Week 8 Day 1

When my niece was born, my sister was giving her soymilk. My grandmother was adamantly against it, constantly telling my sister, me, other members of the family, her manicurist, her orthopedist, the homeless woman in front of the 99 cent store, and anyone else who would stay still long enough to listen about my sister giving her baby soy.

One day, my sister got a phone call from my grandmother. Her tone was very serious.

“Kelly,” she started, “you have to stop giving that baby soymilk. I just saw on the news that in Japan, they give their babies soymilk and the babies heads get so big… they have to kill them. Fields of dead babies. It’s just terrible.”

My grandmother once had a catering business in the 80s, and I like to think she took her experience of mass producing lasagna and applied it to manufacturing information. To her, the recipe isn’t important if the product is good. In fact, the same product can be made a thousand different ways from a thousand different ingredients.

To her defense, she isn’t a liar. She says she heard it on the news, but neglects to cite sources. Ask her to cite sources and you’ll find yourself eating persimmons off the tree in the back, having no idea how you got there, or if you even asked a question.

My hunch is she heard all those words on the news and decided to edit them after broadcast. Maybe saying she heard them on the news is a stretch. Maybe she said them out loud. But she heard them, and that’s what’s important.

My sister told me about the dead soy baby story, and I couldn’t resist asking about it.

“Nana,” I started,” I heard you told Kelly about soy killing babies in Japan.”
“Isn’t that just terrible, Brandon?” she was almost convincing. If she didn’t have false eyelashes glued askew on her face, I’d have tried harder to read her eyes.
“And they have to kill them?” I had my concerned face on.
“I can’t even talk about it.” And she walked away, which was good, because I saw where the conversation was going and I wasn’t really in the mood for persimmons.

She’s an old pro at making up information, a skill only surpassed by her commitment to the information she’s invented. I like to think I got it from her. My information is a little more researched, but not factual. On any given holiday or family dinner, you can spot me and my grandmother in a heated discussion about something neither us have a goddamn clue about. When I start to win the argument, which is really just a battle of wills, she always turns the conversation back to God.

I’ve heard about this from friends, but they seem to have the opposite experience. My family is not very spiritual. Belief in God was looked down upon. It was a crutch. I think my belief in something greater was the result of rebellion. I could have been a missionary if I didn’t like gay sex and drugs so much.

She is adamant about her atheism, and if you don’t like it, you can go to a hell that doesn’t exist either. I’ve engaged in this debate with her for years to the point that the room empties and no one else even finds it entertaining.

Last time this happened, the conversation only lasted about 15 minutes, and she folded.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said.
And I smelled the air for toast.
Maybe she’s getting older, or I’ve worn her down over the years. Maybe she sees a little of herself in me, or she might be thinking about the end of her life and even hoping there might be something to take care of us after she leaves.

Maybe, but probably not. It’s not her style. I think she just found a new way to win.

B