Granny's GPS Kept Saying “Keep Going Baby”
- Kateb-Nuri-Alim
- 4 hours ago
- 7 min read
Granny's GPS Kept Saying “Keep Going Baby”
Written by Kāteb Shunnar
Author’s Opening Words
Before yall start reading this, let me tell yall something. Growing up, I truly believed my Granny had powers. I ain't talking superhero powers either. Forget all that flying through buildings and shooting lightning from fingertips stuff. Nah. I'm talking bout grandmother powers. Different category. Different department. Heavenly level powers.
Cause somehow Granny knew when I touched something before I even touched it. I still don't understand that. To this day it don't make sense. You'd barely think about doing wrong and somehow from another room you'd hear:
"Boy don't touch that."
Now hold on.
How?
You wasn't even in here.
Matter fact... forget GPS. Forget satellites. Forget technology. They need to study grandmothers.
And another thing. Granny had feet with purpose attached to em. Lord have mercy. That woman stayed moving. Looking back now, I realize I spent half my childhood following behind Granny through New Orleans like I was in some spiritual second line parade and nobody gave me the route.
Back then I thought we were just changing homes.
Just moving.
Just packing boxes.
Years later though... whew.
Life put glasses on memories.
Now sidewalks talk.
Porches talk.
Street corners talk.
And certain streets don't even feel like streets no more.
They feel like chapters.
And if you've ever had somebody pour care into your spirit, feed you, pray over you, fuss at you, drag you around the city, and somehow help shape your heart without sitting you down for some giant speech... then baby, you know exactly what this story is really about.
Cause this ain't about houses.
This about Granny.
And Lord knows...
Granny stayed moving.
I ain't gon lie. Growing up with my Granny Celestine felt like being in a second line where nobody explained where we was headed. Folks just moving. Music somewhere in the distance. Somebody laughing. Somebody talking loud. And your only job was keeping up.
That was life with Granny.
We started over in Saint Bernard Housing Development.
Now baby, if you from New Orleans then you already know Saint Bernard wasn't just apartments and buildings sitting around minding they business.
Nah.
That place had heartbeat.
Had flavor.
Had soul.
Folks sat outside like the sidewalk belonged to em. Somebody frying fish. Somebody arguing with somebody cousin. Somebody auntie halfway hanging out a window calling somebody whole government name.
Kids running.
Music playing.
Screen doors slamming.
Life happening.
And somehow everybody knew everybody.
Matter fact you couldn't sneeze too hard without somebody down the block saying:
"Baby you alright?"
And somewhere inside all that noise and living...
there was me.
Little old me.
Following behind Granny like hot sauce on fried chicken.
Matter fact, I stayed under Granny so much folks probably thought she gave birth to me twice.
If Granny went outside...
I went.
If Granny sat on somebody porch...
I sat.
If Granny stood up...
I jumped up too.
Truth be told I ain't know where we was going half the time.
Didn't matter.
I was rolling.
Now let me tell yall something funny.
Granny had this walk.
Whew.
She ain't stroll.
She ain't casually move.
No ma'am.
That woman moved like somebody whispered assignments in her ear before sunrise.
Like she had missions.
Places.
People.
Purpose.
And there I was trying my absolute best to keep up.
"Granny where we going?"
Now if you knew Granny then you know she ain't answer questions like regular folks.
Baby no.
She'd say:
"Come on."
That was it.
No details.
No explanation.
No roadmap.
Just...
"Come on."
Now I don't know if grandmothers got secret training schools somewhere hidden in Louisiana swamps or what...
but somehow them two words meant:
Move your feet.
Stop asking questions.
Let's go.
And I moved.
Then one day we ended up on Painters Street.
I remember standing there thinking:
Hold on now...
ain't we just unpacked?
Cause little children think moving means you done moving.
Baby I ain't know life worked different.
So one day I finally asked:
"Granny... why we keep moving?"
Whew.
She looked over.
Yall know the look.
That grandmother look.
Part tenderness.
Part wisdom.
Part warning.
Like care and correction got together and made a facial expression.
Then she said:
"Baby sometimes your feet gotta move before your understanding catch up."
Man.
Now back then I ain't know what she meant.
Shoot I probably nodded pretending I understood cause I ain't want her explaining deeper and accidentally giving me chores while she was at it.
Cause grandmothers slick like that.
You ask for wisdom.
Somehow end up washing dishes.
Then came Ursuline.
Then Orleans Avenue.
And by then I stopped asking questions.
Honestly, I had reached a point where I figured heaven itself moved every few years.
I accepted it.
Life became:
Pack boxes.
Follow Granny.
Eat.
Hear wisdom.
Repeat.
And every address carried something with it.
Saint Bernard taught me people.
Painters taught me adjustment.
Ursuline taught me patience.
Orleans taught me gratitude.
