Audrey Garfinkel 1935-2025

RIP to my Grandma, democracy, innocence and feeling "cautiously pessimistic."

Last week amidst the devastation from the wildfires, and the anxiety of Trump taking office, my Grandma Aud— my last remaining grandparent— passed away. For someone who spent her entire life cultivating soap-opera like drama, this felt like her perfect way to go. She had a way of pulling focus, my Grandma Aud.

Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash

Her death wasn’t unexpected— when I had spoken to my father a couple weeks prior he referred to my Grandma’s state as being, “this is the end” — a phrase that felt so callous and confusing at the time, I asked him to repeat what he meant. So, we knew it was coming, but it still felt very quick, as I suppose death often does.

My Grandma’s last message to me. Felt poignant to share here, since I’m still trying to remain “Cautiously Optimistic”

We laid her to rest yesterday, the same day Donald Trump, and her self-proclaimed “hero” became President. As much as I resent it, her life and my relationship to her is intrinsically linked to the felon who is now serving his second term.

For the past few days, I have been in an undeniable grief haze. Part of it is the enormity of the loss combined with *everything else* while also being an under-employed single parent… it’s a lot at once. But I think the grief is hitting me so hard because I’ve now had to mourn my Grandma twice— during her actual funeral yesterday, and for the past decade when she became so unrecognizable from the person I knew and loved; the person she became after my Grandfather, her anchor, died. The only person she thought could fill that grief-filled space was “the outsider” who was going to save America— she became an ardent follower of Donald Trump. I watched in horror as my Grandma who had preached being a decent person and hard-worker was praising this liar and fraud as being the savior our country needed. My Grandma did need a savior at the time, and like many Americans, Trump spoon-fed her exactly what she needed to hear.

As his power grew, so did my Grandmother’s cruelty. She would pick fights and hurl insults, and if we disagreed, she’d back up her claims with “facts” that I’d recognize as Fox News soundbites. Every once in a while, she’d concede a point with a snicker, but otherwise: she was right, and the rest of us were wrong. There was no nuance anymore.

I’d seen glimpses of my Grandma’s casual cruelty towards others for years, but I had always been spared from it. I was the firstborn granddaughter of her firstborn and only son. When she retold the story of my birth, it was as if she was describing the birth of baby Moses, himself. And I think she really did feel that way— I was a miracle.¹

I was lucky enough to have my grandparents live down the street from us for most of my childhood. My brother and I would ride our bikes to their house, nearly every day, where she’d feed us sweets, and we’d watch old movies and soap operas. She had told me she had wanted to be a writer and actress when she was a kid, and those happened to be the things I was most interested in as a kid. I can still clearly remember when I was talking to her about what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said I couldn’t decide between being an actress or a writer. She responded with, “there are people who write movies, you know… you could do that. You’d be very good at it.” So, at ten-years-old, my Grandma had given me a purpose. I knew exactly what I wanted to do and I had one family member who would support me, no matter what.

She supported all of us in this way— always wanting to be first row for every event. I remember I was in a local production of Fiddler in the Roof. It was my first “starring” role, and I remember seeing my Grandma’s face filled with tears as I sang, “Far From the Home I love.” After the show, she came up to me and said I sang it better than the original actress. I certainly hadn’t, but that was the kind of delusional support she offered.

Pursuing a career in entertainment is no easy feat, but my Grandma supported it with unbridled enthusiasm. It wasn’t a matter of *if* I’d get an Oscar for her, it was a matter of when, (and she’d constantly remind me to thank her). During college, and those early days being a P.A., and the rejections, it was my Grandma I’d call for support. “I know it’s not easy,” she’d say in her heavily accented Brooklyn accent, “But I believe in you. You just gotta keep at it and eventually other people will see it, too.” And for years² I churned away like this— working diligently, but with not much to show for it.

My Grandma and I would talk weekly and I would send her some scripts I wrote. She’d always give some feedback, but mainly she’d just gush about my work. When I decided I wanted to write a musical drama about Vaudeville³ based on the stories she’d shared with me about her life growing up in Brooklyn, she’d never been happier. She gave me her old tapes and books, and couldn’t contain her glee when I told her I was naming the main character after her.

That’s how I want to remember my Grandma— as the steadfast cheerleader with an explosive laugh and a great story. The person who had been a safe haven for me as a kid. “You don’t ever have to tell me what’s going on, kid.. I know, I’ve seen things. Just come here. No questions asked.” The person who introduced me to Broadway and Vaudeville and Movies, and she would absolutely understand why each of those are capitalized. The one who let me eat Andes Mints and Cookies for a snack because “at Grandma’s house, anything goes.” And taught me the difference between men you swoon over (Cary Grant and Robert Redford) and men you marry (My Grandpa, hard workers). The one who told me she had always wanted to be a writer and actress, and who told me I should be a screenwriter while I was still in elementary school. The one who came to every play, cheer competition, reading, performance, etc, and if she couldn’t be there for some reason, would want a detailed recap afterward. The one who was so fiercely intelligent and taught me resilience and hard work are two of the most important skills you can have. The one who would speak her mind, no matter what, and taught me spicy women can get shit done, but you also need to have humility. The one I inherited my hourglass figure from, and the one who told me when I was a teenager that this body would be both an asset and curse, but both held power. The one who had the best gossip and stories, and knew how to put an outfit together. The one who took me shopping every year for my birthday, and the one I’d share ice cream and coffee with. I’m going to miss that version of Grandma so much, and I still can’t believe she’s gone.

After my Grandmother’s funeral, some of my family went back to the nursing home where she’d lived the past several years following my Grandpa’s death. A few people who knew her decided to share some words. One man began, “For those of you that know, Audrey would’ve been thrilled by what happened today. If you know, you know…” he said conspiritorialy. I’d like to think it was my Grandma’s spitfire spirit that coursed through me as I said quietly, but firmly, “we don’t need to start that right now.” But the man (as these type of men often do) continued, talking over me, “Audrey and I loved to chat about him. She was always representing her case with facts…” My Aunt and I exchanged a glance, then I said a little louder this time, “They weren’t actually facts, and we’re not doing this now.”

My Grandma’s belief in “Trump” robbed me of nearly a decade of good memories and a relationship with someone I deeply love. Another one of his idiot followers wasn’t going to rob me from properly grieving her.

Sending lots of love to everyone this week. I am going to *try* to remain “cautiously optimistic,” and I hope you will too.

1. My dad had an infection when my mom was pregnant with me that caused paralysis and almost killed him. His life-saving surgery took place the day after I was born, so my birth did bring some joy during a really scary time in my family’s life.

2. Fifteen, to be exact.

3. In other serendipitous timing, I just started outlining my pilot into a novel. I’m grateful for a creative project that’ll connect me to her.