I came across this film on Vimeo, Granny Power. It is about the Raging grannies movement. (My friend who sent it got so excited, she send it while she was watching – Thank god for friends)
The Raging Grannies, are activist organizations in many cities and towns in the United states, Canada etc. They are social justice activist, all women old enough to be grandmothers, fighting for a just world for their grandchildren dress up and sing songs at protests. They use their life lessons, time, freedom to just be – using songs, humour, audacious truthful statements to change the world. And importantly they have fun doing it.
(Must watch it)
Something about their spirit touched me deeply.They were making a point without offending.
They talk about we are raging but not ranting. So powerful I thought. Rage was good, it clarifies what was important, but then instead of ranting and complaining – they are out there saying what they want to say, but in a way that reaches people in a direct yet caring and fun ways.
It made me think of my own grandmother – who all by herself was a raging granny movement. She raised me, in every sense of that word. Many of you have probably heard of my grandma stories. 🙂
She was a nurse and a social activist. She taught me to be kind and yet not be afraid to stand up for what I believed in.The best part was she did not talk or give me sermons. She had her own practical ways. ( I feel that way of learning, about not just gyan but teaching through living is still is a big part of me)
One such story that comes to my mind, the lesson which is still very much alive.
My grandmas house, where I grew up, had a big garden with many trees and plants. We had a huge drumstick tree and it was generally full and often neighbours came and took the drumsticks. There were plenty.
One day, I must have been maybe 5 or 6 yrs. A woman came with a bunch of leaves from the tree and asked if she could take them, my grandma consented. I asked for what, the woman said to eat. I laughed. (I only knew that people ate drumsticks, I could not imagine people eating leaves). That incident went by without any comment. The next day, I came back from school, hungry and there was no food, no dinner. I waited for my grandma to give me something. She did not seem in any hurry to prepare. After a while, when I was really hungry, and said so, she told me to get ready we were going out.
We walked outside our compound and a few blocks away, we came to an almost deserted ground, where there were some huts. We went to one particular hut; it was not even a hut it was a sheet of tarpaulin against our compound wall. No walls no doors nothing. I wasn’t sure what was going on. But I entered this semi lit, yet neat “home” of the woman. I recognized her instantly. There was a makeshift stove of bricks she was cooking on. And two plates set on the floor. My grandma sat down and I sat next to her. And she simply said, we are going to have dinner here. There was that gentle yet firm tone, which did not invite any further conversation.
The woman served us something green and some sticky rice, with some tentativeness and lots of love and pride.
The silence that followed while we ate, still rings in my heart. I ate the green “leaves” and my pride that day. I learnt about hunger and the meaning of equality. About human dignity and it’s delicate balance. About privilege and rights. About silence and its power.
We never spoke about that incident – no “lessons” were taught, no shaming – and yet I learnt, perhaps that’s why I learnt. That evening my raging granny did not rant and yet made her point.
And oh by the way, I was to find out that drumstick leaves are medicinal, ofcourse. Love Irony, as always.
6 Comments