Grandchildren are amazing…such a gift. I feel truly fortunate to be a grandmother. And I cherish my identity as their Nana. Being a grandparent is so different than being a parent…so wonderfully different. Parents bear some responsibility for how their children turn out…the kind of adults they become. Of course, that path is skewered by stupid free will. Right?! Kids making their own horrible choices despite their parent’s best efforts. No parent can be completely responsible for the trajectory of their child. It is way too much of a crap shoot. I often felt like I wasn’t raising my kids as much as just hanging on for the ride. And it was a ride.

But a grandchild. That is a whole different ballgame. You aren’t responsible for raising another child. You are responsible for loving a child. That’s it. That’s the grandparent game. Just love them…and spoil them, of course. I have an almost impossible time telling my grandchildren no…and they know it too…the little fuckers. Gotta love ‘em. It seems like “no” should not be in a grandparent’s vocabulary.

I love all my grandchildren. They are each special and unique. However, any honest grandparent will admit there is something special about the first one. The one that bestows the role of grandma or grandpa…or Nana, upon you. This miracle that came from your own baby. Your baby had a baby! Remember them growing up? It is miraculous! The person you raised and hoped would turn out to be a good human being and helpful member of society, has created another human being…a gift for you. A grandchild.

Now my first grandchild, Jovi, just turned 18. That’s amazing. Time does indeed fly, but I won’t digress down that rabbit hole. At least not today. My daughter was 20 when Jovi was born. His official name is Javon Richard. I suggested Javon for his name. I got the idea from Javon Walker, a former wide receiver. I’m not sure my daughter wanted my help but I thrust it upon her. Richard is his uncle’s middle name and his great uncle’s first name. I was lucky enough to be my daughter’s labor coach and to be present when Jovi came into the world. I was the first person to hold him after his mom…seemed only right she should be first.

There he was all pink and precious. Not crying. Just looking around, taking it all in. He was so tiny. Babies feel so delicate. He felt delicate…like he could easily break. I held him so tenderly. I watched as the nurses washed him up and diapered him. Being born is a messy business…lots of gunk. The nurses, who work with newborns every day, did not consider him as fragile. I had to refrain from asking them not to break him…which of course they did not.

I could not get enough of that baby. That beautiful boy. My grandson. My first grandchild. I spent my second night in the hospital with them so I could help my daughter. Really it allowed me hours to hold him while she slept. I was smitten. It was impossible to put him down. So, I didn’t.

I was also fortunate that my daughter and that beautiful baby lived with me at the time. I spent the first several weeks sleeping in my recliner with him snug on my chest. I would get up during the night after she nursed him and I would take him so she could rest. We would cuddle on the recliner until morning. Fueled by the love of this tiny human I suddenly did not need sleep. That time was precious to me. It was our time to bond. And bond we did.

We are very close. Jovi, and his mom, lived with me for the first two years of his life and then he spent many years asking if they could live with me again. He would give me different scenarios and ask if they could live with me then. For example, if they were suddenly homeless. I am grateful he did not have the power to make any of those scenarios happen. He also offered to live with me without his mom…he would visit her of course.

For my birthday one year he gave me a ring. I told my wife that I was pretty sure I was now engaged to my grandson. He was 6 or 7. It is gloriously indescribable to be loved so completely. I knew how much he loved me, and he knew my love for him. We both still know…even though he’s a man now…a young man. He graduated from high school in May. He is a young man, and he is a good man. My beautiful boy.

When Jovi was 8 or 9 a neighbor called the police and told them a child was outside with a gun. The police came to find him outside with an orange toy gun. Hard to see how an orange toy was mistaken for a real gun. I am grateful that officers did not arrive with guns drawn. I am grateful that they did not shoot Jovi…like they did Tamir Rice. Just the thought horrifies me. I’m not sure what people are thinking when they do things like that. I have my theories, but I shall keep them to myself…for now.

A few nights ago, I got a phone call in the middle of the night…here on the east coast, not quite in Colorado. Jovi was on the phone and terribly upset. He clearly was angry about something. I had him take a couple of breaths and tell me what was going on. And this is what he told me…he had been waiting for the light rail in Denver, on the campus of the Community College downtown. When the train came, and he was trying to board, two police officers stopped him and said they wanted to talk to him. He agreed to talk to them but asked them not to touch him. Because, after all, he was not doing anything but sitting on a bench. Jovi repeated his request a second time and in response the officers grabbed him, handcuffed him, and pushed him back on a bench.

Jovi does not trust the police. That’s why he didn’t want them to touch him. Maybe I don’t even need to say this…Jovi is black…bi-racial. He has reasons not to trust the police. He called them once for help when a man was threatening him…a white man. When the police came, they let the white man go, kept my grandson, and interrogated him about what he was doing to upset that man. It was the white man who threatened to beat up my grandson. He was 16 at the time.

As Jovi was sitting on the bench, he asked the police if he could call his mom, his uncle, or his lawyer. He doesn’t have a lawyer, but the request was enough that any questioning should have stopped immediately. The officers had taken Jovi’s phone and would not allow him to use it. He called out to a woman passing by and asked her to call his mom. Please. He yelled the number to her, and she called. Thank God she called. My daughter got on the phone with the police.

