In honor of Memorial Day . . .
Suicide, murder, abortion. Psychotic episodes, rape and incest. You name it, it’s probably happened within my family. Divorce? Alcoholism? So tame. The sh*t I heard whispered low on the phone after relatives thought I was asleep as little girl, or the shit my Mom has told me when she was angry (which is almost all the time) . . . that shit would make your head spin if you were anyone but me. I keep forgetting this shit isn’t “normal,” – that I have to explain it to people who didn’t grow up like this.
How does it start?
There was so much I was never supposed to know about the people charged with my care.
One summer when I was growing up with my grandparents in Florida, I spent a few weeks with my “Aunt Nora” and her new husband, “Uncle Brett.” They had been together since they were teenagers. Everyone knew they were one of those rare couples who would naturally grow old and wrinkly together, twisting into each other like the roots on the trunk of an old Banyan tree. Their wedding was the first family wedding I was old enough to attend.
They had a pet boa constrictor who ate mice, who in turn ate Captain Crunch. I slept in the same room with the snake that summer and suffered from insomnia the nights she spent shedding her skin. The skin crackled and scratched against the glass of her cage.
Aunt Nora was so cool. She had gone to art school and told me all about how different crystals were filled with different sorts of energy. Clear quartz was just pure energy; if you held it for too long, you wouldn’t be able to get to sleep at all. Amethyst and Tiger’s Eye were protective crystals. Pink quartz were for fertility.
She wasn’t shy about talking about adult stuff, either. As the youngest of my six aunts on my grandmother’s side, she always felt more like a big sister to me. I remember once she was telling me about how she had always wondered what men did when they had to shit and piss at the same time. She asked Uncle Brett, who told her they just sat down to do their business and aimed their junk downwards. Fascinating information, whether you’re a new wife or an 11-year-old.
There was another reason why I loved hanging out with Aunt Nora and Uncle Brett so much. Uncle Brett was a teacher at my middle school, and he was best friends with the man who was going to be my science teacher the following year. Not that many people knew we were related, though, since he was white and I wasn’t.
After the summer weeks with the art and the snake and the crystals, Uncle Brett and I headed back to school. On weeknights during the school year, my ritual went as follows: dance class, dinner, then several rounds Super Mario Bros. and Duck Hunt. I played Nintendo in the formal living room while my grandparents watched the news in the family room on the other side of the house.
One night, I was playing Duck Hunt when a loud wail came from the family room. It was my grandmother, and it was unlike any other sound I had heard before or have heard since. I couldn’t even distinguish whether she was trying to make words, or whether someone had injured her. I could hear my grandfather speaking in the background, so I stayed put in the family room. I didn’t know what to do.
Eventually, my grandfather came to the living room to tell me in as few words as possible what had happened. My 11-year-old mind scrambled for images to complete his sentence. Only one image could really do it justice.
The next morning, I waited at the bus stop with the image of Uncle Brett hanging from a rope on an old Banyan tree on some land owned by his family nearby. My aunt had read his note and found him there herself.
The three kids who were always there at the bus stop with me spoke in hushed voices, asking each other if they had heard the news. They didn’t know he was my uncle until I told them.
“Is it true?” they asked me. They wanted to know whether he had really had an affair with that pretty blonde student one grade ahead of me. The image of my dead uncle dropped out of mind and was replaced with an image of the girl, physically mature for her age. My grandparents hadn’t mentioned that part to me. I still have the softcover yearbook with her picture in it.
Aunt Nora and my grandparents never did tell me what happened. I found out from rumors at school that my uncle may have been involved with this girl and was either about to get fired or my aunt was about to be made aware of the situation. I’ve always wondered about the truth but the acquiescent little girl inside just won’t let me ask.
This may not be true for most of you, but for us, it’s what we don’t talk about that makes us family. That’s why I’m here. This is my story.
NOTE: The above post was a story I was working on for another project. Names of family members have been changed out of respect for their privacy. It’s also the continuation of the life stories I’ve already posted here. This is a third draft, so if you have some constructive feedback, please leave it along with your comment.
