My maternal grandparents emigrated to the U.S. in 1971- five years before I was born. They came to this country with a lot of “old country” mentality. Their six kids became Americanized to varying degrees, but I would say that they all had at least 60% of their formative experiences outside of America. I’m the first American-born member of my entire family, on either side (I’m still untangling my dad’s side of the family so for all intents in purposes, when I mention “my family”, I’m referring solely to my mom’s side). Over the years, that’s resulted in quite a bit of culture clash and it’s fair to say that the culture clash has resulted in a fair amount of emotional distance between me and the elders in my family. You could say I’m estranged from most of my relatives. Once I became an adult and separated myself, neither side really saw a reason to wander into each others’ orbits much beyond the occasional family reunion or funeral. I’m not sure whether they even understand what my life is (or they see my life as some kind of betrayal). Meanwhile, there’s a part of me that always knew that there were things I desired that were outside the emotional and cultural scope of what my family was equipped to offer or accept.
There’s a younger generation of cousins, almost all of whom were born in the early ‘90s, who might feel that culture shock as keenly as I do (although I think that my queerness and my strained relationship with my mom led me to stray farther and be understood less than the rest), and I had a really interesting conversation recently with several of those cousins, along with my aunt (my mom’s youngest sister) and her husband (who are probably the most present members of the committee I was raised by), where we finally went deep on family dysfunction and the generational traumas we’ve experienced. It covered a lot of ground and, for one of the first times ever in a group family dynamic, I felt truly heard. I also felt like the conversation (which stretched into the wee hours of the morning) was a healing balm of sorts.
I’ve always thought that my folks lacked in emotional intelligence. My aunt rightfully described us (well, them) as “cold” (not a word loved ones would generally associate with me). I’m someone whose main love language is touch, and…to be honest, I’m not even sure where that came from because physical affection has never been a big thing in my family. I have three uncles and I can’t remember hugging them until I was in my late twenties? I’m 45 and I can count the amount of times I’ve heard my own mom say “I love you” on one hand. I can even remember feeling as though my grandmother, who I loved dearly, recoiled when I put my arm around her during one of the last times I was able to spend with her when she was able-bodied. That emotional distance, I’d argue, was damaging during my childhood and kinda fucked up my adulthood, too. As those of you who know me well are aware, that wasn’t the only thing that I felt damaged me at a young age.
But the point of writing this, and the conclusion I think we all came to during our conversation, is that perspective has to be considered. The times have to be considered. And grace has to be considered. I’ve been thinking about that a lot in 2021, not only as we reckon with big-ticket things like the sorry state of this country but as I reckon with finding my birth dad and trying to suss out exactly what happened with him and my mom and why it took four and a half decades for us to find one another. I’m not saying I don’t carry any bitterness at all. I definitely do. But I do empathize-or at least I’m finding it easier to empathize and try to look at the bigger picture. We’re all still in the process of learning, right? And as Black folks, as immigrants, as people that were conditioned in a patriarchal culture, as religious folks, there’s so much we’ve had to unlearn (whether through experience or through feeling the experiences of others). Granted, some of us are trying harder than others to come to terms with a lot of the shit that we’ve had delivered to us over the course of our lifetimes (and some of us are trying much, much harder than others), but part of growth (I think) is understanding that sometimes bad things happen not out of spite, but simply because folks don’t know any better.
Hearing how some of my younger relatives have experienced and dealt with the mentality that many of our elders possess, and hearing how some of these elders are (slowly) working on themselves, is heartening. It might be a complex or a victim mentality on my part, but I’ve often wondered-when it comes to my folks, at least-why it’s often seemed as though I’m the only person “doing the work”, as it were. And it’s not like I’ve come to this Dalai Lama-like place of peace and forgiveness with all of the shit that’s happened to me over the course of my life. But being able to consider perspective, knowing that there are other folks who share my bloodline that can talk about similar experiences and knowing that there are some older folks who have the vocabulary to admit their own ignorance or shortcomings and are willing to listen…that helps me sleep better at night. And instead of having this all-encompassing bitterness (and the weird mixture of warmth and dread that comes with seeing people who’ve provided you with some of the best and worst memories of your life), I can appreciate the ones who buy into the progress, and try my hardest to either ignore or be graceful (at an adequate distance) to the rest.