Stuck.

I am stuck somewhere between "familial responsibility" and carving my own identity.

I am frozen where I stand as I think back on every guilt trip, every "dishonorable" act I've ever committed, and being called upon to serve each of my family members and the different benefits each of them received while only now realizing there was no benefit for myself other than the feel good glow of knowing I "did my part" in the family.

I try to raise my kids in such a way that they know that I know they didn't choose to be here, they didn't choose this life for themselves and that they are almost entirely reliant on my ability to provide for, shelter and nurture them into adulthood. It is an absolute BONUS if they stick around beyond their teenage years, but they don't honestly owe me anything for being born and becoming who they were always meant to be. My dreams are not their own and I am ok with that. It's nice to dream, but my dreams are not their reality.

They were born into a family of parents with divorced parents and sometimes divorced grandparents. They were born into half siblings and extended families and generations of love, heartbreak, birth, death, generational curses and stories that were so jaw dropping that a whole docu-series was made about it.

When do I let the last weekends in July of my childhood slip through my fingers entirely? Weekends I spent wide eyed and curious searching the faces of my cousins, great aunts and uncles, and my great grandmother for answers to who I was.

Visits with my paternal family were stark in comparison. Stories of Alabama royalty, plantations and the "best kept slaves" but they "weren't slaves" they were family. Stories of losing my grandfather during a custody dispute. Family reunions and gatherings didn't really happen unless someone had died. And even then it would be hush hush gossip with side glances to my sister and I with whispers of "quiet now, little pictures have big ears."

Why do their stories have to be braided into who I am? Why should they? What right do they have to my present day situation? I didn't even know most of those people and they honestly probably wouldn't want to get to know me if we passed each other on a sidewalk.

A lot of what the generations before have taught me is what not to do, heartache for what they endured and learning from their mistakes. Those I met in person I've chosen my own thoughts on and either formed relationships with or kept my distance. I wasn't "being a snob" I was protecting myself from whatever it was that felt "off" with them and a lot of times it was just me being completely overwhelmed in their presence because of their mannerisms and conversation skills. Not a snob, just neurospicy.

I want my kids to have the ability to know about their family history, but not in the way that I grew up believing that their history was why I was who I was. It has nothing to do with them. Who we are as humans has nothing to do with what boat your family crossed over in and everything to do with how we conduct ourselves in the present and future.

It’s Just a House

 It’s just a house.

His hands touched the lumber that framed it out. 

He purposefully built rooms and corners knowing the family that came before him and after him would fill its crevices with both laughter and tears. 

The doors he framed out welcomed siblings, cousins, in laws, grandchildren, great grandchildren… and unknowingly said goodbye to his wife, his sons and his brothers.

There are jackets hung in the garage hall that have watched him, his wife, his children and grandchildren do thousands of loads of laundry and I’m sure have overheard just as many secrets passed between lips to ears across the room and across phone lines from one coiled phone cord to another.

Prayers and pleas made to a watchful God, hymns sung at the kitchen sink beneath a carefully placed window so songbirds inside and out can call to each other. He knew what he was doing when he chose this blueprint.

Hours upon hours have been spent rocking and swinging from chairs and porch swings with their own stories to tell. Babies and old men alike observing the lay of his land, watching for deer and bunnies, witnessing the passing of time as fruit trees bloom and blossoms fall.

Stairs and railing, down to the basement where the sounds of drums, high hats, cymbals threatened to deafen those who dared to sneak down the steps and listen. 

Giggles from mischievous little girls haunt the basement stairwell as pranks were played upon their youngest teenaged uncle, much to his disapproval.

Stories of real, fictional and biblical snakes were told under the roof of this house he built. From snakes keeping time swaying in the windows of the basement windows to cable lines snaked through walls, scaring and scarring the biggest of grandchildren (everyone, including her, laughs about this now).

Deep into the basement is a cellar, cool and dark lined with hundreds of dusty jars. The fruits of his labor from hours upon hours of tending to his garden. Tomatoes, pole beans, blackberries, bacon grease, peppers… all lovingly dated in her handwriting as beads of sweat from the blistering Georgia summer collected across her brow.

His boots dutifully trudged through the red Georgia clay as he tilled and conditioned the soil every summer for well over 30 years… vines of muscadines lay thick next to whatever playground equipment he’d rescued. Beside the muscadines were rows of prickly raspberry and blackberry vines. So many summers were spent hosting granddaughters with pigtails and curls sneaking between those rows to sneak deep purple and red berries straight from their vines.

Little legs chased puppies and chickens through dirt paths in the backyard. This same backyard watched as his son took his last breath. So much life grew and perished beneath the canopy of pine and sweet gum trees.

It’s just a house, but it hosts memories of birth, life, death and everything in between. 

It’s just a house, but nearly all of us have descended from it and contribute our own blood, sweat and tears. 

It’s just a house, never mind that it echoes with love, laughter, joy and sorrow.

It’s just a house, but it’s now a part of all of us and one day we will have to say goodbye to it and only visit from the road as we pass.

It’s just a house, but it is a living testament of my grandfather and every last hope he had for his family.