"People, let me tell you 'bout my best friend!"

Elmer Dudley Morrison II was my grandfather.

Grandpa lived in Denver, Colorado, with my grandmother, Nana, for his entire life, but he was able to see most of America through his work on the railroad as a chair car attendant on the railroad, albeit through the lens of the racial discrimination he was regularly subjected to in his work. Although he was decades my senior at the time of his sudden death from a heart attack, which happened two months before I was scheduled to begin law school, I considered him one of my very closest friends.

He was your typical grandfather in appearance, bald on top, with hair around the edges of his head. Physically, he stood slightly hunched over and walked with a deliberately slow gait, likely developed from years of wear and tear on a body that had worked for several years on a moving train.

But if you are feeling sorry for him from my description, DON'T. He absolutely LOVED old age, retirement and doing absolutely nothing. He loved volunteering at the senior center down the street two, but there wasn't much time spent there, because Jess was just the opposite. She had little interest in old people!!

Grandpa joked about his bald headm which made him look older thant he was. His guilty pleasure was those occasions when he could visit the nearby smorgasbord restaurant with Jess, which was located just around the corner from their home in Denver.

“I don’t understand why anyone goes to other places to eat,” he would say as we sat in the all-you-can-eat restaurant.

“You see, Hakim," he would say with a burst of energy in his voice when we walked in,

"you can find everything you want right here. All you’ve got to do is walk through the line over there, and it’s all right there for you. I really don't like that they have to serve our plates, but of course you can go back if you’re still hungry. And the desserts change every day.”

Grandpa described the restaurant as his Taj Mahal!

After we found our seats in the restaurant, he looked at every part of the building, smiling from ear to ear.

“THAT'S the only thing,” he said, beginning his next sentence halfway through his thought.

“I like to call ahead and check to see what desserts they will have, because if it’s something good, it’s important to get here early. And don’t let some of these old people fool you. They will stick their leg out and trip you in a heartbeat if you get between them and their dessert.”

Now pointing to an older, white-haired woman as she wobbled very slowly toward the food line with a walker, he looked at her with pure disdain.

“Now, look at HER! That’s Ms. White. She always comes over to our table when she sees your grandmother and me walk in, pretending like she just wants to say hello. But she actually has an entire ‘thing’ she does by talking to us before we get up so that she can beat us to the food line. And she always takes TWO desserts when she knows she is not supposed to. And the security over there just lets her get away with it.”

She REALLY just needs to 'go on'."

He was cracking me up! There was no way that old lady could be as bad as he described.

Then, after getting over his anger about Ms. White, Grandpa went on and on about everything else associated with that restaurant, and he seemed to know every customer and every employee. But as much as he complained about it, I am convinced he would have gone there every day if he could.

“This is a great place for old people,” he said. “That’s why I can’t even be bringing you up here all the time. You are a young man, and people might get upset that you are eating up all the food. And they only cook SO much food each day.”

Putting his hand on my shoulder after pausing for a minute, he continued.

“Now, I WILL bring you here sometimes, but only every once in a while. This really is not set up for young people, and I don’t want people to start using the fact that we are bringing YOU here as an excuse to start bringing THEIR families. All we need is some big folks coming in here and eating ALL the damn food.”

I couldn’t stop laughing.

One of the reasons I loved Grandpa so much was because he was one of the few people who seemed to understand me. I was shy, and rather than try to force me out of my comfort zone as others would do, he communicated with me in a way that brought him into MY world.

We would often joke about things happening around us. We would observe how people interacted with each other and talk about our insecurities in different situations. Every now and then, he would say something to me that would clue me in to the fact that some of what he discussed with me was for the sole purpose of getting closer to me.

“Now, Hakim, you DO know, if there is EVER anything you want to talk about, you can talk about it with me? Anything at all,” he continued. “You KNOW that, right?”

He would repeat some version of those comments every time we were alone somewhere.

When I was in college, one of the regular areas of discussion between Grandpa and me was his discomfort with some of the African cultural practices my family had adopted and the impact of those practices on him.

The combination of the six years my immediate family had spent in West Africa, along with my father’s professional research regarding the importance of various socialization practices in African culture, resulted in parts of African culture increasingly becoming a part of our family’s life and, by default, a part of Grandpa’s life.

