They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. And I think it’s true. I do miss my family. But on that note, they also say that families are like fudge &- that is, mostly sweet but with a few nuts &- and I have to say, they’re on to something there. Because despite our distance, as much as I love them, I still think my family is as nutty as ever.
My parents visited over Parents Weekend, but not because of me. They were there, enduring the drudgery that is touring colleges, for my younger sister. Conveniently, I happen to live on the college-spotted East Coast.
We didn’t do much. We tried to take a Christmas photo, but someone was always unhappy with a stray hair. We tried to decide on a restaurant, but no one could agree. Someone’s feet hurt so we didn’t go anywhere. We just sat around thinking of intelligent things to argue about as a way of assuaging our annoyances.
And argue we did, even though this was the only evening we’ll be together until Christmas. It would appear that peevish intra-familial dynamics do not change. Familial love? What love? My sisters and I would make excellent lawyers. We don’t love each other – we love proving each other wrong.
They say in times of test, family is best. But I say that’s too ideal, because usually my family is the one that’s testing me.
Indeed, family quarrels are bitter things. They don’t go by any rules. They’re like splits in the skin that won’t heal because there’s not enough material, at least according to F. Scott Fitzgerald. In a way he’s right. Even after times of separation, the splits in the skin don’t heal because we keep opening them. And in my family, we don’t just open them &- we pour as much lemon juice on the open wound as possible, if only just to assert our superiority over our bleeding subject.
Sometimes, I think the only reason we are considered family is because we reside under the same roof.
And it’s not like we do so cooperatively. My family’s adventures are nothing like “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.” Family dinners are argumentative mayhem. Mary’s always contradicting Martha just for the sake of contradicting her. Martha’s always on Mary’s case for being superficial. Then Mom and Dad are on Mary’s and Martha’s cases for arguing. Mary and Martha then contradict them. That’s usually how it goes.
Me? I never do anything wrong.
Besides, I don’t live under their roof anymore. Here, I have no younger sister shoving my mess to my side of the bathroom, complaining that I need to grow up and accept some responsibility. I have no one asking me to do the dishes. So I am exempt from the aforementioned uncouth conduct. I’m nice to people here.
But despite our constant bickering and multiple differences &- and no, I’m not just talking about nose shape and hair color, even though the only thing that could really convince me that Martha and I are offspring of the same parents is a DNA test &- there’s something to be said about my familial unit. Though I pretend this isn’t true, some of the best moments are those at home where family is plenty and unavoidable.
That’s because I can’t hide from them. My sister knows exactly what I look like in the morning. The me she knows is the one donning old, stained pajamas and crusty hair, not the one trying to conform to urban Boston attire. We’ve suffered through each other’s basest moments of existence. No matter what I do, she will always remember me falling on my face after winning the argument about who got to wear the high heels.
Thus, no matter how much I assert my independence and transcendence, I find that I depend on my family for both support and ridicule. The Socratic arguments and frustrations are exactly what I miss about them, because we’re usually able to put differences aside in favor of laughter and forgiveness. It was funny when I tripped in the shoes.
They say if a man has family, he is rich. Worst comes to worst, I guess that’s true &- my mother has been a trustworthy cash cow for me since college started and made me broke.
I’m joking &- she means more than that. I get mad when she doesn’t call. It’s a natural attachment to the person who changed my diapers for the first few years of my life.
My sister visited Boston College, though her going there will only solidify the rivalry we’ve lived out since day one of her existence, which will be awesome because then I’ll have legitimate and explicable reasons to dislike and downgrade her. People tell me my sister is nice. I think she’s crazy. I mean, come on. She’s applying to BC.
But we’re together, through thick and thin. I can’t deny that.
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