
A Reflection on Roots and Legacy
By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar
In 1978, I arrived in a world where two women my mother, Marva, and my grandmother, Celestine would influence all of me. They weren’t “just” figures in my life; they were the groundwork, the template for how I’d come to see myself and the world. I was raised by my mom alone, and I learned from an early age what strength and determination look like. But it was my grandmother, whose wisdom seemed infinite, who poured patience and grace into my soul.
Being the youngest grandchild had its advantages. I didn’t have to compete for attention I wasn’t much of a competitor anyway. I kept to myself, quiet, seeking solace and joy in the small places, the little corners, the overlooked moments, the details most people would never open their eyes to. I wasn’t pursuing loneliness, but rather depth true, meaningful connection. And I saw that most beautifully with my grandparents. You could say I was a “grandma and grandpa’s boy,” for sure.
Being with them flowed easily, like finding the beat in a favorite song. My grandfather showed me how to slow down, to notice the world around me. We went fishing and crabbing together not that we ever really caught anything but rather it wasn’t so much about fishing, but about learning patience and quiet, slowness. Things no classroom could ever teach me I learned waiting for the lightest tug on a fishing line. And my grandmother? She was my everything. I was her shadow, her right hand in everything cooking, organizing, caring for the family. Then, it just felt like I was doing my part. In retrospect, I realize she was teaching me humility, discipline, and love, all without having to speak a word.
I was small then, small for my age and small for my confidence. Sports never pulled me in; they seemed too noisy and frantic. But one day, my grandmother invaded my world in a way that still makes me smile. She came outside and held onto a ball and played with me. That didn’t sound like much, but for me, it was everything. She perceived me truly perceived me and encountered me precisely where I happened to be. Back then, she even took me to NFL games, not because she wanted to force me into sports but because she was trying to show me she cared about what I cared about. That kind of love stays.
If my grandmother was the quiet, steady tether keeping me anchored, my mother was the spark propelling me forward. Marva was a woman of action real estate, management, the church, you name it. She had this kind of presence where she could command a room without having to raise her voice. She just knew how to engage with people, and what I learned from her is that words are not merely tools; they’re bridges.
Like her, I never felt I needed a large circle of friends. I was perfectly fine with a handful of close connections or having just my own thoughts, really. My mom and I shared that common denominator. We both had big hearts that sometimes felt burdened to walk this march of life. She taught me that true strength isn’t how tough you look it’s how kind you strive to be.
Writing and nature became my escape, my safe haven. When other kids were charging over fields chasing balls, I was chasing stories, jotting down ideas in a notebook, or just enjoying the beauty of the outdoors. Those moments felt holy, like a private dialogue with the universe. On those still boards, I felt a connection to something larger than myself.
When I look back now, I realize how much of me was formed from spending time with these two fabulous women. I had that foundation from my grandmother’s wisdom and steady love and then my mom’s drive and spirituality told me to dream bigger and live with purpose. They didn’t only tell me what was important in life; they demonstrated it.
What their influence reminds me is that we’re all part of something bigger a legacy that traces back to the people who came before us. My life was woven from fishing trips and sermons, from quiet moments by the water and lessons taught from a pulpit. Those memories are my roots, a foundation that continues to hold me steady as I grow.
To this day, I carry them with me in all that I do. When I hear myself writing, I hear my grandmother, firm and reassuring, telling me to slow down and trust the process. As I pray or meditate, my mother’s spirit surrounds me and nudges me to pursue truth and extend grace. Their love is like an anchor, a steady presence in choppy waters.
I am Celestine’s grandson. I am Marva’s son. And through them, I learned that it’s not about how loud you live your life; it’s how much you love those around you. It’s not how big your audience is; it’s how great your relationships are. Their lessons, their love, is my inheritance. And I do it with gratitude as their legacy lives on through me; as who I am has come from who they were.

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