It used to be a big affair. Every year my mother and father in-law would have relatives from all over come to their beach house in Cherry Grove. We would arrive the night before, as would my husband's sister and her family. We two families alone had guest rooms, which in the midst of a Griffith get together often provided blessed sanctuary. After the meal some of the men would get ladders and tools and hang garland and Christmas lights from the decks and the widow's walk. The women would be left to the task of cleaning up. They would talk of things relevant to educators as most of them are teachers, or what their children were involved in at school and in the community. I should say my sister in law talked about what her children were doing, the rest of us never got an opportunity to speak. I felt quite alien amid this bustle. My background hadn't provided me with social confidence and I'm sure my silence was perceived as a lack of intelligence. But early on in my introduction to the family this quiet-stance, combined with a petite frame and doll-like features won me the approval of the family matriarch. As a result, my detachment wasn't openly questioned, nor was I pressed to join in their reindeer games. The children would gather in the loft to watch "A Christmas Story" until it was time to pose for the photo that would become a Christmas card the next month. The same complaints could be counted upon each year: "Victor's touching me!" or, "Griff stop making faces so we can get this over with." and, "The sun is in my eyes, I can't see without squinting and I won't look pretty!" (that would have come from my daughter, Ashe). Later in the evening we would break into groups, some to wander the carnival-like spectacle of Myrtle Beach, others to take in a Rockette's Christmas show at one of the large theaters. Often I would just walk along the beach if it were low tide. Or sit in the dunes, sheltered from the wind by sea oats and enjoy the privacy of a deserted November beach.
I suppose all things change. When Anjoy became too ill to entertain on that scale we stopped having Thanksgiving at the beach. Cousins have become strangers. Fewer and further between are the times we all gather in one place. The last time was for her funeral. Yes, she has passed.
In about ten hours we'll sit down at the upstate lake house to a meal made up almost entirely from the contents of cans or boxes. Dad doesn't offer the option for M, my sister in law, or I to cook anything. We're hostage to his plan of an impersonal, processed meal. I don't know what's worse, them having to eat that meal, or me suffering the humiliation of being presented with a separate fat girl's meal. I'm not small anymore. The only doll I could be said to remotely resemble now is the Campbell's Soup kids. The only thing that hasn't changed is my silence. Only now it's the bi-product of despair, not the lack of social skills.
I tell myself I don't care what they think of me. But I do. How did everything go so horribly wrong? How did these people who call me family stand by while my daughter and I fell through the cracks when my husband was in and out of recovery and drinking away every dollar I made? Where were they when the house was so cold you could see your breath in front of you because the power had been turned off? It was December and I had to force myself for Ashe's sake to put up a tree that year. I remember when it was done I began to cry because I realized I didn't have any gifts to put under it. The impact of the last four years came down all at once. I'd gotten the power back on but had double pneumonia and couldn't stay out of work to get well. I was the only one making money, how could I? How I hated him then. But of course I hated myself more. And now this, this sad gathering of strangers who call themselves family... If this is the meaning of family, I'd just as soon go back to being a poor gypsy orphan.
2:48 a.m. - 2004-11-25
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