this moment now, it all happened in their last week of school before the Christmas break, so they likely expected some jolly news from me, but instead I managed to let them know that our grandmother was no more. 

I cannot recall the questions I answered from their little voices, but I know that I did my best to balance their need for comfort alongside my own gut wrenching grief. Holding back tears, I internally reminded myself that my grandmother expected me to support them unconditionally, much like she always loved me, even when she did not understand me sometimes. As is often placed on racialized children of immigrants, I too outlined large expectations of these small children to be strong for their mothers, who would probably process this loss in different ways. I did not know then that my own mother would use bereavement to justify a second abandonment of me, while I reconciled this death of the most supportive maternal figure I had ever known.

If able to contribute to my survival following my ex's financial abuse of at least $183,364, which further disabled me, alongside white supremacist workplace trauma, e-transfers within "Canada" may be sent to krystaljagoo@gmail.com and funds may be sent via PayPal below, so please consider supporting me! 🙏🏾

BTW, on the off chance that you are looking for a gifted equity practitioner and educator for virtual services like writing, facilitation, and consulting, you are welcome to peruse my CV below, and explore paid services here.