We pulled up to the bakery in a 1985 Toyota Corolla. A boxy, tan sedan with a stick shift transmission and seat belts that only went over the passengers’ laps.
It was the ultimate nondescript 1980s car. But this was the early 1990s, so it was even more obscure.
We all got out of the car — my grandmother, my younger sister and I. And as we walked to the bakery door, my grandmother gave us a friendly warning.
Now remember, kids, she said. Don’t let grandma get a Danish, cause they make grandma fat.
Instructions in hand, we walked inside. My sister chose a rainbow cookie from the display case, while I selected a black and white cookie.
For the uninitiated, a black and white cookie is basically heaven in a baked good. It’s made of cake filling and topped with hardened chocolate and vanilla icing. And as a child, I was obsessed with them.
I was salivating, imagining the taste of that sugary goodness, when I heard my grandmother’s voice calling out to the bakery associate.
And one Danish, please.
My sister and I turned to my grandmother, horrified.
Grandma, no! we called out in unison. You told us not to let you get a Danish!
My grandmother smiled back at us. I know, but they’re so good! I can’t resist.
Over the years, this pattern would play out over and over on our trips to the bakery. In fact, it soon became a running joke between my sister and I. Grandma’s going to tell us not to let her get the Danish, but still order it anyway.
This scene was my grandmother in a nutshell. Determined, yet indulgent.
My grandmother always had a sweet tooth. My sister and I would stay at her house about one weekend a month, sleeping on in our mother’s childhood room.
When we woke up in the morning, our grandmother would serve us Entenmann’s donuts — chocolate iced goodies stuffed with cake filling. She stored them in the refrigerator, which made them delightfully crisp as we took our first bite.
It was a decidedly unhealthy way to start the day. But my grandmother didn’t care. The smiles on our faces made it all worthwhile.
For dessert, we’d all have ice cream — even if the sugar kept us up past an acceptable bedtime. My grandmother loved ice cream. So it only seemed sensible to her that we’d be allowed to have it too.
These were only a few of the ways she spoiled us. She would also get us gifts and let us watch our favorite movies on VHS tapes over and over again. Her reward for all this generosity was the sheer joy in our faces.
And yet, these seemingly small gestures were far from empty for her. They represented fulfilled dreams.
I’ve written a lot before about my grandfather. My mother’s father was a World War II veteran, a renowned storyteller, and one of my heroes. Black and white photos of him in his Navy uniform adorn my home, and I continually feel his presence in my life.
But my grandmother has shaped my life as profoundly as my grandfather did. And in a roundabout way, I’ve helped define her legacy as well.
My grandmother was raised in Brooklyn during the Great Depression. The youngest of three children in an impoverished family, she didn’t have much growing up. But she did have grand aspirations for herself.
My grandmother did well in school and went on to get both undergraduate and graduate degrees. She worked for some time as a phone operator, connecting lines for phone calls in the days before automatic dialing. But she ultimately spent decades as a speech therapist in the New York City Public School system.
Even as I share this fact, I can’t help but chuckle. For my grandmother had a thick New York accent, and a knack for mispronouncing things. On trips to the zoo, my father would make fun of how she pronounced the name for a certain type of buffalo.
It’s bison, he would say. Not Bye-sawn.
Nevertheless, my grandmother did well in the role over the years.
Still, my grandmother’s greatest passion was not her work. It was her family. My mother, my sister and I represented her direct legacy — particularly when it came to education. She knew of the doors that education provided her, and wanted us to realize similar opportunities.
We never lost sight of that fact. We couldn’t.
When my mother earned her doctorate, she treated the achievement as if it was my grandmother’s as much as her own. And when my sister and I earned our undergraduate degrees, my grandmother traveled all the way to Miami and Chicago, respectively, to cheer us across the finish line.
After all those indulgences we received, it felt great to indulge her. To see the sheer joy on her face.
Several years ago, my parents and my grandmother took a trip Dallas. My grandfather had recently passed away. And while his loss was still raw, it gave my grandmother a chance to visit me in Texas — which she had hoped to do for years.
As we walked down a sun splashed sidewalk next to the Dallas Museum of Art, my grandmother implored me to continue my education.
I had toyed with the idea of going to graduate school for years. But I didn’t want to quit my job to do so. And the prospect of joining a professional program — working by day and taking classes in the evening — seemed too daunting. So, I kept delaying, and delaying, and delaying.
Now, my grandmother was calling my bluff.
A business degree would do a lot for you, she mentioned. I won’t be around forever. I’d like to see you get started.
Her words resonated. This wasn’t the playful Don’t let me get a Danish routine. This was serious.
So, at long last, I started the process. I scoped out several local business schools. I took the GMAT. I applied to schools, and I earned acceptance letters.
And a little over a year after our conversation, I started my grad school journey. My grandmother was excited, and that elation kept me going — even as I struggled to return to my old educational routines.
Then, on the first day of my second semester, I learned that my grandmother had died of a heart attack. Suddenly, my mission changed. Getting an MBA was no longer about elevating my career or making my grandmother proud. It was about honoring her legacy.
The next 18 months were as grueling as they were enlightening. But I powered through, a man possessed. And ultimately, I earned my Masters in Business Administration — with high grades to boot.
At the reception following graduation, my parents shared a word with me.
We’re so proud of you, they said. But your grandmother would be so proud of you as well.
I let the words sink in. And as I did, I thought of all I had been given that got me to this moment.
I reminisced about the sweets — the black and white cookies, the Entenmann’s donuts, the ice cream. I remembered all the gifts I’d received — the toys, books and puzzles.
All that generosity had taught me the value of sharing and of giving. And throughout business school, I had tried to pay it forward to my classmates by helping them prepare for tests and assignments.
But most of all, I considered all the time I had with my grandmother. That was the greatest gift of all. And by fulfilling her dreams, I hoped I had made the most of it.
Not long ago, my sister sent me an audio file. It was of all of us — my sister, my parents, my grandmother and myself — sitting around the dining room table, telling stories about my grandfather.
The stories were entertaining, and many of them made my chuckle. But what stood out most was hearing my grandmother’s voice again.
I miss my grandmother.
I miss her kindness. I miss her smile. I even miss her occasional naivete.
All that is gone now. Or is it?
For everywhere I look, my grandmother’s memory abounds. Whenever I pass a bakery window, come across a word she mispronounced or see my diplomas on the wall, it’s as if she’s still here.
Most of all, the principles that my grandmother espoused continue to endure. The value of opportunity. The love of learning. And the indulgence of generosity.
It’s my responsibility to continue spreading those principles. And I plan on doing so for as long as I am able.