Sections

Beatrice W. Hudson, known to me as Be Be, was my great-grandmother. She was one of the strongest, and most caring people I have ever met. Born May 10, 1918, in Suffolk, Virginia, she was the oldest of 13, and played a major part in raising her many siblings. Being a black woman in the racially divided South presented many obstacles. Every day, the black minority experienced segregation and daily oppression by the white majority, yet my great-grandmother never strayed from her religion. She attended church every Sunday, celebrated every holiday and said a prayer before going to bed each night.

Growing up as a bi-racial Jew, I have struggled with my identity on a daily basis. I was raised in a predominantly white town, and attended a Jewish day school and synagogue with little diversity. “Are you Jewish?” and “What are you?” were questions I was asked far too often. People’s doubts and confusion about my religious identity made it hard to feel accepted in the Jewish community. Knowing that my great-grandmother was able to live through times where being black resulted in beatings and deaths yet still maintain such strong religious beliefs inspired me to be proud of my Jewish heritage. Though the puzzled glares and questions still persist, my doubts have been extinguished. Judaism is an important part of who I am, and my great-grandmother understood and respected that. She knew who I was: her great-grandson.

Though we were of different faiths, she attended almost every religious event I was part of. In fact, the picture we took on my bar mitzvah became one of her favorites. Every time I came to visit, there it was on the table, housed in a beautiful frame. She would often tell people amusedly, “Look at my handsome husband,” and smile. At the time, I was outwardly abashed hearing this so often, but internally, I was happy to have gotten this title. I could truly be myself around her; she loved me unconditionally. She was so proud to be my great-grandmother. She was Christian, and I was Jewish, but we were family.

As her age began to take its toll, she struggled to remember who I was. On my final visit with her, I sat next to her bed, holding her hand for about an hour. She liked when people held her hand. Though the television was playing in the background, she still wanted to make conversation. She would fluctuate between thinking I was myself or another family member. From time to time she would have me remind her who I was, and where she was. Interestingly, she was never startled when she didn’t recognize me. She still saw me as a member of her family. She often asked how we were related. When I explained the connection, the expression on her face was like that of a child being presented with a trip to Disney World. She was so happy that she was a great-grandmother and that she had “such a good looking family.” It was very hard for me when my great-grandmother did not know who I was. The woman to whom I felt so connected, who loved and accepted me unconditionally, who would inspired me, did not know me for me. Yet there was comfort in knowing that she sensed a familiarity with me. I was her great-grandson, her husband, her brother, her cousin … her family, her future.