You girls could be the president
Here's how 16 humble words from one enigmatic guy made the truth self-evident.
In 1985 in a scrappy Texas town, my grandmother began assembling a memory book for me, and another for my cousin Michelle, stuffed full of remembrances and photos. A lock of auburn baby hair tucked inside a baggie, a recipe for goulash. And a handwritten note from my grandfather, barely legible: “I surely believe that either of you girls could be the President of these United States.”
I was 14 years old at the time, and Granddaddy’s inscription of grandeur struck me as a little odd, a little sweet, a little delusional. It’s taken decades for the weight of his words to fully register. I’m pushing 40 now, and my grandfather died recently, just days before I gave birth to my son, his namesake. These days I properly drop my jaw in wonder at Granddaddy’s parting lines in my memory book. Given the messenger and his context, the message is nothing short of astonishing.
He left school years too early and grew up too fast, supporting a mother and three sisters after his alcoholic father abandoned the family. My grandfather served in the Pacific as an enlisted Marine in World War II, married my teenage grandmother, then worked himself to the bone in the composition room of the Wall Street Journal’'s printing plant in Dallas. A good ole’ boy outfitted in a bolero tie and cowboy boots, he hunted and fished and smoked Marlboro Reds. Loved his country. But never, ever talked politics.
Granddaddy had a secretive nature and a devilish streak that now and then hinted at rage and disappointment barely contained. He had a huge bellowing laugh and occasionally a sharp tongue. He was utterly uncomfortable with emotion. He made no secret of having wanted sons and grandsons, but got a heap of girls instead. Derisive generalizations about women – though often framed as harmless jokes – were commonplace. He was, as my grandmother once put it, “the original sexist pig.” Not exactly on the front lines of the women’s liberation movement.
Yet, when given the opportunity to write anything – anything at all – to us, his eldest granddaughters, to remember him by, granddaddy wanted us to know we could become president.
“I surely believe that either of you girls could be the President of these United States.”
Despite all evidence to the contrary. He apparently believed we could. Despite gender; despite bent and broken family trees; despite utter lack of privilege, resource, and pedigree. Despite historical precedent. He wanted this strange and unexpected note to be his one written message we looked back on long after he was gone. The only written words he found important enough to leave us.
But roads diverge. Sweet Michelle, the bookworm and piano prodigy, my first best friend, died a drug addict at the age of 31. She broke our hearts. And though I’ve had my minor victories, professional and personal, I’m no presidential contender. I’ll never wield the kind of power in the world that my grandfather wrote about. Realities fall so short sometimes, and time is so slippery.
“I surely believe that either of you girls could be the President of these United States.”
Those words mean more to me with each passing year. In part, they’re an antidote to a GenX blasé, reminding me that earnestness counts. And Granddaddy’s profession of faith keeps me pushing to live a Big Life. Whatever that may mean. A life that would make a hardheaded working man proud of his girl. Because I can, and should, and must do that for him.
The deep effect of my grandfather’s parting message to me, now that he’s gone, is proof of the difference it can make when one man, however humble, believes. His words remind me how important it is to have equally outlandish dreams for my own daughter. There’s still been no woman in the White House, after all.
In 1985 in a scrappy Texas town, my grandmother began assembling a memory book for me, and another for my cousin Michelle, stuffed full of remembrances and photos. A lock of auburn baby hair tucked inside a baggie, a recipe for goulash. And a handwritten note from my grandfather, barely legible: “I surely believe that either of you girls could be the President of these United States.”
I was 14 years old at the time, and Granddaddy’s inscription of grandeur struck me as a little odd, a little sweet, a little delusional. It’s taken decades for the weight of his words to fully register. I’m pushing 40 now, and my grandfather died recently, just days before I gave birth to my son, his namesake. These days I properly drop my jaw in wonder at Granddaddy’s parting lines in my memory book. Given the messenger and his context, the message is nothing short of astonishing.
He left school years too early and grew up too fast, supporting a mother and three sisters after his alcoholic father abandoned the family. My grandfather served in the Pacific as an enlisted Marine in World War II, married my teenage grandmother, then worked himself to the bone in the composition room of the Wall Street Journal’'s printing plant in Dallas. A good ole’ boy outfitted in a bolero tie and cowboy boots, he hunted and fished and smoked Marlboro Reds. Loved his country. But never, ever talked politics.
Granddaddy had a secretive nature and a devilish streak that now and then hinted at rage and disappointment barely contained. He had a huge bellowing laugh and occasionally a sharp tongue. He was utterly uncomfortable with emotion. He made no secret of having wanted sons and grandsons, but got a heap of girls instead. Derisive generalizations about women – though often framed as harmless jokes – were commonplace. He was, as my grandmother once put it, “the original sexist pig.” Not exactly on the front lines of the women’s liberation movement.
Yet, when given the opportunity to write anything – anything at all – to us, his eldest granddaughters, to remember him by, granddaddy wanted us to know we could become president.
“I surely believe that either of you girls could be the President of these United States.”
Despite all evidence to the contrary. He apparently believed we could. Despite gender; despite bent and broken family trees; despite utter lack of privilege, resource, and pedigree. Despite historical precedent. He wanted this strange and unexpected note to be his one written message we looked back on long after he was gone. The only written words he found important enough to leave us.
But roads diverge. Sweet Michelle, the bookworm and piano prodigy, my first best friend, died a drug addict at the age of 31. She broke our hearts. And though I’ve had my minor victories, professional and personal, I’m no presidential contender. I’ll never wield the kind of power in the world that my grandfather wrote about. Realities fall so short sometimes, and time is so slippery.
“I surely believe that either of you girls could be the President of these United States.”
Those words mean more to me with each passing year. In part, they’re an antidote to a GenX blasé, reminding me that earnestness counts. And Granddaddy’s profession of faith keeps me pushing to live a Big Life. Whatever that may mean. A life that would make a hardheaded working man proud of his girl. Because I can, and should, and must do that for him.
The deep effect of my grandfather’s parting message to me, now that he’s gone, is proof of the difference it can make when one man, however humble, believes. His words remind me how important it is to have equally outlandish dreams for my own daughter. There’s still been no woman in the White House, after all.
posted by Sarah Masterson at 16:58
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