A death in the family

This morning I sat down and wrote a rather scathing essay on the Democratic National Convention. 

Then I heard that my aunt died, in New York, not even two weeks after being diagnosed with stage four cancer. I’m told that upon receiving her prognosis, she informed one of her sisters that she intended to stick around long enough to see Kamala Harris elected president in November.

So, out of respect for my aunt — whose love for her nieces and nephews and brothers and sisters was unmatched, except perhaps by her hatred of Trump — I’m going to hold off publishing that original essay and say this instead.

She was a hilarious, generous, and loving soul. Her family was her world, with the Yankees a close second. She was the fifth daughter born to Dot and Al Hudson, and five more kids would come along after her, all growing up during the tumult of the 1960’s and ’70’s. The devout Catholic faith held by my grandfather in particular, did not rub off on his daughters. They all rebelled to one degree or another. But I’ve never met a group of women who loved each other, and each other’s children, as much as the Hudson girls. 

Family

Of course, families being what they are, there was plenty of drama along the way. And in a family made up of seven girls, emotional conflict is bound to occur. Regina never married or had kids of her own, but made a point of spoiling us with candy, soda, trips to the pool in the hot, humid New York summer. When I was little she lived in an apartment, the roof of which she used as a tanning salon: bringing up a lounger, a copy of People Magazine, diet soda, cigarettes and a bottle of Malibu tanning oil. That’s where she’d spend her days off in the summer, turning the colour of leather. She called it tar beach. Eventually, she upgraded to a condo with a pool, so she could sun herself in style. When I was little, I’d get to enjoy the water while she tanned. When my son was little, he did the same.

Back in the 1980’s, she’d greet us kids with a big smile and tell us she had some ‘nice, nice dollahs’ that were ‘burning a hole’ in her pocket.  She introduced me to Motown, making tapes of the Temptations and Aretha Franklin that she gave me when I was 7 and my parents moved to Italy for the first time. Anytime we’d ask her, ‘where are you going Aunt Gee?’ She’d answer: “Crazy — wanna come?” And then she’d laugh her big hearty smokers laugh, and we’d laugh too. 

Me and my aunt circa 1977

Politics is a loathsome and grubby thing, good only for sowing discord among people. And in my family, as in many other American families of this era, politics has in come between brothers and sisters, parents and children. But what a waste of time and energy. I don’t care — not one tiny bit — that my aunts think Trump is literally Hitler and Kamala is some kind of special genius. Why would I hold that against them, when they are women who changed my diaper and put bandaids on my skinned knees and fed me delicious food and held me when I cried. Sometimes, when I say something particularly sassy or roll my eyes a little too hard at someone’s foolishness, I can feel their no-bullshit personalities bursting out of me. 

I can’t quite believe that my vibrant, whacky, mouthy, aunt is gone. When I was back in my family’s hometown in May, Gee Gee and I had dinner together at my uncle’s restaurant. She told me about her favourite conspiracy theory, which involved the British royal family and which sounded totally insane to me, but I just laughed and said, ‘maybe.’ I took a whole bunch of pictures, with my cousins, old family friends, and aunts. I’m lucky to have them all in my life. Why would I let something as unimportant as opinions stop me from appreciating that?

But don’t worry, Substack friends. I’ll be back to bashing the Dems on Monday.