Juxtaposing Grandfathers

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• April 23, 2024

In truth, I had no chance of turning out normal… none of us did. For our patriarchy was massively fucked up, for the most opposing reasons. In retrospect, there’s nothing left to do but shrug. Our identities are only somewhat carved by our ancestors. Even as kids we knew our Grandfather’s were not like most.

Both my parents are one of six children. My Mom’s dad, Pop-pop, we called him, was in many ways some sort of insane genius. An inventor, a creative, he built my Mom and her siblings bikes, go karts, invented board games and had a biting sense of humor. All of the George’s recall that he was as fun as he was stern. But mostly, the stories of abuse are the ones that stayed with me. The trauma unacknowledged by the boomer kids passed unto the millenial grandkids.

The George six were beaten beyond what would have been acceptable of “the times.” My mom, who is smaller than me, took regular beatings, had her face shoved in dog piss on the kitchen floor… hell, her father even tried to run her over with the car. Everyone feared Pop-pop. If it was his intention that being a feared father rather than a warm one was better, then he more than succeeded. The stories of the beatings are endless, and psychotic, like the time he drove a pitchfork through my Uncle’s foot and told him to walk to the hospital. It’s pretty amazing that none of the George six turned out to be a serial killer.

It isn’t any wonder why myself and my sister and brother grew up fearing Pop-pop. He lived in Florida in a trailer home with Grandma Emily, who was simple and sweet, and put up with an astounding amount of misogynistic bull shit. When Pop-pop died, she bragged that she “didn’t shed a tear.” Free, at last.

Lisa, Mitch and myself knew of all the stories of Pop-pop’s controlling and iron fist parenting. In fact, if we were bad, our parents sometimes threatened to send us down to Florida to live with him. We were always pretty sure they were bluffing about it, but we didn’t want to test it. I was never hit as a kid, because I was an unusually well behaved child. Lisa and Mitch both had some spankings, I recall. Though they probably both deserved it. My Mom interfered in my Dad smacking my brother on more than one occasion. Having been the product of an abused childhood, she was against beating children as a form of punishment. Granted, anything my Dad would have done would pale in comparison to her father. Our Dad wasn’t violent like that, but kids, especially sons, have ways of pushing their parents’ buttons.

We went down to Florida every three years. We’d first go to the trailer home where Pop-pop and Grandma lived before going to Disney World. Their trailer was on an acre of property, filled with land mines of fire ant mounds. There was little to do there, besides ride a lawn mower, and throw oranges from the trees into the creek to see if any alligators were in there. The neighbors peacocks would charge at us kids while we were trying to find lizards. It’s about as white trash a scene as you can possibly get.

Now, my Pop-pop had a stroke before I could remember, and the George six all say that made him extra crazy. And extra unfiltered. He was embarrassing to take to restaurants. He always inappropriately hit on waitress right in front of Grandma, his daughter (Mom) and us, his young grand-kids. Usually, the waitresses laughed. But it was even obvious to a young kid how uncomfortable she was. And how much she hated him.

I didn’t hate my Pop-pop, but I didn’t love him either. I felt no level of warmth from him. Just fear. Additionally, he would make sexual comments to me and my sister when we were kids. He never laid a finger on us, or anything like that. But I remember once, when we were at their trailer home, my Grandma gave us kids bubbles to play with. We were in middle school— far too old to be amused by bubbles, but there was nothing else to do, so we went outside and blew bubbles. Lisa and I were both wearing shorts and white t-shirts. Pop-pop commented about getting the hose so he could spray us and watch us play while wet. I don’t think either of us fully understood how wrong that was. Not just because we were his grandkids, but we were really young kids, and scrawny as hell. When we got older, the creepy comments would not stop.

It’s somewhat wild to me now, that no one hit him for saying such things to me and my sister (and I know he said worse to some of my other female cousins). But everyone was afraid of him. I think if Mitch was my older brother instead of my younger brother, he would have retaliated. Mitch was always a fearless protector of me. But even he was too young to know what was going on. Plus, Pop-pop always told my parents they should beat Mitch because he was a rascal. Despite all the studies now on how damning it is to beat children. Thank God my Mom didn’t listen to her father when it came to how to raise Mitch.

Oh yeah. I learned what the word “fuck” meant from my grandfather. Because he told us a joke were “fuck” was the punchline. We didn’t understand the joke, so he explained it to us. I do remember my Mom being especially pissed about that.

