Wednesday, November 9, 2016 // The Statement 
7B

by Jackie Charniga, Daily News Editor
A Toast to Grandpa John

I

’d wake up feeling sticky. The inside of my mouth, my 
hair, my skin. I would lurch out of the twin bed and 
stumble over to the sink in my dorm room to survey 

the damage. It was all a smudge. My eyeliner down my 
face. My memories of the night before.

I always knew if I had smoked because my chest hurt 

and my fingers tasted salty. I knew what I had eaten 
because it was smeared on my sheets. I knew what I was 
wearing because it would be crumpled on the floor. I had 
clues, and with those I could piece together what I could 
not remember.

This past summer I studied abroad in Oxford, England, 

for five weeks. I stayed at Magdalen College, one of the 
38 colleges that make up the university — which can get 
confusing. Founded in 1458, Magdalen has its own living 
quarters, classrooms, chapel, graveyard, library and lec-
ture halls. It even has its own bar.

I adored that bar for being so peculiar and un-Ameri-

can. There’s nothing like it at the University of Michigan, 
where I would be continuing my senior year that fall. I 
can only imagine the wealth of furious emails the Office 
of Student Life would receive if the Michigan Union 
started serving happy hour for undergrads. But here 
it was commonplace, part of the tradition with which I 
would dive in head-first to engage. The bar was situated 
near the stairs to the dining hall, and after dinner I would 
wait until its doors opened at 7 p.m. Charmed as I am by 
young men in black T-shirts pouring me drinks, I spent a 
great deal of my time and money at the Old Kitchen Bar. I 
was unaware, however, that I toasted each hard cider and 
single malt scotch to my departed grandfather.

Grandpa John, with his funny quirk of getting drunk 

and belting his children, was the nightmare that haunt-
ed my youth and young adult life. He was an anecdote, a 
punchline, a warning and a promise. But more than that, 
he was a folk story, dusted off by my aunt and occasion-
ally my mother every time I went out to a party or, when I 
became of age, a bar with my friends.

It was in England when I first began to think seriously 

about my grandfather John, a man I had never met nor 
had anything in common with besides one-quarter of my 
genes. John had been a soldier during WWII, when he 
met my grandmother while stationed in her tiny Italian 
village. He survived a Russian labor camp, and left his 
entire family behind to start a new life in Canada and 
then eventually America. He died in the 1980s of prostate 
cancer and it was one of those deaths that wasn’t sad for 
everyone. Because John was an asshole.

My grandmother — my Nona, as they say in Italy — 

wears a hearing aid. It used to malfunction constantly. It’s 
probably the most irritating part of my childhood, listen-
ing to it whistle and chirp at me. “What? What? What did 
she say?”

He broke that ear, John did. More specifically, the 

eardrum, by throwing her up against the wall time after 
time, day after day. It ripped or shattered or whatever 
eardrums do when they stop working. Thirty years after 
his death, technological advancement replaced what he 
took from her. But my grandmother’s whistling ear was a 
reminder growing up, that somewhere in the mess of spi-
rals and double-helixes was the capacity to lose myself to 
an addiction and use it against the ones I love.

Our last evening at Magdalen was my worst. I will never 

forget what I can remember about that night. During our 

final formal dinner we had, as usual, a champagne recep-
tion on the gorgeous green lawns of the Harry Potter-
esque quadrangle. One glass per student was the rule. But 
for a special bon voyage, they’d “top up” our glasses, the 
posh British way of saying bottomless bubbly. The server, 
an Italian whose name sounded like a cleaning product, 
was particularly generous.

Throughout the program, they would serve us wine 

just once a week during Monday night dinners. For the 
first course we’d always have a white wine that tasted like 
vinegar. Tonight, it was sweet. But the red wine with the 
entree was seductive, wet and deep. I had three of those. 
My speech began to slur. Speaking to my tutor — who had 
yet to finalize my grade — across the dining table was a 
struggle. My dress felt tight and my face grew increas-
ingly hotter. I couldn’t hear her over the sound of my 
drunkenness, as if the wine was sloshing around in my 
ears. I couldn’t even hear me. I must have known to slow 
down because I only had two glasses of port, a heavily 
saccharine wine, when it was served with chocolate and 
strawberries. Delicious.

