That’s what you always said when I called to check on you. Even when I knew your body was tired, even when I could hear the pain in your voice, you said it like it was the only answer worth giving. “What’s the use of complaining?” And somehow, in that one sentence, you taught me more about strength than I could have learned in a lifetime of books. You didn’t pretend things were easy. You just chose to keep going anyway.

Even in those last days you never complained. When the air was too thin, or the room was too hot. You just asked for a comfort adjustment which I was always happy to oblige. When you were told that you needed to wear the life vest to continue your days, you said ok, “order the life vest now so I can leave this hospital and go home.”

I should have stayed longer, spoke louder, said more. We were both processing what we knew was the end of our time together on this side of the earth. One thing is for sure, no one can say I didn’t do what I said I would. No one can say I didn’t take care of you. As promised, when the time came, I came to be at your side right to the end.

I’m rolling into two months since you transitioned. That’s two months of me wanting to call and ask you something for nothing. Me wanting to call for the tea as if you’re bearing witness to the shitshow you predicted. Your children are living out what you envisioned. The lies, bickering and lies…if it wasn’t predicted would be comical and I stay grounded in what you told me. “Once my two eyes are shut, all of this won’t make me no never mind.” That’s what brings me peace. You aren’t here to watch the bullshit.

I wish I would’ve told you exactly how much you mean to me. You were the one constant in my life. While always delivering the measuring guidance of a parent with the unmistakable unconditional love of a grandparent. You always told me like it was, if I was wrong you would be the one to tell me I was wrong and if they were wrong you would tell me that they were wrong. I knew the loss of you would be great and I’m not sure I’ll ever really know as each time a new wave of grief hits I pause, cry, reflect and try to move through it. You were my constant and that I will miss.

The stories we shared are my treasured gifts from you. Hearing you tell me how you came to be, how we came to be, are my reminders, my guidepost. I often think about how you found your way back to your family at 16 after being handed over to missionaries, “the friends”, as you call them, at just three months old. That story is unbelievable and if I hadn’t heard it right from you and your sister I don’t think I ever would.

Or the story that I got to watch come full circle, bringing you back in touch with a man you helped raise. I mean I always heard the stories as a child how you helped raise politicians but to hear it from the recipients of your love. I am not going to lie, hearing him say how much he loved your chocolate chip cookies made me wonder why you never made us cookies. I chalked it up to chocolate chip cookies not being Coolie food.

One of my favorite stories is around my dad marrying my mom and two things; how much grandpa didn’t want it to happen and how you whooped my dad on his wedding day. First off grandpa was right-that family is trash. Second off…good for you. Third those two are either the perfect miserable fit or the worst couple on the planet. Either way they deserve the paths they are walking.

As I sit here watching the sunset writing this tribute to you, this memory piece, to process some of this grief that now lives within me - I am glad I recorded your stories. I wish I had recorded more. I miss you grandma.

One evening, lying next to her as she recounted yet another story from her past, I found myself drawn into a narrative I hadn’t heard before—one that linked her journey from Jamaica to the United States with a name that had just flashed across the television screen. What started as a nostalgic conversation soon turned into a mission, one that would bridge generations and bring an unexpected voice from her past back into her present

Laying next to her, listening to her stories, has always been my favorite past-time and that night was no exception. I took the trip to Florida to do just that...lay and listen. My grandmother is 86 years old and each time we talk she reminds me that she is getting old but rounds out the conversation with “but what’s the use of complaining?”

As we lay and watch the news stories recount and analyze the day’s impeachment process my grandmother’s memory was ignited. Representative Elissa Slotkin flashed across the screen and my grandmother’s story began. She started explaining how she came to the United States from Jamaica in 1966, sponsored by a family with the last name of Slotkin.

“You know, Curt is her father? The other day me ask Nee Nee...Nee Nee, let me tell you what you can do for me. Go upon the internet and bring up the Slotkin’s name for me. When she did, boy, Todd, who me a look after when me first come up here, what a way he did favor his father. When you look upon Todd he was the same person as his father. There’s only four boys them did have. There was Donald, Mitchell, Todd and Curt. I think Todd was 12 going on 13. Todd married and lives in New York. The only thing is that the internet did not give no telephone number, it was only where they work. If I really did have a telephone number for him, I would have surely called him. I would say, Todd do you remember Cynthia? I know he would say yes because he would always beg me to make chocolate chip cookies for him.”

