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My Grandmother - Original Writing

Decent Essays
The first time I took a risk, I was eighteen. I was sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen. A large painting of “The Last Supper” hung on the wall, next to it, rosary beads hung reverently and with care. The beads swung softly as the fan circled lazily above me. My grandmother, mi abuelita, my second mother sat in front of me. She has always been smaller than my siblings and I. Standing at below five feet, we often had to bend at the waist to hug her, kissing her cheek in welcome or in thanks. But in that moment, I had never felt so small and young because here I was about to come out to my grandmother. Here I was sitting in this small kitchen covered in Catholic imagery, her religion the most important thing to her, with the fear of wrecking this relationship..
The fear was nearly suffocating. My grandmother was a white Puerto Rican woman who has lost so much. When I came out of my mother with dark skin and curly hair, she had a strong negative reaction to that but she was no different from any other ignorant person I have met throughout my life in that regard. The fear was all consuming. My mother was there, as support, but I was told I would need to speak for myself in this conversation. I was to speak to her in a language that was denied me by my family, I was to tell her in Spanish a conversation I had countless times in English. It was a conversation I had with teachers, doctors, counselors, psychologists, religious leaders, other parents, even other family members! But
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