For My Other Mother on Mother's Day

This is the eulogy I read at Granny's funeral reception in December of 2023.

“Granny and I communicated in gibberish until I was about five. For a writer, I started talking relatively late, at least in English. But my mother Donna tells me I would babble on about this or that in baby talk, or in some language known only to me, at great lengths; rather than ignoring or correcting me, though, Granny would simply respond in the vernacular she understood me to be speaking. Granny was so good at listening to others in the way they wanted to be heard. I think it’s because she was an outsider always in so many ways as long as I’ve known her.

Granny immigrated from Ireland when she was 20. Even at that young age, she was no stranger to adventure; she quit school at 14, biked the width of Ireland in one go, and finally snuck onto a boat bound for England with no education or prospects for her immediate future. She simply had faith that her task in life was to make bold choices. It was the universe’s responsibility to provide new people, new experiences, and all that lay beyond what she had previously known.

Not only did Granny enjoy a rich and fulfilling life; she also set a powerful example for the next generation, showing us a way to move through the world at this exact moment in history.

Granny never did an inauthentic thing in her entire life. Though she wore a giant fur coat to the airport in the middle of summer for some reason, she refused to conform to the expectations of suburban culture. Always resistant to gossip and judgment of others, Granny was an active player in the community. She ran a school choir and hand-made outfits for her four kids. In a series of Polaroids, we see an incredibly stylish woman with a massive Beehive entertaining a gaggle of family—she had 8 siblings—and those friends fortunate enough to enjoy her Irish sense of humor. In 1975, she was probably the hippest forty-year-old Winfield had ever seen.

My early memories of Granny reflect the fact that her strength was both a safe haven and an example to a frightened little kid who cried at the drop of a hat for years. Once, the legendary Granny broke up a crew of neighborhood kids who were teasing me and taking delight in the fact that they could make me burst into tears. She told them that they should be ashamed of themselves; there was no reason in this world why you shouldn’t play nice. Moments later, the mother of one of those kids marched over to our house to give Granny a talking to. I hid behind a couch and listened to the whole conversation. Granny didn’t flinch. She made it look easy, in fact. It was then that I realized I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.

Granny’s last 10 years were really hard. We all saw her decline and slowly drift away from her Downton Abby and Mystery Novels and finally away from all of us. Last Thanksgiving, my Mom and I only heard a single great one liner come out of her the entire time. We asked her what she was thinking; she replied, “I don’t have to tell you my thoughts.” Mom and I were definitely acting like those gossiping busybodies Granny so loathed; we had that one coming.

Granny has had a profound impact on who I have become. I’m a writer/director and producer in film, theatre, and social media; I teach at the DePaul School of Cinema; and I’ve only just begun to build the life I envision for myself. Because of Granny, I always knew I could trust myself. No matter what other people wanted me to do. I’ve always felt empowered to trust my gut, whether it told me to hold someone accountable, dump somebody, or cut through all manner of bullshit. And ultimately, after grieving those losses, her example has shown me how to raise myself to a higher level of loving and relishing existence.

Granny may have left this earthly form, but because she lived, I have dedicated my life to telling the stories of the women we never hear about. Those who were brave and trusted themselves in the face of uncertainty. Because Granny lived and allowed me to witness the ups and downs in her life, I knew people like her existed. I’m sure I will immortalize her someday in one of my films. But for now, this speech will to have to do.

I love that picture of you in black and white when you were 15 that used to hang on the wall in the living room. I recognize your fire in my own eyes.

It’s okay now, Granny. I’ll never forget you. You don’t have to keep carrying the torch for all of us. I’ll take it from here.”

December 2024 in New Orleans, LA. Xmas Eve.