As I laid next to grandma I began to Google Todd Slotkin. The search returned a banker, top business executive in New York. I clicked on his LinkedIn profile and showed it to her. “Is this him grandma?” She confirmed. That night as I laid in bed I continued to Google searching trying to find a way that I could send Mr. Slotkin a message letting him know my grandmother knew him and would like to reconnect. The only way I could see to connect with him was sending a message via LinkedIn but because of his status I needed to have a premium subscription. This was for my grandma...so I subscribed and at 8:28pm clicked on the message button and wrote

Reconnecting - My Grandmother’s Plea

Greetings Mr. Slotkin,

My name is Sandra. We don’t know each other but my grandmother knows you and your family. I am reaching out on her behalf. My grandmother is Cynthia. Over the past week she has shared many colorful and fond memories of her time with your family during your childhood. She told me about the years she lived with your family and helped care for you and your siblings. During our conversations she expressed how she would love to reconnect with you.

A phone conversation with you would be so exciting for her. Being 86 years old I can’t guarantee she will answer an unfamiliar phone number but maybe I can help make the connection. I apologize if this message has reached you in error but if I indeed have contacted the right Todd Slotkin I hope you are willing to talk to her. I would be forever grateful.

Sandra

I felt that expecting a response from Todd was too much to ask for. He is after all the Managing Director and Global Head of an Asset Management company, not to mention it had been over 40 years since he last saw my grandmother.

After sending the LinkedIn message, I began thinking about other stories grandma told me about Todd, specifically the one about the infamous party. Apparently the Slotkin parents left for an extended vacation and grandma was caring for the boys. She said one night Todd had managed to barricade and lock her into her bedroom not allowing her access to the main house. Grandma said Todd threw a party. A party with loud music. A party that ultimately resulted in the police being called. Grandma said she had to call a friend to come over to help her get out.

“Hi Sandra. This is Todd Slotkin calling. I got your message and I was reaching out. It’s about 1:20pm on the 21st. I just wanted to touch base with you. If possible, I would like to talk to you before I talk to your grandmother, who I definitely remember. Just to catch up about her so that I understand. From the area code 305 it sounds like she’s in Florida. Anyway hope she’s in good health and I look forward to hearing from you. Bye.”

I could not believe what I was hearing. Todd Slotkin had called me back and he had remembered my grandmother. I could tell that this was going to be monumental. As I grow older I wonder in amazement at life’s interesting twist and turns. This was a twist I had never seen coming. I called Todd back. We talked briefly about his remembrance of my grandmother. He said that his brother Curt also remembered my grandmother. Todd Slotkin said that he also connected with the Goldberg’s who remember both my grandparents and that my grandfather used to work for the Goldberg’s at their movie theater. (Note to self investigate movie theater story.) He wanted to be reassured that grandma’s health could withstand his call. He asked me not to warn her that he was calling because he wanted to surprise her and we made arrangements to reconnect after his attempt to connect in case she didn’t answer.

I immediately texted my cousin Nee Nee to tell her to call me after work. When she called I told her she needed to go over to grandma’s house right away because I had found Todd Slotkin and he was going to be calling around 4pm. I told her that it was a surprise and she just needed to make certain grandma picked up the phone.

When Nee Nee got there it was 3:54pm, the phone rang and she texted me. Nee Nee said that by the conversation it was definitely not Todd because grandma was talking about a cesarean section. We texted feverishly back and forth hoping that grandma either ended the call or at the very least knew how to click over to the second line. After 32 texts, at 4:11pm, grandma hangs up the phone and as soon as she does the phone rings again. The texting begins again…

Nee Nee: OMG she wasn’t going to answer.

Nee Nee: I had to make her answer.

Me: Is it him?!

Me: Record her

Nee Nee: sends video of grandma smiling “Yes Todd, I remember you.”

5 minutes pass without texts

Me: Is she still on the phone???

