A Namesake
My mom named me after my great grandma Jenny, she says, because she had hoped that some of her strength and power as a woman would rub off on me. Before January 25th, 2006, I had thought that the only trait my great grandmother and I shared was my middle name. I remember the date because it was my birthday, and it was the first time I had thought about my great grandma Jenny since I had been in high school. I was rummaging through my mom’s closet, in hopes of discovering one of my presents, when I came across a picture of her at twenty years old. I studied her face, her strong jaw and determined eyes, struggling to find similarities between us, and finally discovered that we had identical lips. It was a relief that I at least embodied one physical trait of my untouchable great grandma.
My mother believes that they just don’t make women like her anymore. Grandma Jenny was born in 1919, but was remarkably beyond her time. After her children were born, her husband turned into a raging alcoholic. In a time where divorce was a rarity, she worked and raised her children as a single mother. A good book and her kids, not a man, she would later tell my mom, were all that a woman needed in life to be happy. Her children eventually included her grandchildren. Selflessly, after her child bearing years were long over, she rescued my mom at six years old from an abusive step father, and dragged her out to California to raise her. She was harder on the girls, she said, because she believed that women were the strong ones.
Grandma Jenny never cared about her appearance, always wearing the lame lumpy grey and white striped sweater, and a pair of sweats. The thing I remember the most clearly about her, though, is her hands. They were heavily wrinkled and callused, worn down from years of hard work and raising children. Grandma Jenny was a Rosie the Riveter during the war to make money. When I was a little girl, her best friend Dotty used to tell my mom and I stories about grandma. “Damn it Shannon,” she would say, “When we were working in the production lines, we all hated Jenny because she would finished too damn fast for the rest of us to keep up. We were all so tired and Mrs. Workhorse kept moving like it was nothing.”
My grandmother represented something that I believe my generation of women is lacking. We need strong women to stand up and reject our stereotypes, and ignore the degrading messages that society is so often forcing us to believe. I want my generation to be strong, confident, and accomplished.
Since looking at that picture, throughout the past year, I have continually grown closer to the woman I want to be, and I owe some of that to Grandma Jenny. In a world full of weak female role models, and in a society that often values my face more than my mind, my grandmother has provided a guiding light. I aspire to be more than my generation’s societal role, and to be a contributing, intelligent, and influential woman. Just like she broke the mold of her generation, I will break mine.
As I have grown older in age and spirit, I discover that my great grandmother and I share more qualities than a name or lips. I see glimpses of her in myself every day. I am proud to be the granddaughter of Genevieve Johnston. I am proud to have such a strong woman’s blood running through me, and I can only hope that some of her integrity, strength, and compassion will shine through. I believe they still do make women like her.