Parker Shipton wrote a book entitled The Nature of Entrustment, which deals with the action implications of trust (“entrustment”) and of intergenerational and intra-familial obligation, among other things. Although his book, which I’m only halfway through, focuses on western Kenya, his words first brought to mind my own discussions with my mother about what we should do, what she wanted us to do, with her (abundant) belongings after her death. As I read Shipton’s book, I began to see this obligation issue popping up all over the place: in a novel set in Thailand by Colin Cotteril; at my cousin’s backyard barbecue last week; when my mother in law died last year. Shipton stresses the intergenerational concerns and obligations of the Luo in Kenya, but I realized that many of these are not so alien in my own family.
As my mother talked (finally, at the age of 87!) about what she wanted to happen with her belongings and finances, intergenerational issues emerged very clearly. She has items that belonged to her parents (to her mother, and to her mother’s people more than to her father’s). She feels (and I feel) an obligation to honor these items as links to our shared past, and as forward links to my children and their children’s future lives. The monetary value of these goods is irrelevant: the yellow china dishes that my mother’s mother got for a wedding gift and that have been displayed in my mother’s buffet ever since she had a place to display them (used only at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and washed carefully by hand); a small wooden statue of the Chinese god of longevity, which her father had enjoyed; the beautiful, abstract carving of a mother and child that my brother made in junior high school in honor of my own pregnancy; my maternal grandmother’s bell collection. Who gets them doesn’t matter so much as the fact that someone within the family maintains and cherishes them. There are also other things, thankfully rare within my own family, that come to symbolize some wrong not righted, never forgiven. We survivors are obligated to ensure that such a thing not go to the wrongdoer.
I also have things in my own home, the use of which I feel as part obligation, part delight. My paternal grandmother and her mother made me a quilt on which are embroidered the birds and flowers of each American state. They are set in a geometric pattern, with white and pink squares interspersed. Now, part of my ardent feminism has rendered me somewhat suspicious of things pink; and I wouldn’t, on my own, think to highlight these symbols of the American states in my home. Yet, I fondly use this quilt (which by chance matches the color of the walls in my bedroom), remembering my grandmothers and the love we shared each time I make the bed. I also have dish towels, hand-embroidered with childish patterns and the days of the week, which these same ancestors made for my ‘hope chest’ (a probably obsolete tradition for young girls, designed to accumulate the items a bride would need in her new home). My mild disapproval of ‘hope chests’ (with the pre-defined marital emphasis that was current during my youth) does not significantly reduce my enjoyment of using something that reminds me of my well-loved grandmothers. My daughter has altered the tradition, giving each of her children (including her son) a ‘memory box,’ full of of similar items with ancestral meaning.
My own status as the eldest daughter struck me as well. I realized that I had assumed, as did my mother, that I would bear the burden (and the right) of making most decisions that remained to be made after her death about her possessions. It is I who have badgered her to decide what she wants done; it is I who insisted she get legal advice on her will or trust and took her to consult with a lawyer. I see the same structural pattern in the family of my mother’s partner. His eldest daughter has—somewhat automatically also—taken the lead in deciding about his finances and possessions, as his mind has deteriorated. Interestingly, my sister in law, who is the youngest of four siblings in my husband’s family, but the only daughter, has also taken the lead in making these decisions about their mother’s finances. Other factors enter in: she is also a banker and thus more knowledgeable than the rest of us about things financial. Geographic proximity can also be a factor, as we learned from our neighbour who has borne the brunt of the duties related to disposing of his parents’ house, the house we bought.
When my husband’s mother died, and her adult children and grandchildren came together to empty her apartment, more cultural expectations emerged: I realized that I saw her children (my siblings in law) as having first rights, their children as having secondary rights, and I (and any other in laws and stepchildren) as having only tertiary rights to (or perhaps only interest in) any of her possessions. It was clear that we all agreed about that; they generously invited me to select items after the closer relatives had chosen, and in a few cases, relinquished their rights to something they did want, so I could have something they could see I admired. It was clear to us all, however (with nary a word spoken), that this was an act of generosity, and not my right. I find myself cherishing these items I received (a little painting, a pearl ring, a gold-colored cat on whose tail I can display jewelry, an antique monocle). They are reminders of my mother in law and valued symbolic links to my husband’s family and to some sort of shared destiny. I noted the same assumption about primary, secondary and tertiary rights, as my mother spoke of her belongings. She lumped her brother’s daughters (she had no sisters; her brothers had no sons), their children and my stepchildren together as having tertiary rights, as my in laws had done.
The issue of equity also arises. Those dying seem to want equity among their children. Yet in the families I know well—which fortunately are not marred by much strife—the members of each succeeding generation have shown a strong willingness to share, to acknowledge different needs and make various not necessarily equitable divisions—in some cases, for the financial benefit of their less well off siblings, and in all perhaps, to reinforce the connections among them, to emphasize their shared love at a time of expected loss. Would these kinds of decisions be more acrimonious if the need were greater? Perhaps.
I found myself considering these things as I weighed my own minimal needs against those of my considerably younger brother and my children (my mother’s grandchildren). I pondered how much I should be discouraging or encouraging my mother’s emphasis on sibling equity, when these issues would affect what would be ultimately available to my children. Where did my obligations lie? I found no easy answer, but my mother and I fashioned a compromise in which the funds she wanted to bestow on my children would reduce my own part of the 50-50 share between my brother and me. This solution seemed to address both equity and need, and my mother and I were both satisfied. We do not know the responses of others to this decision, as she and my brother ‘didn’t get around to discussing these things’ on his last visit. I will not be surprised if the first time this subject is discussed with him is by me at our mother’s death.
One of my cousins, the eldest of four daughters, is now coping with a shipment of her recently deceased mother’s (my aunt’s) belongings. Among them, are many expensive and beautiful antiques, obtained during her parents’ long travels and residences abroad. My cousin must cope with conflicting obligations: to maintain and cherish these things her mother so loved, which involves finding a place for them in her not-so-very-huge and already somewhat full house; to distribute them equitably among her children and other relatives [another case where we both saw me—her cousin/her mother’s niece—as having some sort of loose, tertiary rights/interests]; to donate them to a museum. She’s not sure what to do! I look forward to this daunting task, when my own mother dies, with fear and trepidation, despite the kindness, generosity, and understanding I know I can expect from my relatives. My mother is a collector with a house completely full of items she keeps primarily for their nostalgic value—something I feel considerable obligation to respect. She would surely prefer that my brother and I keep everything or distribute it all within the family. But she also knows that’s logistically impossible.
My daughter’s family is coming to visit at the end of this month. One of the things we plan to do is look at family handiwork I have accumulated. Some came from my mother’s family; others were made by my father’s mother and grandmother; there are even a couple of items that my father embroidered himself as a young child. All have been in storage for decades, and are now available for viewing and using. My (oldest) daughter and I agreed that we don’t really care in most cases, whether they are at my house or hers, but that we want them to remain in the family.
I think we middle class, white Americans—enmeshed in our bilateral, matrifocal kinship system—may be as invested in links between the past and the future as the Luo are, in our own somewhat different way. But … I’ll have to see if the rest of Shipman’s book proves me wrong.