Shame I

When I was but a kid, still in primary school, there was a yearly event where the sons of employees of the town's council were presented with gifts and extraordinary showings of Charlie Chaplin's movies. It generally happened during the Christmas season, and as my father was one such employee, I got invited as well.

These happened during works hours, so kids were accompanied by either their mothers -- who, in 80s Portugal were still mostly housewives -- or by willing grandparents.

In my hometown in particular sits a medieval castle where these events usually took place. Though at the time it seemed far, in terms of walking distance, it's a 10-minute trek that looks minute, these days. The castle stands on a hilltop, true, but only a hilltop as far as countryside Portugal would go.

Though I generally preferred staying home playing games on my Speccy, rather than mingle with other kids, I did go to a couple of these events. I remember one of them vividly because of the trek's implications. My grandparents were visiting, and my grandfather graciously accepted to take me to the event. During that specific period, my grandfather was declining, physically -- and it showed. He moved slowly, but could still get around, even though his activity levels had declined greatly, as he'd recently sold most of the land where he'd done absolutely manual agriculture throughout his life.

I wasn't always patient with him, because I've always been impatient and brash. But I loved my grandfather, so we took our time to get to the event. I held his hand all the way, which is something kids 8 or 9 years old aren't ashamed of doing yet.

I remember him chuckling as we were shown a collection of Charlot's best moments during the event. He had this genuine, heartfelt smile and was rarely angry at anything, just a good man, who was grateful with what he had and where he was. A man who could defuse discussions at lunch with the family, by stating how much he loved soup, for instance.

(Evidence of my grandfather's smile, with me to his right, and my brother to his left)

Even though we sat and got our rest to go about our way back, he struggled going down the castle entrance's stairs. I knew something was wrong, so I tried to have him hold my arm as we sauntered back. The urgency of the stroll took a different dimension, as I eventually had to steady him, as if he were staggering drunkenly.

People walking by started giving us dirty looks, shaking their heads in disbelief, as they saw a wee kid trying to keep this old man from falling to the ground, doing his very best to get him back home. And I felt too ashamed to say anything, to defend the man, and state that no, he wasn't drunk: he was just fragile, tired, and couldn't hold himself steady anymore.

We eventually got to a part of town, that had a sweet little garden by the river that crosses it, and I plopped him on a bench to try and get some help. I ran like a fucking maniac back home to get help from my parents. My father wasn't home, so I had to resort to a family friend's help -- the owner of a café downstairs from where my parents lived, who drove us back to where I'd left my grandfather alone, nighttime coming, December cold, and all.

I remember my grandfather's look of relief but also embarrassment. I remember having to say to our friend that he wasn't drunk, he had just physically collapsed. (He didn't believe me, at first)

But what I remember and still feel the most is the shame -- but not of being ashamed of my grandfather and what he looked like to others:

Shame of being ashamed of my grandfather.

(That man was just the fucking best.)