Grandmere Mimi profiled

The Huffington Post’s Georgianne Nienaber profiles Grandm√®re Mimi, a blogging Episcopalian from Louisiana who has made up her mind.

As it turned out, this blogging “Grandmere” (Cajun for grandmother) from red McCain country has a lot to say about southern living, poverty, Louisiana’s resources, the wetlands, families, and gay rights.

Mimi describes a father who was a “gifted man,” but hopelessly addicted to alcohol, and a mother depressed for most if not all of the marriage. Something happened to Mimi when she was twelve years old and she just “decided that even though my childhood was awful, traumatic really, that as I grew up the choices would be mine. I decided I did not want to make a life like the one my father made for himself.”

Therein rests the origin of her blog title, “The Wounded Bird.” Mimi describes “a wounded bird syndrome” that influences those who have endured hardship to be more empathetic to suffering.

“I grew up poor, but we always had music and for some reason that enriched my life and made me aware that even though there was often no food on the table, there was something more to life.”

. . . .

One might be surprised to learn that a 74-year-old Cajun grandmother is a fearless advocate for gays and lesbians, but there you have it. I never thought to ask, but Mimi wants it clearly understood that “One of my causes is inclusivity for gays and lesbians in my church. If a church can’t be inclusive…” she says as her voice trails off to the obvious conclusion.

Why is this issue of so much importance to a woman who has no gay members of her immediate family?

“My conversion is a long story that covers a number of years,” Mimi says, and then directs me to a web log she wrote: Confessions of a Recovering Homophobe

Her “confessions,” are a four part series, and a must read.

Here is an excerpt involving her husband, Tom, getting used to the idea that gay friends would be staying with them.

“Since ours is an empty nest, and we have not moved to a smaller house, we have bedrooms to spare. Our guests arrived, and I introduced T., and we met N., who was a absolute dear. I took them upstairs to unload their luggage and showed them the rooms and told them to sort themselves out wherever they chose. When I came back downstairs, my husband asked me who was sleeping where. I said that T. and N. had chosen our daughter’s old room. He said, ‘That has a queen bed in it.’ I said, ‘Yes. Which room did you want them in? The one with the twin beds?”‘ He laughed.

Mimi had once again made up her mind.

Read: Gumbo Granny Blogs From the Bayou for Obama

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