And Granny?
Granny was teaching me everything else.
Without speeches.
Without lessons written on chalkboards.
Nah.
Grandmothers teach different.
They teach washing dishes.
Teach sitting on porches.
Teach while staring outside windows.
Teach while cooking.
And Lord...
my Granny could cook.
Now hold on.
Lemme fix that.
Saying Granny could cook is disrespectful.
Baby my Granny wasn't cooking.
She was performing edible miracles.
I am fully convinced heaven accidentally sent down one of they chefs and disguised her as my grandmother.
Cause I don't care what she touched.
Red beans.
Greens.
Fried fish.
Rice.
Smothered this.
Smothered that.
Baby I think Granny could've boiled a boot and somebody would've asked for seconds.
And Lord have mercy when them smells started floating through the house.
Whew.
You ain't need no dinner bell.
You'd be somewhere minding your business and suddenly catch fried fish and seasoning drifting through the hallway.
That smell would grab your spirit.
Reach inside your chest.
And before you knew it your feet headed toward the kitchen before your mind even agreed.
Matter fact now that I think about it... half my memories got food attached.
Cause Granny cooked with more than seasoning.
She cooked with care.
Cooked with patience.
Cooked with prayer.
Cooked like every pot had little fingerprints of affection mixed in.
And another thing...
My Granny ain't have all this giant education folks brag about nowadays.
She wasn't walking around with degrees hanging from walls.
But let me tell yall something life eventually taught me:
Education and wisdom ain't always related.
Sometimes they cousins.
Sometimes they barely know each other.
Cause Granny had wisdom bigger than classrooms.
That woman could say one sentence and years later life would spin around and make them words hit you upside your spirit.
Whew.
And Lord help us when Granny had us walking.
Cause if I started complaining...
here she come:
"Hush puppies."
Now listen.
I still don't know exactly what hush puppies meant.
To this day.
Was it correction?
Warning?
Encouragement?
Threat?
Baby I still don't know.
But I knew one thing.
When Granny said "hush puppies"...
my next move was shutting my mouth immediately.
Cause grandmothers had codes.
And punishment?
Whew Jesus.
Let's talk about punishment.
See children today got timeouts.
Negotiations.
Conversations.
Baby not us.
Not back then.
Back then punishment felt Old Testament.
Moses era.
Cause after Granny whipped you...
Lord have mercy...
here come:
"Now go grab a piece of wall."
Now first of all...
what exactly is a piece of wall?
Cause I ain't never seen nobody remove wall pieces.
But somehow every child understood.
You'd stand there too.
Still sniffling.
Holding that wall.
Reflecting on every decision you ever made.
Talking directly to the Creator:
"Please... if You get me through this..."
Whole prayer life activated instantly.
And after all these years I laugh now.
Cause back then them whippings felt biblical.
But now I understand.
Even discipline had care hidden inside it.
Cause Granny wasn't trying to hurt me.
She was trying to straighten roads before I walked too far down em.
And whew...
life charges way more than Granny ever did.
Man and let me tell yall something else.
Granny had routes.
Not directions.
Routes.
Big difference.
Cause directions tell you where you headed.
Granny routes came with mystery.
We'd leave out the house and I'd think we going one place.
Whole time...
we stopping six other places first.
Standing on porches.
Talking to people.
And Lord...
talking.
Cause New Orleans folks don't have quick conversations.
Ain't no such thing.
You ask somebody how they doing and forty five minutes later somehow you know they nephew acting up, somebody auntie cooking gumbo Sunday, and a man named Peanut done moved back from Houston.
How we got there?
Baby I still don't know.
And Granny fit right in.
Meanwhile I'm sweating.
Kicking rocks.
Counting birds.
Thinking:
I live outside now.
This my life.
I'm porch people.
And now...
all these years later...
I still hear her.
Not with my ears.
Nah.
Some voices move deeper than sound.
Some folks leave fingerprints on your spirit.
And every now and then when life get heavy...
or fear start sitting beside me...
or I stand in front the refrigerator opening and closing it fifteen times like new food magically appeared...
I hear:
"Come on baby."
Cause old lessons don't leave.
They unpack themselves and move into you.
And every now and then I catch myself standing a certain way.
Laughing.
Looking out windows.
Saying little things.
And suddenly I smile.
Cause Lord have mercy...
that was Granny.
Still here.
Still leading.
Still moving.
And truth be told...
Home was never Saint Bernard.
Wasn't Painters.
Wasn't Ursuline.
Wasn't Orleans Avenue.
Wasn't even 2688 Jonquil.
Home...
was Granny.
And somewhere way down in my spirit...
I still see little old me trying to keep up.
Still confused.
Still asking questions.
Still trying to catch up.
And somewhere ahead...
I hear her voice floating back one more time:
"Boy stop standing around."
"Come on baby
Comments