Nee Nee: Yes

Nee Nee: She got mad at me because she tried to act like she wasn’t home

Nee Nee: He asked for her and she said she wasn’t home and wanted to take a message

Me: 🫤

Nee Nee: Then when he said it was him, she told him to hold on and

Nee Nee: her voice changed “Hi Todd, this is Cynthia.”

Me: Get outta here

Nee Nee: I’m dyinggg. You don’t understand how hard I just died.

Once grandma was off the phone, Nee Nee and I faced time. Hearing the joy in grandma’s voice, seeing the smile on her face. A phone call just made her year and mine as well. As Nee Nee and grandma recanted the story of how grandma answered the phone and began to pretend she wasn’t home I laughed until I cried. Grandma was so shocked and happy. She didn’t believe the reconnection could have ever happened. She asked why did I do that to her, why didn’t I let her know he would be calling. I smiled and said you asked me to look him up and I did. You asked me to see if I could find his phone number and I did. He asked if you were in good health and could handle his call. You are. He asked if he could call and surprise you and he did. My phone was ringing. It was Todd Slotkin. I disconnected the face time call to answer.

Todd began to tell me about his call with grandma. I didn’t let on that I was in the room during the call via text message. He sounded just as cheerful as grandma did just seconds ago. He told me that he was shocked at her memory of their time together including the infamous party. He said he promised my grandmother pictures and wanted an email address to send them to, I gave him mine and assured him that between my cousin and myself grandma would get his pictures.

I called grandma and Nee Nee back. I told them that I had to answer Todd Slotkin’s call and that he would be sending pictures my way which I would forward. Grandma was still giddy and gleeful. One phone call has filled so many people with joy.

Email from Todd Slotkin

Your grandmother was always very good to us. My brothers and I all remember her and her husband. I would say that she was with us from 1965-70. Could be off a year or two. She used to come with us to our farm in Michigan which we still own and my niece, Elissa, lives there. Hope she likes the pictures. Tried to show the different brothers and kids. Hope that I made her smile and laugh. She always brought that to our house.

As I listened to my grandmother relive her past, I realized that this wasn’t just about a phone call—it was about legacy, memory, and the unseen threads that connect us across time. What began as a simple request to look up an old family had turned into something much greater: a bridge between generations, a moment of joy for my grandmother, and a reminder that history is not just something we read about—it’s something we live, carry, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, get to relive.

This chronicle is just one of many, a testament to the ways our stories refuse to fade, waiting for the right moment—and the right person—to bring them back to life.

Coolie🇯🇲🇮🇳. Wife. Granddaughter. Mother. Gigi. Daughter. Black. Woman. Lesbian. Friend. Writer. Reader. Elected official. Leader. Educator.

I am all of these things. But here on Substack, I am, first and foremost, a writer. I’m here to tell my story—the story of my life, my paternal grandmother’s life, and the invisible thread that binds us. Or maybe I’m charting my journey to 50. Maybe this is just an elaborate form of journaling. Whatever it is, I am here to write.

I am the eldest daughter of an immigrant father and an American-born mother. The third grandchild and first granddaughter of my Jamaican-Indian paternal grandparents. The fourth grandchild and second granddaughter of my maternal immigrant grandfather and grandmother, a descendant of enslaved people owned by the Maxwell House Coffee legacy family.

I am the mother of five—three I birthed, two I gained through love. My wife and I are BiBi and GiGi to five grandchildren, including two who came to us through my cousin, who is more like a daughter. Our family tree doesn’t follow a straight line, but every branch is wrapped in love.

This is my lineage in the most basic format and not at all as descriptive as my results as detailed by Ancestry.com. I don’t know what I expected from Ancestry.com, but somehow, I was still a little disappointed. Nothing really surprised me, but two things stood out. First, my mother’s mother’s side traces straight back to slavery, as expected. Second, while I always knew my dad’s family was Jamaican and Indian, I didn’t realize just how much of their DNA was Indian versus African—24% Deccan & Gulf of Mannar, 13% Gujarat, 13% Bengal, 20% Nigerian.

100% Coolie.

And with that, The Coolie Chronicles were born.

Subscribe now