Orange Marmelade
One of my 2025 goals was to publish one blog a month, so here we are! Really down to the wire on my February update. It’s still technically February in Seattle, though many of my subscribers in other time zones live in the future where it’s already March. In the spirit of following through on my goals, here’s a messy yet earnest essay. Maybe next month I won’t procrastinate so much (I will).
Orange Marmelade
My body knew the grief before my brain knew. Monday morning as I was spreading peach preserves on toast, I started tearing up. The jam reminded me of the orange marmalade my grandpa used to put on his toast and grandma’s homemade brown bread at their kitchen table in Niles, Illinois. I had grown to think of orange marmalade as a symbol of grandpa. The memories of my grandparents still feel so vivid in my mind, though I haven’t stepped foot into that kitchen in years. It’s someone else’s home now. I looked at my Apple Watch—February 24th. Then I broke down into sobs. It’s been exactly 8 years to the day since he passed.
If it feels like I’m always writing about grief that’s because I am. It’s not like I’m the first person in history to experience aging and loss. But for some reason I always feel compelled to put pen to paper (or fingers to keys, I guess) whenever the feelings creep up. Maybe it’s precisely because I’m not the only one who experiences it. Maybe because it’s a universal truth that will always connect us. I wish I could remember the exact quote and where I read it, but I recently read something to the effect of, ‘people don’t die until you’ve stopped talking about them.’ There’s an Ernest Hemingway quote about how every man dies twice, and that’s the same concept, but doesn’t evoke the same feelings of comfort that I’m after. I guess my hope is that by writing about my loved ones, it keeps them alive a little longer.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the sacrifices my grandparents made for our family, on both my mom and my dad’s side. Specifically, I wish I could go back in time and have a conversation with my dad’s parents and ask them more about their move to the U.S. from Ireland. I wonder how difficult it must have been to move across the world, away from everything they’ve ever known, to start a new life. What did they hope for? What were their first impressions of America? Was this life what they wanted? What I would give to have another day with them so I could hear them tell their stories again. I should have asked more questions while I had the chance.
I see the country that the U.S. is becoming and I wonder if this is not what they were envisioning anymore. They worked hard, built a great life and provided for their family—my grandpa a coal miner turned mechanic and grandma a hair dresser. They both came from humble beginnings, raised on farms in Ireland. After living in Africa, San Francisco, and then settling down in Chicago, they raised 5 kids and had 10 grandkids. My grandma was able to meet my nephew, Bennett, her great-grandson, before she passed away in 2022. I remember how excited she was for me to study abroad in Italy back in 2015 and how fondly their families spoke of them when I made the visit to Ireland to meet all of my great aunts, uncles and second cousins there. Being inside of the homes where they grew up brought up such strong emotions in me. It must have been difficult to leave it all behind.
How would they feel if they found out that sometimes I think about moving out of the States? Is that like spitting in the face of all their sacrifices? What if I pursued dual citizenship to Ireland and moved there for a while? Would it make them proud or sad? I wish I could ask them these questions. But to be frank, every day that has passed since January 20th in this country has felt like another awful plot twist in a horrible dystopian movie. I’ve been waiting for Ashton Kutcher to come out from behind a car and tell us we’ve all been Punk’d. Our future is worrisome and I know that the state of this xenophobic country hell-bent on taking away all of our rights isn’t the land of opportunity we know it was meant to be.
All of this to say, I don’t know if I truly want to move to Ireland (or Canada, or New Zealand, or fill-in-the-blank place far from here), but it’s not not on my mind. I go back and forth daily between wanting to flee before we get past the point of no return and wanting to stay here fight like hell. I mean, the National Parks System? NOAA? The National Institutes of Health? I met someone last week who works in medical research for diabetes at the University of Washington who doesn’t know if she’ll have a job next month because her work is funded by the NIH. The list of public services and Americans’ jobs that are now at risk goes on and on. But at least the billionaires can get a tax break! Meanwhile I haven’t bought eggs at Fred Meyer in months and I just got a thousand dollar medical bill for a still untreated problem with my hip and knee that started last April! I know that the responsible thing is to use my place of privilege to stand up for what I believe in. But running away is also a very tempting option.
Despite that, I’m grateful for the communities that I’m part of to help through what I know will be a tumultuous four years. I’ve been incredibly happy with my work life now that I’ve broken away from social media marketing as a service, which is making the horrors a bit less horrible. I am truly hopeful that we can all reach out across party lines to stand up against a government that is not looking out for our best interests. I’m both grieving and hoping for a better tomorrow. And I’ll keep spreading my peach preserves on my toast and fighting to make this place better.