A Brooklyn Bubby’s Advice

Dear Reader,

 

When it came to writing this essay I immediately wanted to write about my grandmother. My grandmother, Bubby, as we call her is in my mind, and of those who meet her, the ultimate caricature of Jewish grandmother from Brooklyn. Having grown up only blocks away from her, she was my parents go-to babysitter. What is so amazing about Bubby is how she manages to offend and  embarrass most people who cross her path yet at the same time manages to endear herself to them.

For this essay, I decided to write a profile of my Bubby. I began by introducing my Bubby as if she were a boxer and I were an announcer hoping to show my reader what she physically looks like, and where her priorities are (her five kids). I attempted to incorporate character development, paragraph breaks and dialogue into my essay. While I may have experimented with one too many tools I decided to go big or go home. The character I chose to develop is my grandmother, my paragraph breaks serve to provide a division between the main story and flashbacks, and the dialogue are words directly quoted from my grandmother.

Upon completing my essay I am curious as to how my readers will respond to my paragraph breaks. Do they serve as clear transitions between storylines? Also,  something which I had a little trouble with was “telling” rather than “showing”. I found myself just wanting to introduce the class to my grandmother so that in an instant they can understand her persona. So, on that note, what can be improved about my character development? And how can I better “show” my readers?

Rebecca Seidman

Cover Letter

“From the “pink room”, standing five feet tall, weighing in at 233 lbs., donning a floral “house dress” (otherwise known as a muumuu) is Lola Seidman. With five sons, three of whom are triplets, Lola (otherwise know as “Bubby” by the neighborhood’s children), currently holds the title of heavyweight matriarch of the Seidman family. Hailing from Brooklyn, she now resides in Staten Island in the very same house she raised her five boys.”

***

“Becca!”

I had just left Bubby’s house and am making my way home when I hear her shrill from the window. I’m halfway down the block, but Bubby’s voice carries. I have a cell phone and Bubby has both a cell phone and a house phone- but why waste minutes when you can just alert the entire neighborhood the old fashioned way that you have one more thing to ask of your granddaughter? I quickly turn around and run back to her house from the corner at which I’ve momentarily paused. I see her standing in the window and begin to change my pace from racing to a leisurely stroll. I figured, we made eye contact, she sees I’m coming back, there’s no need to scream. But, Bubby can’t wait.

“Becca!” she screams from up above, “I was thinking…”

“One second Bubby, I’ll be right there just buzz me into the house, you’ll tell me when I’m inside.”

I stood there. Waiting. It usually takes Bubby about five minutes to walk the ten feet from the window to the buzzer.

Once I get inside she again, screams at the same level she did when I had been half a block away.

“Becca, what are ya doin tomorra?”

***

Now, Bubby is my father’s mother. To refer to her as merely a “character” would be an understatement. Bubby is the ultimate caricature. On an ordinary day you can find Bubby, her hair swept up in a gray hollow ball on top of her head, donning one of her floral house dresses, without a bra, sitting in her pink room on her favorite maroon recliner, eating a bowl of some ivory concoction. This shade of ivory is achieved by use of one of these three ingredients: boiled potatoes, Uncle Ben’s Minute Rice or mayonnaise.

***

 

“Oh nothing, Fridays I don’t have school. Why? Do you need something?”

“Oh no, I’m baking everyone’s favorite ‘Bubby cookies’ and was wondering if you and Loop’s would want to come over and help me.”

***

“Loops”, as she is often referred to, is my sister. She’s two years younger than me and at this very moment I am praying she is available to bake with us. Not because I need a buffer to hang with my grandmother but because I need a witness.

I need a witness so that when someone asks how my day was with my Bubby and I relay to them the outrageous things that have been said, “Loops” can back me up.

Luckily, my sister agreed.

***

The next day, the two of us got to Bubby’s house bright and early. Ready to bake with our elderly grandmother. Seems cute right?

***

Well, Bubby is hardly the sweet old lady who knits quietly squinting as she stitches away and shares her good advice. Rather, Bubby is the old lady that insults, yet somehow remains totally likable.

When I was fourteen years old I walked to Bubby on a Saturday with my friend Adina. Bubby, who had had a spat with Adina’s grandmother about a year prior, turned to Adina about mid-conversation and informed her that she “didn’t like her face” and thought that she was “ugly”.

I froze.

I stood there, as my grandmother- a sixty eight year old woman, without the excuse of dementia, called my fourteen year old friend “ugly” and told her she “didn’t like her face.”

As we left Bubby’s house Adina turned to me and said, “I don’t think your Bubby likes me.”

***

Upon our arrival Bubby buzzed us in and had all of her ingredients organized on the kitchen table. We got straight to work and for about twenty minutes it was actually adorable. Bubby handed us each a yellow piece of paper she’d ripped from one of my grandfather’s old legal pads. She told us stories of her grandmother, and how it is our duty to continue to pass the recipe down from generation to generation.

She was on her best behavior.

As I poured the sugar into the mixture I saw Bubby glance over at the yellow legal paper. I knew where this was going.

***

My grandfather, had died back in 2004. Coincidentally, this is when the theatrics intensified. At first it was sad. Every time she’d pass a photo of my grandfather, she’d cry. Not only would she cry but she’d stop, even if it was in a room full of people, and start petting the photo and having a conversation with my grandfather’s photo.

It was tragic.

However, empathizing became a little more difficult when we’d be at a formal event or any event for that matter where another widow was present. After my grandfather passed we had thought it might be a good idea for her to start hanging out with other widows. We thought that perhaps they could relate to her in a way that we could not.

We were wrong.

Instead, Bubby would begin a conversation by highlighting what they had in common- dead husbands. She would quickly end the conversation by informing her “new friend” that she really doesn’t blame her for not understanding the pain that she herself had experienced because, “‘new friend’, your husband didn’t love you.”

***

So, while Bubby stared over at the yellow sheet of paper she began to tear up. My sister and I continued mixing.

“Girls, you know I loved your grandfather very much.”

“Yes, Bubby” we said in unison.

“Well, I’m giving you advice. Marry a man that loves you more than you love him.”

“Well, shouldn’t we love each other equally?” I asked.

While I disagreed with her advice, I knew this was only the start of what would be an epic exchange. So, for the sake of conversation…

“No. He should love you more. And then you’ll get anything you want. Your grandfather gave me everything I wanted and he thought it was all his idea. I would lead him down a path, making him think it was his idea- but it’s what I wanted all along.”

“And you know Becca,” Bubby added, “your grandfather and I always had sex, up until he couldn’t anymore.”

My sister and I sat there partially stunned but mostly nauseous.

“We made love all the time. Even when we hated each other. Now, that’s how you keep a man.”

So, the way to a successful marriage was manipulation, and loving your husband at least a little less than he loved you, and having lots of sex with him- noted.

How many people can say they got such candid advice from their grandmother while baking cookies?

A Bubby’s Advice