From some of our wardrobe choices to the art we displayed in our home, we began to better understand and appreciate how respecting our African identity could serve our family.

But one practice that really made Grandpa uncomfortable was the ceremonial role elders play in African gatherings.

In the African community, elders are the most respected members, and, among other things, no ceremony or event begins without the leader of the event obtaining formal permission to begin from the elders who are present.

So, whether it was a Kwanza celebration, a naming ceremony, or simply a graduation party, my parents began each event by asking the eldest person present for permission to begin.

The first time I recall this happening when Grandpa was present, it clearly caught him off guard.

“Can the oldest person present please offer his or her permission to begin the ceremony?” asked the host.

Everyone began searching the room with their eyes, looking for the oldest person.

I looked at Grandpa, and he was looking at the ground, uncomfortably stretching and tightening his fingers.

It was obvious that he didn’t really understand what he was supposed to do. It had not been explained to him. But Jess could care less, and bumped him with her elbow to get him to look up.

“Speak up,” she said sharply.

He responded right away.

“Yes,” he announced while raising his head, the perspiration that had developed on his forehead now obvious to anyone looking at him. “I’M OLD,” he said, smiling, which led to muddled laughter in the room.

My father, standing on the opposite side of Grandpa from my JESS,....whispered something inaudible to me into Grandpa’s ear, prompting Grandpa to speak again.

“You have my permission to begin,” he said in the most formal voice he could muster.

When his part had concluded, Grandpa turned, looked at me, and rolled his eyes.

On the way home, he confided that he had no idea what was going on.

On several occasions after that day, he always seemed to find a way to avoid being the elder in the room. One time, he was not even in the room when the program began.

I wondered what was going on, so I asked him, and his response was hilarious.

“Listen, as soon as I get to these African ceremonies that your family is involved in, the first thing I do is make my way through the place to see if I’m the oldest person there. If I find a nice old man or lady, I make sure they are in the room when the program begins. If I’m the oldest, I do my best to excuse myself to the bathroom before the talking gets started.”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying.

And I couldn’t stop laughing.

Leaning closer to me, he continued.

“Now, this is just something between you and me, Hakim. But, as you can see, it’s rough out here for Africans when they get old.”

Grandpa always had me laughing.

The most meaningful interaction I had with Grandpa regarding these African traditions occurred when I was preparing for my high school graduation.

My parents had planned an African naming ceremony for me, which would take place in their backyard on the day after my graduation. More than 200 people were invited, and guests were specifically requested to wear African attire.

When Grandpa got the news in Denver, he immediately called my mother. I could hear him through the telephone from across the table, asking a lot of questions about the weekend plans.

After a few moments, my mother passed the telephone to me, and Grandpa started discussing the program with me.

The anxiousness in his voice was obvious.

“Now, Hakim. I was excited about coming to Atlanta for your graduation. And don’t get me wrong, I AM still very excited. But your mother just explained that you all are doing another one of those full-on "African things., with a really big crowd of people. Now, I’m ASSUMING there might be some older people there, older than me, but I hope you will work with me to make sure at least ONE really, REALLY old person is there.”

I couldn’t stop laughing at Grandpa.

But I may have been laughing too hard.

Not long after my call with Grandpa, my Uncle Thomas in San Francisco called to speak with me. He had somehow come across a copy of a poem I had written about Africa. He expressed how good he thought the poem was and suggested that I read it at my naming ceremony.

The problem for me was that the poem, like the hundreds of other poems I had written before it, was not something I had previously shared with anyone. Because I was still a generally shy person, my poems had always been only for me.

So, not only was Uncle Thomas’ request difficult for me because it would require me to share something personal, I also did not think I could speak about ANYTHING in front of all those people.

The only thing I KNEW I had to say was to repeat the new African name that my parents would whisper into my ear for the first time during the ceremony, and even the idea of THAT made me nervous.

I was becoming uncontrollably nervous about having a speaking role just as I received another call from Grandpa a few days later.

“Listen, Hakim, your mother just called, and not only do I have to do the oldest-person "thing" at your ceremony, she’s now asking me to give a speech at your African ordeal!

What’s going on over there that you guys have to keep pulling me into it?”

