I decided to write something about my Grandpa Smitty that has honestly been locked away in my mind for years, because every time I really think about him, I break down and cry. And not one of those single drop tears slowly sliding down my cheek. I’m talking about curling into a cradle position, tears crashing like a thunderstorm inside my head, mumbling things like: “I wish I could have helped him” “I wish I loved him until the end”. This is about my grandfather — but it is, of course, political as well. Because what you will see is that my grandfather is simply a microcosm of everything this world produces. A Black man who grew up in poverty. Who experienced immense violence. Who tried to pick himself up and build something. And somehow did. Only to have it taken away. Some of that because of the socialized behaviors birthed into him by capitalism, patriarchy, and white supremacy — but in my perspective, far more as the result of the conditions he was brought into, alongside his family. For this piece, I am going to tell you about my Grandpa Smitty — first as I experienced him over the years. And then how I came to understand him as I matured. I hope you'll take the time to read, share, add on: thinkinginmotion.substack.com/p/smittys-boy