I wonder now, if verbal sexual harassment wasn’t accepted at all if I would have handled situations in jobs differently as I got older. At 14, I’d start bagging groceries at the Pioneer market, where one of the owners (who was in his 80s) would make remarks about my body. Then, even worse, when I worked in catering where sexual harassment was relentless. The sexual harassment in comedy was mild compared to what I was used to. At least comedians were funny when they sexually harassed you (and furthermore, at least I wasn’t minor).

So that was Pop-pop. I had no real relationship with him. I don’t miss him. But I do adore every other George. All my Aunts and Uncles and cousins. Truthfully, I am more like that side of my family. We’re not just a good family, we’re a fun family. All of us get up at a wedding to dance. We know how to party. If you’ve ever seen the show “Shameless,” I’d somewhat akin the bond I have with my cousins to the family in that show. We’re a fucked up bunch, but we’re colorful characters and we’ll do anything for each other. I wouldn’t trade them for anything. So for that much, I am grateful to my Pop-pop. For our family.

Grandpa Palminteri was also crazy. In an entirely different way. He was a religious zealot. A good man. That’s for sure. I loved him. But he could be the poster person for taking religion, in our case, Catholicism, too far.

He was also brilliant, Grandpa Palminteri. He could recite passages from MacBeth from his memory in his 90s, before he died. His memory was unparalleled. He was a gifted musician. He lived for his family and God.

Once we reached a certain age, the girls were not allowed to wear shorts or tank tops around Grandpa. Because he would lecture us about “sins of the flesh” and how most people in hell were there for their sins of the flesh. We’d be lectured about the bible and forced to pray rosary. When he found out my Dad and I voted for Obama in 2008, he screamed at us for voting for a “baby killer” because in his mind all democrats were abortion loving sinners. There was no other issue to him.

Here’s how religious my Grandpa was. When my sister had her fist communion, we had a big party in our backyard (we had pretty good sized backyard and were famous for throwing great parties back there, with both sides of the family (19 first cousins) and friends… it was chaos in the best possible way). My parents invited the Priest to the party. He showed up. My Mom warned the Priest that her father in law would probably lecture him about his interpretation of the Bible. The Priest said he would love to talk to him. Then, my Grandpa walked in and the Priest said, “oh no, THAT’S your father in law????” Grandpa went to church everyday and if he didn’t agree with a priest’s take on something, he always let him know.

Mostly, Grandpa Palminteri was kind. He was intellectual, and at times funny. Look, if there is a Heaven the way the Catholic’s have foretold, he will be the reason I get in. He spent most of his time listening to jazz or praying. If you could tiptoe around religion, never let conversation go to abortion, and never, ever, ever, wear something that showed too much skin, he was great to talk to. You just had to steer the ship away from his triggers to avoid a lengthy lecture you’ve heard many, many times before. I miss him. Especially around Christmas. And I especially miss Grandma Palminteri, who was so wholly good and pure, a true gold hearted woman. I may not believe in angels the way Grandpa did, but I believe in living angels because of her. The only person I know as good as she is my Aunt Nancy (my Dad’s twin and my godmother).

The Palminteri’s are also a tight group. We have lots of laughs together, and I look forward to seeing my Aunts, Uncles and cousins at every chance, just like my Mom’s side of the family. In fact, one of the main reasons I even want to get married is simply for the wedding, so I can unite these two great families for an epic dance party. I know that’s not the reason you’re supposed to want to get married, but if you came to one of our family parties, you’d understand. We are flawed. We are funny. We are caring. We are hard working. We creatives and thinkers. We are glorious. The Palminteri’s and George’s. And myself, and my sister and brother, the center of this venn-diagram.

Understand the roots I came from. One tree warning me of sins of the flesh at every turn… another tree literally teaching me what the word “fucking” meant. Is it any wonder I grew up to be a comedian? I was at the center of juxtaposing worlds, trying to make sense of any of it. Accepting parts of me from both sides. There’s no shame I have in it. These are the people who made me. And I made them, in return. I love them.

My Dad is now a grandfather of three kids: Anthony, Charlotte and Blaise. Pappy, they call him. They love him so. He’s a much better grandfather to them than our grandfather’s were to us. He’s more playful, attentive, loving and accepting than the former patriarchs of the family. If you asked them to describe Pappy they would say he is funny and loves watching the news. They’re not wrong. He’s the best parts of his father. And even though I didn’t see the best parts of Pop-pop, I think my Mom too has all the best parts of her father too— the creative and fun parts— but instead of rage, she is only love.

[old photos from the scrap book]

[The Georges (from my Aunt Karen’s wedding) & The Palminteri’s (from my Sweet 16)]