I was surprised but happy that I had someone else who felt like me who would be speaking.

After a lot of discussion, with my mother and me passing the telephone between each other to speak to Grandpa, he finally agreed to say something during the program.

Like me, he decided that he would also find a poem to read.

In the final month leading up to the ceremony, Grandpa would call me at the house so he could practice his poem with me.

He struggled with it so badly during our calls that I often could not contain my laughter.

He would mispronounce words, emphasize sentences in the wrong places, or sometimes breathe at awkward times that made his voice sound different and funny.

During one of our calls, in the middle of my tears of laughter, he said, “Now, you CAN’T be reacting like this at the African thing because it will just make matters worse. In fact, if you know an old lady, meaning older than me, and she’s coming to the ceremony, maybe you can talk your mother into letting her read this damn poem.”

I couldn’t speak.

I wasn’t even worried about reading my own poem anymore. I couldn’t stop laughing as I imagined him standing nervously in front of the audience.

But a few days before Grandpa and Jess were about to travel to Atlanta for the ceremony, I had one more conversation with him about his speech that shook me up.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do, Hakim, but I just decided I would just be myself,” Grandpa began.

“The main thing I don’t want to do is embarrass the family. It’s your day, and I’m just your grandfather. So, I just want to make sure YOU know how important it is for me to get this right, even if I mess up. Your grandmother is really on me about not messing up, but I just want YOU to know that I will do my best, Hakim.”

In my best SERIOUS voice, I responded.

“I know how hard you have been working on this, Grandpa. I can’t promise you that I won’t laugh a little bit, but I will be right there with you.”

“Well, thank you, Hakim,” Grandpa responded. “When you know someone who understands how you feel is pulling for you, it always makes things a little easier. You and I have been talking about this thing for a while now. So, I know if I’m looking at you, we have an understanding, and I will get through it okay.”

“Yep, Grandpa!” I said. “I think you’re right!”

“I will see you tomorrow when we arrive,” he continued. “And I want you to know that you can look at me the same way when you read YOUR poem. This is your program, and you can do no wrong. And I know you aren’t worried about it, but just know that I understand how you feel too, and we will both be just fine.”

When I hung up the telephone with Grandpa, I was shocked.

I had never even spoken to him about my poem or told him that I had been asked to recite it at the ceremony. I had never expressed my fear or discomfort with him about sharing my personal feelings in that way or having to speak at any length in front of all those people.

But I replayed in my mind how our conversations about his concerns had begun, and I thought about the process he had taken me through while describing the emotions HE had to conquer in preparing to speak.

Then, finally, I realized that, unbeknownst to me, Grandpa had constructed an invisible lifeline for us to hold on to for each other so that we could both get through the program together.

It was amazing.

As I think now about my love for Grandpa, I realize that he was special to me because of his ability to engage with me in my own space.

Without my understanding what was happening, he was able to use his words to comfort, heal, support, and guide me in ways that transcended my conscious understanding.

All I knew was that he could make me laugh until I cried, and that the ability to find my humility by laughing at myself could be a powerful tool for seeing light through the artificial obstacles I often placed in front of myself.

Looking back, I realize that my African naming ceremony did more than give me a new name (Seqenenre T'Shaka"). It reminded me that identity is something we receive, but confidence is often something someone can quietly give us along the way.

My grandfather never told me to be brave. He never lectured me about fear. He simply loved me in a way that made me forget to be afraid.

Now, all these years later, I have come to believe that some of the greatest teachers never announce the lesson they are teaching. They simply walk beside us until one day we discover that we have become stronger than we ever imagined.

Perhaps that is one of life’s greatest gifts: not the people who tell us who we should become, but the people who quietly help us become that person without ever asking for the credit.

Looking back, I realize that my African naming ceremony did more than give me a new name. It reminded me that identity is something we receive, but confidence is often something someone quietly gives us along the way.

My grandfather never told me to be brave. He never lectured me about fear. He simply loved me in a way that made me forget to be afraid.

I have come to believe that some of the greatest teachers never announce the lesson they are teaching. They simply walk beside us until one day we discover that we have become stronger than we ever imagined.

Perhaps that is one of life's greatest gifts: not the people who tell us who we should become, but the people who quietly help us become that person without ever asking for the credit.