Click here to download the transcript from Grandmothers: Malpa and Myrtle.

I started rebelling at a young age, like a very young age. I was born into, and raised within an extremely conservative and Christian household, like some real “Footloose” shit, right? So, there was no dancing, no makeup, no jewelry, vegetarianism, modest dress. We couldn't watch TV on the Sabbath.

So, it's 1985 and I was six years old, and I was over it. So, I started practicing little acts of civil disobedience. I would strap oak leaves to my feet, bound by rubber bands instead of putting on my church shoes. I would engage in ferocious debates as to why I should be able to watch the 1981 Greek mythology cult classic, “Clash of the Titans” on the Sabbath because it was about gods.

But my pièce de résistance came when I was dropped off for school and, before I went to class in the first grade, I snuck into the bathroom and I changed into a t-shirt that I'd cut the neck out of. And I slung it low, and I put on a bow in my hair, and I put jelly bracelets all the way up to my elbows that I had borrowed from the bad girl on the block. And I sauntered into class and I was immediately sent home.

And it was at this time that my grandmothers decided to intervene, because, they saw a little bit of themselves in a little bitty Aubrey. Now they didn't know each other, and they lived in different cities, but separately and respectively, they decided to create the sanctuary where my wild spirit could roam free. Because they had been wild, they didn't abide by rules and they did not abide by convention.

So my Nana, she had been a flapper, and she brewed whiskey during Prohibition. And my Grandma Hall, she was a boxer, and she was voted the most beautiful divorcee of Los Angeles, 1948. And she accepted that award with three children from three different husbands in tow. And they took me under their wing.

And I remember that first day that my parents dropped me off to my nana's house. And she said, "Come here."

And she took me back to a dresser drawer, and she said, "Open it."

And I pulled it open, and it was like a portal into another world. And inside were a dozen polyester, handmade bikinis and chunks of costume jewelry. And from then on out, every weekend that my parents dropped me off, she and I would gingerly wave goodbye, and as soon as they were down the street she'd say, "Go!"

And I would strip down and I would put on my outfit, and I would run to her backyard and we would turn on her sprinklers full blast. And I would dance for hours, underneath the Southern California sun and the orange trees.

And when I went to my Grandma Hall's house, with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and a 40 of Old English in her hand, she would slip me some brandy- filled chocolates, a pair of high heels, fire engine red lipstick, and a Walkman. And I would listen to "When the Doves Cry" on repeat, rewinding over and over, singing at the top of my lungs. And she would scream, "Aubrey, your mother is on her way!" 

And I would run and we would scrub the makeup off of my face, and I would put on my knee-length skirt, and I would sit on the couch, and I would wait.

And it was that same year that my mother's breast cancer returned. And it was unforgiving. So, while my mother was dying, my grandmothers were teaching me how to be alive, without concern for judgment, and living unencumbered.

Because, my Nana would say, "Life is too short." And because, my Grandma Hall would say, "Life is too long, so live free." And it was those two women who laid the groundwork and set the trajectory

for how I would continue to live the rest of my life. So, any time I have just a moment of second-guessing the decisions I've made

in my life, or I have a hint of regret, I take a moment and I think back to that year, and this flash of memory where I'm surrounded by citrus trees. And I'm looking over my shoulder, through these wet tendrils of long hair, and I catch that gaze of my Nana in her kitchen window, and she has a huge smile on her face. And I focus foreword and I go dance.

Thank you.