Until a few hours ago, I only knew a few things about my late grandfather.
His name was Leon.
My grandmother feared him and ran away with my mother to escape his harshness.
He showed up at my grandmother’s new home, out of state and unannounced, and took my mother for nearly a year in hopes of urging my grandmother to return to their marriage.
While the story from point 3 prompted a lot of questions the first time that I heard it, the gist of what was shared didn’t prompt much intrigue about him as much as it led me to wonder how his choices may have impacted my mother.
However, today I learned that he used to DJ “on the side.” (Note: Those are my grandmother’s words. I have no clue what his main source of income was, though I’ll be sure to ask when I get back up.) Still, I find this particularly interesting as Zora, my oldest daughter, wants to be a DJ and started taking lessons from a friend earlier this year.
When I got my first place… over a decade ago… my grandmother gifted me my grandfather’s record collection. In the moment, I accepted them gratefully, along with an older model record player and didn’t give either much thought - let alone much play. Though I wish I had, I never thought to ask where these records were during the time that I lived with her. And now that I care to know, her memory of how she came to inherit them is hazy.
Nonetheless, I had a studio apartment in Philadelphia, my mother’s hometown, and making a home for my grandfather’s crates added some pizazz to an otherwise cramped space. It barely fit a loft bed (that was positioned just beneath a ceiling fan that once hacked my foot when I was moving too quickly), the couch beneath it, and a hightop table with two bar stools. Tucked just behind the door entering the apartment was where I set up a floating shelf that held the record player.
Years later, once I’d moved to Maryland and had a home with my husband, I inherited more records from my paternal grandfather. In addition to the ones we’ve purchased over the years, I probably have upwards of 800 records. Never mind that I likely haven’t even listened to an 8th of them. Add this fact to my recent urge to declutter our home - all praise due to Marie Kondo - and the metaphorical weight of those records suddenly starts to align with their literal heaviness.
I’ve been honing in on the skill of releasing things that don’t “spark joy,” and after getting rid of 11 bags of clothes, 28 pairs of shoes, three shoe racks, one dresser, six boxes of books, etc. - my record collection has become an eyesore.
At one point, the thought of having an extensive collection felt nice. In a “Brandi has a large record collection but she doesn’t even listen to them or truly (care to) know all the artists within it” type of way. Last night, I began sorting through the names I knew and cared to keep while sharing some of my findings on Instagram. The remarks from others and their awe at the catalog tried to dig up that old feeling. I recognize now that it’s external validation in the form of clutter/items that lie dormant in my house.
When I accepted the collection… what felt special was how they prompted a sense of connection with the person they belonged to. Owning something from a person that contributed to my becoming… someone I knew little to nothing about. Yet, over time, the records became more about clout.
In present day, neither of those feelings resonate. As someone who has been slowly discarding things that belonged to my late mother since she passed when I was 9, I’ve come to realize that the memories matter more to me than material possessions. So, today… while looking to offload some of my grandfather’s collection… as a DJ and record store owner looked through them, asking if my grandfather was a DJ and noting how great his taste was, I could only say, “I don’t know.”
But this prompted me to speak with my grandmother, who admitted to forgetting that fact, and now I find myself holding one little puzzle piece to the experiences of those before me. My reverence for ancestors and intergenerational experiences marks this knowing far more significant than any individual record. Doing away with some of my grandfather’s things has allowed me to learn a small part of his story. I am grateful for this hint at his humanity. For knowing him in a softer light, even if in a seemingly trivial fashion.
I can’t help but wonder if he’s in the afterlife watching Zora, who knows even less of him than I do, as she taps her foot to the beat, eager to blend two songs during her DJ lessons. For all the love my husband and I have for music, I wonder if my grandfather is looking down at her and smiling… seeing a small part of himself that I didn’t even know was there.