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I nervously count down the flashing red numbers as I cross the street, I wash my hands a little too often, I like raisins and homemade marmalade, I sometimes wear saggy sweaters and silk scarves and I have willingly sprayed rosewater perfume on myself. I admit it: I have old-lady-like tendencies. If you know me well enough, you also know that both my grandmothers live with me, and being with them has shaped not only some of my habits, but also most of my character.
Let’s start with my mother’s mother: 84-year-old Azizjon (or “dear one”). Azizjon has lived with my family since I was a baby and I consider her to be my second mom. She prepares amazing Iranian food for the family and guests, constantly looks after our well-being and diligently works around the house, all despite having a severe heart condition and a past history of heart attacks.
79-year-old Obaachan (Japanese for grandmother), my father’s mother, moved from Hawaii five years ago when my grandfather passed away. Before that, other than chatting for a few minutes weekly on long-distance phone calls, I had not known Obaachan very well, but I was aware of her shy, somewhat bashful nature. However, now that she’s lived with my family for five years, I’ve discovered that she is not only a worthy arm-wrestling opponent, but also surprisingly playful.
When Obaachan first moved in with us, Azizjon strove to make her feel welcome as a new member of the house. In Obaachan’s first few months with us, as a sort of family member initiation, Azizjon orchestrated weekly “jam sessions,” which can best be described as a senior-citizen rendition of a band. One afternoon a week, Azizjon randomly pressed buttons and flexed the plastic mouth on my childhood accordion while Obaachan blew into my elementary-school-distributed plastic recorder and I attempted to play the viola decently. We were as punk as senior citizens and a chubby middle school kid could possibly be, tooting out noise that sounded like experimental polka.
Given that neither grandmother speaks English other than a few key phrases, such as “I love you” and “toilet”, we would have a good laugh making piercing melodies. But as our band days faded, the need for direct translation during conversations between the grandmothers caused me to fall into the role of envoy.
On most days, I’m delegated to rush between the two floors of my house to deliver messages from one grandmother to the other. After all, arthritis and a language barrier prevent them from scaling up and down the stairs themselves.
Bearing a bowl of freshly cooked Persian food, Azizjon will direct me downstairs from her kitchen to notify Obaachan that Azizjon has made her food, so I am forced to practice Farsi and Japanese. It literally feels like I’m traveling between different countries as I trek from Azizjon’s sunny kitchen filled with laughing Iranian guests, down to the Little Japan that is Obaachan’s room, where the television blares the Japanese news channel and sumo matches, a huge thermos holds boiled water and kanji-ridden newspapers are stacked neatly.
On other days, I am sandwiched between the two of them on a couch, and given the task of simultaneously interpreting Obaachan’s Japanese with Hawaiian pidgin/Okinawan vocabulary and Azizjon’s Farsi with Turkish tidbits, as each grandmother expects me to tell the other what is said with expectant, pursed lips.
But the grandmas exchange more than words. On many occasions, I have found Azizjon giving Obaachan a warm hug and toothless smile. I’ve also watched as Obaachan purchases Japantown confection gifts for Azizjon, politely covering her dentures with a cupped hand as she presents the gift with a slight bow. It’s beyond adorable.
Needless to say, I feel incredibly fortunate to live with my grandmothers. Through being exposed to their fragility, I’ve learned to treasure the time I spend with people. I like watching Orangutan Island and Little People, Big World with Azizjon, even though that means missing some social outings. I like watching the silly, fast-talking manzai comedy programs with Obaachan, even though I don’t fully understand the jokes (and subsequently do not find them funny at all).
While my language skills are nothing to brag about, I’ve grown more confident in my speaking abilities. Moreover, schmoozing with my grandmothers has definitely given me a greater appreciation for my language and cultural roots.
Azizjon’s daily altruistic actions — despite her age, she regularly gives up her seat for fellow senior citizens — have inspired me to be less selfish and more concerned for the welfare of other people. Obaachan’s occasional forgetfulness tendency to repeat herself has helped me to become more patient with people.
I hope that one day, I too will become a fun, kind old lady like my grandmas — perhaps a paragliding, motorcycle-riding old philanthropist, rather than a grumpy woman who yells at kids for getting near her petunias. I aspire to be as good-spirited as Obaachan or as generous as Azizjon. As much as hanging out with senior citizens may seem uncool, I wouldn’t trade living with these two old ladies for anything.
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