Grandparental Origins

I like thinking of people as complex amalgamations of innumerable factors: their personalities, stories, and beliefs, all built on their backgrounds and experiences. Much of who I am has been influenced by my grandparents, each of whom has been a unique and fundamental presence in my life.

When thinking of my maternal grandmother, Corinne Pelletier, whom I call Mémère, a French term of endearment for grandmothers, several words come to mind: zany, affable, unconventional, and adventurous. Her personality possesses a deep independent-mindedness, and she has the ability to devote her energy to a course of action she has set her mind to without being shaken by the opinions of others. This prevents her from fitting into societal molds, which manifests in her snooping on people out of harmless curiosity and bending rules, or building a career for herself as a psychiatrist at a time when it was much less common for women to enter the medical field. Throughout this unconventionality runs an elemental sense of good-naturedness and humor. Although her bold personality differs greatly from my reserved one, I am inspired by her lack of self-inhibition and the unshakeability of her will—qualities I strive toward. Another quality that I associate with her is an intense love for reading books, a trait we already share, likely in part because she encouraged reading when I was younger and has since become a person I spend time with while we both read.

With a different yet profoundly compatible personality, my maternal grandfather, my Pépère Vincent Pelletier, was the most kindhearted person I have ever known. He was gentle and amiable in a way that is difficult to fully encapsulate in words because of how rare it is. Throughout his life, he sought to take care of his family—braiding my mother’s hair when she was young, cooking meals for us, and bringing music into our lives. He was also constantly helping the people around him, acting as a dependable, selfless friend and neighbor. His giving, polite nature sometimes made it difficult for him to speak up for himself, intertwined traits and struggles which he passed on to me and my mother. When talking to my Mémère recently, she commented that one of the most significant impacts he had on her life was introducing her to music; a classical musician, he profoundly impacted his children’s lives in this way as well, both of whom followed in his footsteps.

I’ve always loved staying at my Mémère and Pépère’s house because of its atmosphere, which has a sort of idiosyncratic, cozy affability created by their unique and compatible personalities. I spent much of the summer of 2022 there after my grandfather was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a cancer of plasma cells. I’ll always remember that summer—a time of getting to know my grandparents better, and appreciating everyday activities simply because they were done together.

On the other side of my family, my paternal grandmother, Cruz Teresa Zambrano Rosero, known to me as Nana, is driven by an intense energy, possessing a certain vivacity that I have never observed to the same extent in anyone else. At 80 years old and not quite five feet tall, she remains lively despite having endured the trauma of immigrating to New York City from Ecuador, raising three children, earning two Master’s degrees, pursuing a teaching career, and facing countless struggles. Even now, she continues to be more active than most, constantly taking care of her family and community across continents. Having such abundant energy makes clashing with those she is close to inevitable. Yet somehow, the two of us—with very different personalities—have always been able to accept one another fairly easily, with her usually telling me to speak more so I can share the “deep things” inside of me with others.

One of the most important impacts of my Nana’s teaching career was that it inspired her children, including my father, to also become educators. My father recently mentioned to me how he felt that he could never have a career that didn’t benefit others in some way. This was a mindset he undoubtedly developed because of his mother, and one that I have also always shared, but had never fully understood the origins of until he pointed this out.

A common legend on the paternal side of my family is that geography and personalities in Ecuador have a direct correlation, with people from the coast generally being outgoing, while those from the mountains being more quiet and reserved. Whether or not this is factual, this dynamic is certainly present in my family: my outspoken, zestful grandmother coming from the coast, and my grandfather—her foil—from the mountains. My paternal grandfather, Boanerges “Francisco” Rosero, whom I call Papa, is a person known for not usually expressing himself through words. When he does, he has the ability to quickly establish a deep connection to the person he is talking to and often is surprisingly funny, especially when speaking in Spanish. His words are perhaps more cherished because of their rarity. What he doesn’t say in words, he conveys through his actions, working hard for years to support his family and continuing to quietly take care of them without expecting anything in return. From him, I have learned to value diligence and family, two closely linked principles.

These four people have shaped so much of who I am, influencing everything from my personality to my height. They have taught me what it means to be a kind person, given me my mixed French-Canadian and Ecuadorian cultural heritage, shown me the value of family and helping others, and shared their stories with me. They also encouraged me to grow into my own person from these foundations: humor and a love of reading from Mémère, kindness and music from Pépère, energy and a sense of social justice from Nana, and an introverted personality and strong work ethic from Papa. It is the small moments with them that mean the most to me and their little characteristics that I remember and treasure the most. A ride on the R train with Mémère, talking about her life. Sitting quietly in the backyard, watching the sun set with Pépère. Exchanging emails with Nana during the pandemic. Riding in the backseat with my cousins as Papa drives us around. Mémère’s random wise sayings, Pépère’s piano playing, Nana’s uncontrollably loud cackles, Papa’s occasional chuckles—these are the precious minutiae, nearly negligible yet profoundly impactful, which form the amalgamation of factors of my identity.