I ran wild that last night in Oxford. Only flashes remain. 

We ended up, as one does, at the Half Moon, because it 
was a townie bar that opened late. It was the definition of 
quaint, with low ceilings with wooden beams and a juke-
box in the corner. It was where the old English drunks 
would wash in like debris from the tide. We washed in, 
too, with bodies full of wine that clouded our vision and 
judgement.

That night was a hazy kaleidoscope of semi-familiar 

faces. Someone thought it was a good idea to buy me a 
shot of vodka. I remember finding this hilarious, and 
then very little after that. I shouted instead of speaking. I 
tripped as I was walking. I left when I should have stayed.

One of the bartenders at the Half Moon — I told you, I 

have a thing for bartenders — was called Tobias. He had 
studied philosophy, pulled his hair back into a bun and 
could roll a perfect joint. We went out for a cigarette and 
he took me around the bar, pressing me up against the 
wall. He kissed me sloppily, or I could have been the slop-
py one, his hands gripping my arms to keep them against 
the bricks. One of his hands shifted to stabilize my shoul-
der while the other slipped down my pants.

I retained enough sense, enough self, to shove Tobias 

off, my own back still against the bricks of the Half Moon. 
He was grinning, having gotten more than he’d expected. 
He asked if I wanted to come back to his place. I mostly 
wanted to throw up.

It was late. We stumbled back to the front of the bar 

where my friends stood waiting. They wanted to go home. 
His hand was still around my waist.

I found out later from a friend that he had a girlfriend. 

I found out later that he asked that same friend if she was 
interested in having a threesome. I found out later the 
plan was to include me.

I was swaying lightly in the shadows in front of the bar 

while my friends looked on with pained expressions. I 
said things no rational person would. I leaned against him 
heavily. I deliberated when I should have been deliberate. 
I lingered, but I should have left.

The hangover lasted until the plane cleared 

Greenland. For every minute of the eight-hour 
flight, I felt that I deserved it. I felt like a dried-
up starfish without a sand dollar to my name. 

Mostly because I had run out of money. I had worked and 
saved all summer, and now I didn’t have enough cash left 
for the bus ticket to the airport, or even a cup of coffee. 
My friends paid my way. My friends held my hand. My 
friends got me home.

After Oxford, I had scared the living shit out of myself. 

I felt guilty for what I had put my friends through, for 
forcing his weaknesses on them. Mine or his? Who was 
driving that night: John, or me? I resolved to abstain from 
alcohol. 

This plan backfired quickly. By not drinking, I didn’t 

feel a return to self. I felt that I was depriving myself. 
“You’re not drinking?” they’d say, like they didn’t know 
what else to do with me if I was sober. “Is something 
wrong?”

Yes, I would argue to myself. Something is wrong. It’s 

my damn Grandpa John. I let him win.

I started drinking again about two weeks after I got 

back from Oxford. I was sitting on my couch in my old 
apartment next to a friend. I had a long conversation with 
the man behind the counter at the liquor store. He hadn’t 
seen me in a while. Wanted to know where I’d been

I got drunk that night, but was focused on not losing 

myself. I sent my friend home at a respectable hour and 
went to bed. It was a test, and by my standards, I had 
passed.

I’m certainly not the first student to overindulge while 

abroad. Many of my friends have described similar expe-
riences where nights bled into days and afternoons try-
ing to study or travel through hangovers. But without the 
threat of John, I wouldn’t have taken it so seriously. Or 
so personally.

I haven’t given up drinking. I may never. I don’t think I 

have a problem. Regardless, it’s not in my nature to quit. 
It’s not in my genes.

ILLUSTRATION BY EMILIE FARRUGIA