My daughter is not an uninvolved parent. She is hands on. She knows her kids and she is involved in their lives. And they trust her. Jovi trusts her. She found out that these officers were campus police, not the Denver police. But please be clear, they had guns. They said that Jovi matched the description of a suspect they were looking for…and that detailed, specific description? Hispanic male, white shirt. So, Jovi is black, and he always wears a hoodie, black or red…no white shirt. While my daughter talked to the officer, he changed the description of the suspect to match Jovi perfectly. After 45 minutes, they finally admitted it was not him they were searching for. They removed the handcuffs and allowed him to leave. My daughter got badge numbers and names. She will file a complaint.

Fortunately, it is only a complaint to file and not a funeral to plan. That thought and the sound of my grandson’s voice on the phone created a rage in me that I have never felt before. I was on fire. This was an explosive anger that made me want to lash out. To threaten someone with severe consequences if they touched my grandson again. I wanted to unleash a fury I did not know I was capable of.

I consider myself a peaceful person, but I was boiling inside. I wanted to hurt the people who hurt my grandson. But I did my best to remain calm and balanced in my tone. Careful with my words. Jovi was already angry. He was angry, sad, and confused. All the overwhelming feelings brought him to tears. He could not understand why that happened to him. He asked me why the police would do that to him when he wasn’t doing anything but waiting for the train. I could not…and can not answer that for him.

I felt devastated that this happened to my grandson…my beautiful boy…well, man. I was heartbroken for him. And I had my own questions. Is this really where we’re at in this country? Still? Have we not evolved at all? Have we learned nothing from the past? Has nothing changed since George Floyd? Michael Brown? Manuel Ellis? Breonna Taylor? Stephon Clark? And we all know I could go on and on and on…sadly. It’s horrifying.

As I went over this situation in my mind, I wondered what it is that makes a man want his mother in a moment of total helplessness. Jovi wanted his mom. George Floyd cried out for his mom. Now this situation was not the same. But then George Floyd’s situation wasn’t either, until it was. Maybe it’s a longing to be safe in the arms of the woman who carefully carried you within her own body for 9 months, protecting you to make sure you entered the world healthy and whole. That is a powerful bond. Perhaps it’s this powerful force that’s yearned for in moments when the world seems out of control. The woman you know would do anything for you. Anything to protect you and keep you safe. And she did…my daughter did. She was there on the phone until Jovi was released and safely on his way home to her.

My grandson was traumatized that night waiting for the train. I’m sure he has PTSD. That experience strengthened his distrust of the police. It’s hard to teach someone that the police are here to help you when they never have. When all they’ve done is hurt you. How do you trust anyone when they have given you no reason to trust them? When their actions betray your trust? Betray you? When will we wake up? Do we remember that the policing force began as a means to catch and return runaway slaves? How can a system founded on racism not be racist? It was designed to pursue and capture black people. When will we see that the whole system has to change…we need a new system. Because this one is not working. It is fundamentally flawed. If you doubt me, google innocent black people killed by police officers. You will find more evidence than you would ever need…overwhelming evidence.

I am grateful my grandson is alive and well. I wish I could believe this would never happen to him again, but I don’t. He must learn to be passive with the police to survive. What the absolute fuck?! He cannot question the police or tell them no if he wants to live…and live free. It is confusing, sad, and infuriating. As my grandson, and all my grandchildren, were growing up I talked to them about fairness and justice…right and wrong. I told them that if you do the right things, you won’t get in trouble, and you will be safe. But that is a lie. I taught them a lie. Because you can do the right thing and end up in handcuffs because you look suspicious…meaning you are black. Bi-racial. Brown. All my grandchildren are bi-racial. What will happen to them as they get older? I am afraid to think about it.

As I get older, I realize I don’t know many things…really know them. What I do know is that love is the most important thing. What really matters is how we love people. Love is a genuine desire for another person’s well- being. A deep affection for someone. It involves care and respect…concern…trust in a person’s integrity and inherent worth. Seeing value in other people. Seems simple but we suck at it as a society.

We allow fear to run our country and our emotions. If you look different, are a different race, religion, if your body doesn’t function like mine, you express yourself in a way I don’t understand, or you love differently than me then I fear you. We fear difference rather than embrace it. We like sameness…but only certain sameness. The white, male, wealthy, Christian sameness. That is where the power lies…that is where the love lies. Where we place our admiration. That is what we value.

But couldn’t we change? Couldn’t we expand our thinking, become more accepting…choose to befriend people with differences rather than reject them. Couldn’t we be better…be more…the best versions of ourselves. We are capable of so much more…so much more than what we see in our society now…what is happening now. We seem to have lost the ability to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes…to show compassion, kindness, understanding…to treat others as we want to be treated.

I know I do not want to be accosted and handcuffed when I am sitting on a bench waiting for a train. Screaming for a strangers help because I am alone and terrified. Do I care if it happens to someone else? I better. We better. Do I turn a blind eye as long as it’s not me…or my grandson. Perhaps that is a starting point. Taking my focus off of just me…what’s best for me and my family. Forgetting the billions of other people who inhabit this country and this world with me…with us.

I know this, if it happens to them, whoever them is, it can happen to me…and you. And if we don’t believe that, we have not been paying attention. Love demands that we turn our focus to others. That we care. Love demands the truth. And we have some truth facing to do here.

Now I am not asking anyone to do anything that I am not doing myself. Searching myself. I have a lot of questions and so much to learn. Where there’s injustice love demands transformation. Seek justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly. Let’s all do that…seek justice, give mercy, be humble. Recognize we don’t have all the answers. But we can care more, offer kindness, compassion. Let’s open our minds and our hearts…because in the end all that matters is how we love people. Let’s not fail at our most important job.

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