How grandma’s eccentricities taught this Iowan to embrace his disability
Editor's note: Blake Carlson first told this story on stage at the Des Moines Storytellers Project's "Growing Up: Celebrating family and culture." The Des Moines Storytellers Project is a series of storytelling events in which community members work with Register journalists to tell true, first-person stories live on stage. An edited version appears below.
If by chance you found yourself in Spencer, Iowa, on a Saturday night in about 1982, you might stumble upon a brown Monte Carlo "scooping the loop" on Grand Avenue.
But this car wasn’t full of teenagers, this one was full of women — or shall we say queens — in their early 40s, and the one in the driver’s seat was my grandma.
They were likely on their way to snoop on the call they heard on the police scanner. And that was after grandma glued the tip to the bar top at happy hour laughing as the waitress tried to peel it off.
But the best was at the end of the night, calling for a ride by greeting the person on the other end of the line with: “Did I dance on any tables? Did I shoot out any lights? Jose Cuervo you are a friend of mine."
My grandma never really grew up. She moved from her parent’s house to her husband’s house. The first time she lived alone was the day she got divorced. She was unapologetically herself — a free spirit.
And people in a small town really didn’t know what to do with that.
Grandma dedicated her time to me
I wouldn’t come along until 1998. I have a few cousins who came first, but being almost 12 years younger, I would quickly become the favorite grandchild.
Grandma traded her brown Monte Carlo for a purple Cavalier and scooping the loop for the kindergarten pickup line. And instead of her girlfriends in the car it was little 'ol me peering over the dashboard.
Late nights at the Eagles club became Friday nights in the Walmart clearance section, her arms leaned against the cart like the edge of the bar top, with me about four feet tall, stumbling in her shadow as I hauled her 20-pound oxygen tank on what was for her a leisurely stroll, and for me an Olympic heavyweight competition in front of the $1.99 Tupperware.
Little did I know these excursions would secretly prepare me for life in the real world.
My grandma was tough. Her husband was an alcoholic, and she struggled with her own vices too. She started carrying that oxygen tank when she was only 58 years old.
Part of carrying on the way she did was being able to face the bad times with just as much confidence as the good times. She passed that mentality on to me.
Around the time I was born I experienced a pediatric stroke. Everyday things like eating, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, tying my shoes, writing and typing had to be adapted because my right hand and fingers don’t have quite the motor function I need to complete these tasks.
Intense therapy has been part of my normal routine practically since the day I was born. And, while carrying grandma’s oxygen tank on a funeral dirge through the aisles of Walmart did work my grip strength, it was her outlook that was healing for my young soul.
She taught me how to adapt gracefully
I learned not to use my stroke as a crutch — that meant figuring out how to adapt to any situation before asking for help.
Do y’all remember the classroom pencil sharpener? I’m not sure if you’ve ever noticed, but the sharpening handle is always on the right side. What that meant for me was crossing my arms, holding the pencil in my right hand, and winding the sharpener with my left hand without looking like a contortionist at the circus in the middle of my 5th grade math test.
It was in these moments I thought of grandma — and still do — confidence is key in the good times and the bad.
She never really had a profound way with words about how to get by. It was more of just sitting in her big floral armchair looking at me saying: "Well, what are you going to do about it?”
More: Too American or too Asian? How this Iowan learned to love all sides of herself
And it was at that point my emotionally frustrated young mind usually took her oxygen cord, gathered it up in my hands, and squeezed it as hard as I could just to see if she noticed. And she usually did.
By the time I was in middle school, I was coming to terms with something else, I’m gay. A fact I buried deep inside, living in a silent anguish as I navigated the world at the intersection of my two identities. I couldn’t muster the courage to tell my friends I was gay. I hadn’t told my grandma either.
Her impact lingers long after her death
As I got into high school, grandma also started to become disoriented as her health slowly declined. I now was helping take care of her. But what neither of us realized at the time, she was still taking care of me, too.
Being different wasn’t something you did in a small town and being with my grandma gave me a sense of confidence and comfort I needed. I’d spent my life adapting to my stroke, I should’ve been ready to handle coming out too — but this one wasn’t so easy.
Grandma’s spirit and light slowly faded, but she kept a little ounce of the good times through her final days. There was one hospital room right next to the nurse’s station that had this big window so they could monitor her. But she was really the one monitoring them.
Grandma was convinced the staff wasn’t paying enough attention to her, so she flipped the bird to every nurse, doctor and aid who walked by her room until they stopped to ask if everything was okay. To which she responded: “Yeah?...I’m fine?” Only to continue giving them the finger after they left.
She died peacefully in her sleep. Though I think she would’ve preferred to make more of an exit.
She never did know I was gay, but I also never had a partner of any kind the entire time she was alive so I’m pretty sure she might’ve guessed. I’m not sure what exactly she would’ve said, but I can only think it would’ve been something to the tune of “well, what are you going to do about it?”
When we picked out her gravestone, we tried to capture her memory the same way she ended each night way back when — with Jose Cuervo. Grandma’s infamous phone call lyrics are etched in stone for eternity: “Did I dance on any tables? Did I shoot out any lights?"
In the years since grandma’s passing, I’ve had a chance to reflect on our relationship —and that’s what brings me to this stage tonight. It was a long road to get here — for so long I felt trapped into this feeling of who I should be, not who I am.
But tonight, I stand before you as an out, proud queer person and a fierce advocate for the disability community.
Last year, I got this tattoo on my right arm in memory of her. It’s based on the lyrics of Tanya Tucker’s "Delta Dawn," a song that reminds me of growing up at grandma’s. It’s a woman holding a suitcase amongst some faded flowers. When asked about the song, the songwriter said: "My mother had always lived her life as if she had a suitcase in her hand but nowhere to put it down.” I can’t think of a more accurate description of my grandma. It serves as my reminder to never lose her spirit and find confidence when the good times turn bad.
Linda Carlson was born Aug. 5, 1943 and died Sept. 24, 2015. She was one of the toughest and funniest people I’ve ever known.
But more than anything, she taught me to have the audacity to stick out in this world. To be authentically and relentlessly me.
ABOUT THE STORYTELLER: Blake Carlson is a 23 year old originally from Spencer, Iowa, whose friends would like him to learn another song on the harmonica besides "Piano Man." He loves wedding dances, rye whiskey, Brandi Carlile and ranch dressing. Inspired by human connection, Blake enjoys learning from people who are way cooler than him and wishes he looked better in a bolo tie.
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This article originally appeared on Des Moines Register: Unconventional grandma taught this Iowan to embrace his disability
