My father is an endless source of family lore; he always has a story I hadn’t heard before…

I lost my paternal grandmother at about age 9. My siblings and I stayed home, but Pop and Mom flew down to be there during her last illness. Pop’s father had passed away a few years previously: Pop and his two brothers spent time at their mother’s bedside in the hospital. She had experienced some dementia and was speaking very quietly, asking unrelated questions, but the nurses who entered periodically and adjusted things, weren’t really able to hear her.

At one point she said to her sons,
"You see this ? These nurses are ignoring me, because I’m black."
(My grandmother had fair skin, straight hair and green eyes.)
My father’s younger brother said, "Maman…I don’t think they even know you’re black. They might think you’re white and we’re your caregivers." This last he said mischievously, and Pop gave him a look.

But it agitated their mother a little, and she said loudly, "No ! this is not true !" Just then, a middle-aged black nurse came in, and my grandmother took her hand and said, with her thick accent, "I am not a white woman ! I’m a Negro just as you are ! And these are my sons !" Pop says he and his brothers tried to keep straight faces as the nurse looked at them. She patted my grandmother’s hand and said, "It’s okay, honey, it’s okay."

After the nurse left, my grandmother realized her sons were looking at her and told them,
"Well—it had to be said." Then her sons chuckled as she smiled at them.

She passed away in her sleep later that evening.

Pop says it was a sad time, of course, but those few moments
were also a gift of sorts. He and his brothers often remembered it, smiling.