Fucked up or not we're family after all!

Image courtesy of Flickr (psycho_pixie)

Hesitant.  Ambivalent.  Wary.  These were the feelings rushing through my existence this past weekend.  Why?, you ask.  Because all of those tags were directly related to my maternal family.  Before I had a moment to realize what was in store for the weekend, I was faced with having to:  Re-unite.  Re-connect.  Re-discover (in a way).  The interesting part would be that I would be pleasantly surprised at the turn of events.  Here's an in a 'nut shell' break down of my Mother's past.

My Mom is one of ten children. She was born in 1955 (1 Brother deceased since 2005).  My Mother's Father (I don't regard him as my Grandpa because he barely knows my name, nevertheless, which kid of his kid's I belong to-I'm not bitter...), according to my Mother, was barely there for his children.  He was known as 'the beater' or severe authoritative parent because he worked too much and loved too little, except when he'd get his submissive wife (my Mom's Mom) knocked-up year after year with little to no breaks in between child births.  So my Mom was child number seven and the first girl after six boys so she inevitably became "Daddy's Little Girl" (sort of).  When her Father wasn't whipping them with a cherry branch, he was probably making one of his son's kneel on sand paper while holding two brick blocks in either hand for hours on end.  Her Father considers himself a 'Man of God' because after all, your terrible sins will be wiped clean no matter how much damage you've caused your child. Right?  So all ten children grew up but they were ALL undoubtedly *fucked up*.  Don't worry, my Mother is the FIRST one to attest to this fact.  So let's fast forward to 2011...

I attended a BBQ in honor of a 'mini-reunion' hosted and coordinated by one of the ten siblings.  There were hugs and kisses and new dentures to admire and 'My how you've grown!' statements tossed around and belly laughs and chuckles that gave me and the others stomach cramps.  It was fun.  It was different.  It was an unusually small gathering which was nice for a change.  My Mom's Dad admired my three little girls and nervously mentioned how 'she looks like you when you were little' while I smiled at his statement and thought, how in the world would you remember?  But I carried on and engaged with the family, my family, my blood, my Mother's past and my present.  It was peculiar and amazing all at once.  Sharing a gathering with someone (Mom's Dad) whom had never cared to spend any time with his children and now grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  He's 92 years old now.  So strange...


My pleasant surprise would not reveal itself until I initiated a conversation with one of my Uncles.  It started like "So, how have you been, Tio (spanish for Uncle)?" and we'd carry on for what would seem to be hours but in all reality was probably just forty-five minutes.  We'd talk about his past and his pain.  We'd talk about my past and my pain.  We'd both share our sexual abuse stories.  We'd cry together, hug each other, listen, cry some more, and hug some more.  He'd finally tell me that all his siblings are fucked up and that every single one of them were, to some degree, abused.  Suddenly, I'd get to see a glimpse of him.  The un-jaded, unscathed, trauma free little boy still trapped inside of him.  That same little boy was screaming and asking for help for love and compassion.  I would then look at him and tell him, 'I see YOU.  I see that beautiful loving, sweet you and I love him.'  He'd confide some terrible truths of his past and how he was never loved by his Father and how his Mother had too many children to give her undivided attention to.  Then of course, my conversation would be interrupted by one of my children telling me that her sister poked her cheek and said "I don't like you!"  But then I would have another opportunity to share the glimpse of beauty and rawness I saw in my Uncle during our heartfelt conversation just moments before.

After the dinner, some family members would go around speaking a few words.  Words of appreciation. Words of delight.  Words of thankfulness that we could share this short but special moment together.  My Mother would inevitably cry and not be able to utter a single word, just sniffles and moist eyes.  That same Uncle's turn would snake it's way around the long table and he'd turn down the moment to speak.  He'd simply lower his head and be silent.  Then I'd stand up and decide that I would speak for that Uncle of mine.   I'd share with everyone present that he 'is a special man that is full of love and full of life.' I'd mention how him and I have a common thread and how in the most unlikely of places and moments little glimpses would reveal themselves and how 'I saw HIM and his beauty.  And that 'in spite of our flaws, and differences and complicated lives, the one constant reminder is that we are family.  We are raw, not perfect but simply real.'  


Because, fucked up or not we're family after all!


Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. -L. Tolstoy from Anna Karenina, Ch. 1, first line