Thursday, November 20, 2014
Once upon a time a long, long, really long time ago there was a family unit that looked to the outside world as if it was the model for all families out there. No one person was treated better than the other person, or so it seemed.
Upon closer look little cracks in the perfect family were noticed. If one moved in for an even closer look they would see the painted on smiles and that the clothing was worn in spots. So much for the ideal family.
Discrimination is alive and well in my family. It isn't like a holocaust but there are days that it would seem to be just that where the blonde haired blue-eyed oldest sibling was trying to wipe out the younger dark haired dark-eyed youngest sibling. Genocide? No but the torture was still there all the same. This was always covered up and tried to be forgotten by the family unit. This family unit had major problems and very little tolerance for imperfection.
The youngest child craved the affection and attention that the older one received. She wanted to be recognized for her achievements. The oldest child was always causing havoc and blaming the youngest child for anything that went wrong in the family to the point where the youngest child felt like running away for good and not just to a friend's house on the weekends.
Yes, this is my family I am writing about. I'm sorry to say that the little girl never did escape the madness. She returned home as an adult when her first marriage collapsed. She lived in the now smaller family unit that was still full of problems.
When death hit the family she again went home. Why did she keep going home? I have to ask myself that question over and over again. Why? Was she stupid? Did she crave the affection that just wasn't there for her?
Well I went home when the death of my father was impending. What I didn't expect was that there would be more violence laying in wait for me when I got there. I encountered the wrath of my brother once again. Once again he tried to kill me off.
Did the littlest sibling ever wake up and smell the coffee? Oh yes I did. This time there will be hell to pay.
This post was inspired by the novel J by Howard Jacobson, about a world where collective memory has vanished and the past is a dangerous country, not to be talked about or visited. Join From Left to Write on November 20th as we discuss J. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.