To My Family
I was outside smoking a cigarette. Unfortunately my last. I hope my roommate picks me up a pack.
And I started thinking about her. I think about her a lot. I love her so much.
And for whatever reason it made me think about them. Maybe it was the short leap within my heart–from the one I love that I do not call family, to the ones I love so dearly that I do. But I started thinking about everything they mean to me, and what they’ve done. I have to get it out. I have to speak.
To the east coast. You’re so Italian it hurts. You live within hours from one another, but all call a different state home. New England doesn’t even begin to describe you. Growing up…I hated you. I hated you. I wanted you to love me so badly, but I felt like my family was ostracized. The derelict daughter who chased a boy and a dream into the deep south. We had somehow forsook an ancient code, a fidelity unwritten, but so clearly felt.
I felt your pretension. I felt as if you viewed us as inferior, as trash and rabble. Hillbillies on the frontier. Red state residents who didn’t deserve the honored seat at the table in which you so cherished. You rarely visited, and in so many cases you never visited. Our humble lives on the plains of North Texas seemed so inconvenient.
I hated it. I wanted your love so badly. I wanted to enjoy your food and have you regale me with tales of your youth. I wanted your accent. You made me feel like mine was such a shackle. A brand of ill omen, clearly marking me as fallen. I would speak to you all from time to time and end each call with the hollow and obligatory, “I love you,” that assuredly sounded as fake as it felt.
I didn’t know you. How could I..?
Growing old and growing up has done a lot for us. I realize now that you do not hate me. You do not despise us for our flight. In fact, I feel now more than ever I command your respect. I have achieved so easily what so many of you have struggled to do. I am the son of the great betrayer, and believe me I am his son. While I was given the gift of gab which you all so perfectly possess, I am that which none of you are: the prodigal son of Craig Griffin, and his gifts run through me. And I know you respect me.
I know you love me.
And for the longest time, I did not. It hurt so badly. Spending time with you as an adult has done so much for us. I have seen all of you in me. What should have been so obvious throughout the years–the wit, the various neuroses, and of course the fine tastes–are now so apparent. We are family, and you mean so much to me.
I miss you all. God, I miss you. I missed you for what seems like a lifetime. I am still the derelict, still part of the family that left the family. But I have a seat at your table. I suppose I always did. Now, I feel as if I am wanted there. I know you all never meant to do this, or to make me feel this way. You were simply living your lives…you had other family so close. But growing up without you wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy at all…
To the hooligans. You all are so ridiculous it hurts. But god knows I love you for it. A family of abused children. One sister, three brothers. A history that is so insane, so rife with toil and tragedy that at times I am simply overcome. Yet, you all stayed close. From Pennsylvania to Carolina back down to Texas…I never felt like you were far away. We share a last name and a camaraderie that transcends typical family.
I love you. I always have.
I sometimes lay in bed and wonder what awful things you all went through at the hands of my father’s father. I hate him. Knowing that his sin rushes through my very veins unnerves me. I want to eradicate every trace of him. Yet we all carry his mark upon our backs–a lion with eagle wings that we cannot shake so easily. Even as I write I see him in me…between key strokes and music shuffles I take sips from my beer, the vice which drove him to hurt you so deeply. I am him. We all are. But you all made the conscious decision to persevere, casting aside a childhood of strife and pain to become what you are today.
I respect you more than you know. Without you all I do not know what my concept of family would be.
To my Uncle and Aunt, fellow residents of the Lone Star State…you define me. Every Christmas or Fourth of July you were there. Every big football game and event…you found your way to support me, braving the six hour drive across state. Without you…I do not know what I would do. I love you so dearly I cannot begin to describe it to you.
To my Uncle bathing in the South Carolina sun…I am glad we have gotten to know one another. For so long your taciturn nature struck me as indifference, but I know you love me and my family. I remember seeing pictures of me as a small child, barely the age of four, and you were always there. We would play like brothers. We lived together then. My parents taking you in to protect you from the hell which you all so unbelievably experienced. The pictures always make me happy. You seemed so loving and so protective of me. I was always waiting for that side of you to return, but as an adult I realized that I am no longer the small child who would sleep on your chest or who you would throw around just to make smile. You are sagely and stern, but I will always remember how you cared for me like your very own…
Family is a weird thing. It’s not a choice, but a matter of circumstance. You cannot choose them, and they certainly did not choose you. I have a hard time understanding what exactly I am. I come from such different places. The blood that flows through me is the amalgam of two distinctly different histories, compiled from so many more distinctly different histories. But at this level, at this time, I realize how fortunate I am that I have the people around me that I do.
From the east coast clique to the band of hooligans on the other side, I am thankful for all of you. Even if it took a life time for me to realize that.
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