Allow me to say from the offset that I'm privileged, I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, all the world bows at my feet, and I have no idea what the term "struggle" entails.  Now that I have acknowledged any factor that would misconstrue, distort, misinterpret, or disrespect the intent of this personal narrative, I have yet one more disclaimer: this essay is about my grandaddy, my Paw Paw. And if one so desires to do any of the above, I will unapologetically and with no regrets use said privilege to whoop yo ass.

My granddaddy Eugene Barnett was Superman.  He didn't have that lame red cape - he was an Omega man, after all - but he had the strength and swagger of 50 men.  As a little girl, I stood wide-eyed with amazement at how easily Paw Paw lifted me in the air or how quickly he maneuvered that belt. Whenever we went to town (we lived in the boonies!) there was an immediate acknowledgement of my Paw Paw's gangsta.  He always stood to every inch of his 6'3 frame, never cowering. Always looking people in the face. He demanded respect without saying a word. I would stretch my spine to stand a little taller when with Paw Paw out of adoration. I guess some of that authority rubbed off on me, because every time I went out alone I'd catch whispers of "Hey now. That's Mr. Barnett's granddaughter."

Paw Paw was the epitome of "grown ass man."     His gangsta spanned decades, confronting an openly racist 1950s and 1960s Albany, GA by carrying a shotgun in the back window of his truck as warning not to fuck with him. Often to my grandmother's chagrin, he never held his tongue.  Paw Paw was an original Down South Georgia Boy.

My grandaddy was a hustler. Nana boo would tell me stories of she and granddaddy's financial struggles as newlyweds. She talked about how Paw Paw worked 3-4 jobs at a time, often coming home from teaching to go to his night job(s).  And, perhaps most importantly, Paw Paw was adamant about pursuing an education. He viewed his hard work as being repaid with his children and grandchildren excelling in school.

When I was about eight years old, I got my first taste of my grandfather's attitude about education. He hoisted me on his lap, gave me a big hug, and straight forwardly stated, "Gina Lou, you're a beautiful, bright little black girl. So, so smart. White people underestimate that. They think niggas don't like to read.  They put that knowledge into a book. I'm so happy you love to read.  That makes you a threat. You got smarts, girl. Use 'em. Use 'em!" At first, I didn't really understand why he was so adamant about my reading and doing well in school, but it had to be a damn good reason - what Paw Paw said was law. I obliged.

Education became my top priority. For the most part my earlier academic ambitions were selfish - a sista had to go the parties, keep the car, be able to live my life. My friends still can't believe my grandfather made me sign a contract to maintain my GPA in order to keep my car. That ambition served me well. I graduated high school. College. And Paw Paw was front row. Proud. Winking at me like I was the best in the world.

Then Paw Paw started to show he wasn't Superman.

He started frequenting the hospital more often. Increasingly too weak to get out of the bed.  One night while visiting my folks on vacation from Indiana I heard my grandmother screaming for me to come to the bathroom.  Paw Paw fell on the floor.  The look in his eyes didn't show embarrassment but vulnerability. It struck me hard. I went into action, cutting jokes and making him smile as we helped him to the bed. I felt a fierce loyalty to this man and his well being.  I called him everyday. Tried to make granddaddy laugh and lift his spirits. But his health continued to deteriorate. Paw Paw's battle gave a whole new meaning to "the mind is willing but the body ain't able." His spirit was inspiring. Granddaddy embodied triumph over multiple adversities. I wanted to transfer his pain onto my own body because I knew Paw Paw would do the same for me.

I wanted to make my Paw Paw proud.  Those days when I wanted to quit my doctoral coursework, I called him, cussing and all. He told me, "Barnetts don't quit. Keep praying, keep fighting, keep pushin'." If my Paw Paw could keep on keepin' on, I had no excuse not to do the same. I hung up, re-focused.

A few months before his death, I was helping him get ready for dialysis. He couldn't hoist me in his lap like he used to.  Couldn't give me those awesome hugs that shielded me from the world. But he held me tight as he could and said, "you've never seen me this sick, huh baby? I'm going to fight. We're fighters, Lou. I'm going to see you get that PhD!" I turned my head and felt hot tears drop on my cheeks.   

My grandfather fought until he died October 2, 2009.  My superman was gone. 

It's been a year. I've reached doctoral candidacy. Got married. Lost direction.  Struggled with staying inspired, retaining ambition.   My grandfather's loss is still fresh.  Perhaps because Paw Paw was my best friend and I never had to censor how I was feeling.  Perhaps because we were kindred spirits. More importantly, however, my Paw Paw was unchanging. He never left my life. Never was out of sight. When I had strained relationships with my father and ex-stepfather, my grandfather had my back. I take back what I said about my grandfather being Superman. He wasn't.  He was a phenomenal man.

No cape required.