Family Legacy

She belongs to my daughter and sons, not to me. But I think of this woman as grandma all the same. When I first met her, I saw a slightly bent figure walking toward me down a dusty street in Kinindo in Bujumbura. She was dressed in typical Burundian colors, a bright green cloth covered with red and yellow geometric patterns. Her yellow head scarf wrapped around and covered her hair completely. This woman may have looked frail, maybe 70-something years old, 4 foot 9, and with sharp shoulder bones protruding from her loosely wrapped Kitenge. Still, she had a quiet strength and humor that emanated from her dark, twinkling eyes and big, toothless smile. 

I watched my newly adopted daughter embrace her grandma with warmth and familiarity even though she had been separated from Grammy for 6 years—time lost amid civil war and genocide. I listened to the two of them chatter in rapid-fire Kirundi with phrases I didn’t comprehend but with emotion, laughter, and punctuation that expressed their joy so that words weren’t needed to empathize in their reunion. 

I longed to take this woman by the hand and express my deep well of gratitude for allowing me to embrace her three grandchildren as my own and give her grandchildren the surname Swanson and graft them into my family history.  I wanted to convey how much I honored her and communicate my awe at the miracle of two family histories colliding and coalescing into one.  Our destinies were entwined in a cosmic tapestry that had been stitched together by the Master weaver who was intermingling the threads of our lives into one beautiful story.

But I had no words to express the complexity of those feelings. Instead, I opened the door of our temporary home in Bujumbura. I invited Grammy to our table to share a meal my new daughter, and I had prepared for the occasion. We heaped rice and beef stew and vegetables onto her plate in large portions, aware that this was most likely the only meal with meat and vegetables she would have all month. The typical meal for most Burundians of little means consists primarily of boiled and mashed cassava root. We handed her a glass bottle of Coca-Cola and served cake and fruit for dessert. There was no chatter or table talk during lunch. Grammy focused all her attention and energy on the plateful of food in front of her and concentrated on savoring every bite. Grammy’s smile was filled with warmth and friendliness as the meal ended.  

What happened next surprised and delighted me. Our daughter turned on the radio, and grandmother and granddaughter began to dance. The room was filled with music and peals of laughter from all of us. It was a perfect moment, suspended in my memory forever—Grandma, her three grandchildren, and their two new parents moving in synchronicity to the music, forging a unique bond as family.  

Before we said goodbye, Grammy offered a gesture of her own, a way of communicating the bond we now shared as grandmother and mother to the same children. 

Taking me by the hand, she drew me into the bedroom. Lifting her dress, she bared her leg to me. I saw a large, ugly, and scarred depression on her thigh. Putting my hand in hers, she placed my fingers on the old wound. That scar told the story of a life I could never understand. It was a story of war and a story of deep pain and loss, conflict, courage, and resilience that remained etched in her body. She had been wounded during the genocide in 1993. 

I gently touched her skin and the scar that left a deep hole where the bullets had been. I whispered to her, “I understand, thank you.” I sensed just an inkling of the pain and hardship that had been her experience but also the strength, resilience, and fortitude that remained and that are part of my children’s legacy and that I was now responsible for holding sacred and nurturing. 

Since our first meeting, I have had other opportunities to sit with Grammy and share precious moments with this woman who holds a tender piece of my heart. I’ve gifted her with other meals, photo albums of her grandchildren in their new home a continent away, new clothes, and necessities. I purchased a wheelchair for her after she was run over by a car and broke her femur. I’ve even sat crossed leg on the floor of her little mud hut and let her serve me tea out of her own hospitality.  We’ve never shared words, but we’ve shared love, laughter, and tears. Most importantly, we share a family bond, a gift I never imagined or looked for and one I will eternally cherish.