As I walked through my grandmother’s house for the last time, I thought of the legacy she left behind as the artist, writer, record-keeper and hero of her family.

Written by Belle Wright

The smell of old books, antiques, and decades-old fabric fills my nostrils as I enter my great grandmother’s house for the last time. The floorboards creek underneath my feet while a slight wave of vertigo crashes over me as I walk across the unlevel floors.

Hanging on the walls of every other room were award-winning quilts adorned with a plethora of different colors and patterns, alluring paintings and old framed newspapers featuring my grandmother’s artistry over the decades.

“What does this say?” I asked while holding a piece of paper my great grandmother addressed to me before her passing. Her cursive handwriting was hardly legible. Our family often joked about how my dad and my grandfather were the only ones who could translate her written word.

“That’s a letter your grandma wrote about the stalker she had while she was in the Navy,” my grandpa said. “Her stalker?” I chuckled. My grandfather looked stoic for a moment; his eyes seemed to tell a story his lips couldn’t quite muster.

“Your grandmother was a powerful woman,” he said. “She had a lot of admirers.”

I peered down at the old black and white photo of her dressed in her Navy uniform smiling at the camera while a woman in the corner of the frame stared her down with a look of disdain.

Piles of stray pen and paper surrounded us. Binders full of genealogy reports, letters, and certificates of deaths and marriages within her family tree sat on dusty furniture that hadn’t been used in years.

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget. We don’t always choose to observe our ancestry and remember our past. Sometimes there is pain attached to those memories. Sometimes joy, sometimes hardship. Memories were something my great grandmother Mignonette held very close to her heart, no matter the emotion attached to them, and they happened to fill the space of nearly every square foot of her home.

Mignonette Wright was a woman of the arts. An illustrious artist and a talented writer who had her work displayed in city halls and hospitals.

She was born in 1924, a time when women were seen as caregivers and domestic servants. Any kind of creative expression was frowned upon — women were expected to take on the role of the homemaker.

She lived a long life of straying away from traditional roles. Her birth name was Betty Jones, but she legally changed it to Mignonette, a French name meaning “darling” or “cute” because the name Betty was “too boring” to her.

In 1944, she somehow worked her way into the U.S. Naval Academy. It wasn’t until 1948 that women were fully recognized as members of the American armed forces through the Women’s Armed Services Integration Act enacted by President Truman.

During her time in the Navy, she worked as an aqua graphic map specialist assigned to numerous top-secret projects. Sometimes she would view highly sensitive information even before the President of the United States could.

Her legacy continued after her service in the Navy. She taught English to foreign exchange students at the University of Washington.

The legacy she left behind started with being in one of the first families ever to settle in Auburn, WA. She lived through the Great Depression surviving only off of what her family could grow. Her family eventually gave up their land for the King County Boeing Field Airport to be built; a plaque dedicated to her family resides there to this day.

She kept a record of all of her experiences and addressed letters to the young women of our family. In her writings, she encouraged us to be strong against all odds, prioritize education, and be creative.

I remember sitting down with Mignonette many times when I was younger as she lectured me about how important my education was. She gave me vintage drawing books, colored pencils in my grandfather’s old cigar boxes, and other types of artistic material to encourage my creativity.

Now, writing has become my personal safe space. I have my own set of journals and strewn about papers where I keep my deepest thoughts and experiences written in my own version of hardly legible handwriting.

I pursue an education that encourages my creativity through words and have my own wall in my home dedicated to my art like she had.

My grandmother was more than just an inspiration to me, she was a hero. She paved the way through a time of darkness and oppression towards women and defied traditional expectations until the very end. She strengthened my desire to pursue my passions despite the obstacles I may face.

Everything in her home told a tale of a woman who experienced life to the fullest.

“I’m never going to forget this smell,” I said, breathing in the scent of old books and dusty fabric. “She wouldn’t want you to,” my brother laughed.

I stood still for a moment and just observed. I didn’t know if I would ever return to this home, full of my childhood memories and experiences that I can now only access from the depths of my psyche.

“Here’s one more letter that was addressed to you,” said my grandpa, as he came barreling in with another piece of paper in my grandmother’s signature handwriting. I took the letter and read the words written from a black pen that was slowly losing its ink. “So, enjoy life, follow your dreams, and learn as much as you can.”