3:06 AM
finding all these photos interesting and strange at the same time. On the one hand, it gives mom and I something we can work on together without much arguing.

On the other, it's bizarre for me to have her hand me photos and say, "That's your grandfather with his dad." That man was never my grandfather in any real sense. That's not bitterness talking, just that he wasn't. Even now, when my mother refers to "your grandmother," I think she means my dad's mom (who, for some reason, she calls "Granny"). I just don't think of her parents as my grandparents. They are her parents. I guess it's not especially logical, but it's a little hard to start thinking of someone as your grandparent, parent, etc. at the age of 15 or so.

It's strange to see my mother's father young, as a child even, when I'd only seen the later, Howard Hughes looking pictures and only known him as the racist who disowned my mom for having me. Then I'm looking at a picture of him as an adorable 3 year old in knee pants. His father looks so stern -- as if the Great Depression applied solely to him.

I think this must be a bit like being adopted. I cannot help but be curious about my mom's family. It's part of who I am and it's certainly part of what made her who she is. None of this curiosity negates my father's family, nor their role in my life.

When I was in Indianapolis last spring, my dad's mom and sister made a federal case out of my going to see my cousins. Now, I grew up with them and have known them since we were toddlers, when my uncle came back from overseas (he was in the Marines).

I understand their anger at the situation, but the fact is that none of us can do a thing about it now, almost 30 years later. If I could go back in time and make it all better, I would, for my mom. Lots of people don't have grandparents and having just the one, I didn't much miss the other three. I knew they were alive and uninvolved, and it hurt, but in a very real way, you don't miss what you've never had.

It makes no sense to me to blame my cousins, or even my younger uncles who didn't know I existed until I was 15, for the actions of my mother's father. Part of me does think her mother could've stood up, but that's not very realistic when one considers her generation, her Catholicism, her 5 other kids (1 of whom was an invalid, stricken with the same mysterious, fatal disease to which she'd already lost another child). What other choice did she have? She always kept in touch with my mother, sending cards signed, "Someone who cares."

My mother always told me it was her parents' loss, but really it was everyone's. My mother lost her parents and younger brothers and wasn't there when her only sister died. I know she feels guilty about that.

Her parents missed out on their first grandchild and would not have another granddaughter for 12 more years. My three youngest uncles missed out on watching me grow up. The middle one says he felt very left out that my cousins and I grew up together, while he had no idea I existed until I was 12 (he contacted my mom through an aunt as soon as he married and moved out on his own). As for the other two, I barely know them. They are my uncles, and they've been great when I see them, but it doesn't occur to me to be in touch with them.

There were years of sneaking around, of worrying one of my cousins would spill the beans, especially when the ones 10 years younger started learning to talk. In the end, my grandfather died a miserable death, looking far older than his 57 years. What worse fate could there be than being eaten alive with cancer and gangrene?

Perhaps my grandmother's -- she doesn't seem there anymore. If I'd had a huge interest in getting to know her, it would already be too late. She is sick, feeble and very old at this point. I can't see having anything to gain by being rude when she tries to hug or kiss me, though it is awkward. I don't hate her. Mostly, I feel sorry for her. She had a tough life and it's taken its toll. She's just a stranger to me.

It really bothers me that my father's mother and sister play the race card. They haven't exactly been ideal relatives, after all. They've always put my mom down, talked about her like she's not there, put her down for being white and fat. She could never win. Since my father's death, they've cast themselves as her best buddies, her saviors, and it makes me want to vomit.

If only, in all those years when my mom had no family, they had tried to see her as a person -- not a white person, not a fat person -- but a person who needed love, compassion, understanding and kindness. Instead, they remind her they've always been there for her, they try to keep me even from members of my mom's family that I've known all my life, they tell The Boy and I what our racial identity should be and they never, ever listen to what any of our wants and needs are. I am only sorry that my mother buys their racial guilt propoganda.

If ever I point this out, they trot out all the sins of my mother's parents, as if that's relevant to why they treat her like shit. It always becomes about race to them. I'm just confused or trying to be white, they say. "Well, you look black, that's what society sees, so that's what you are." I'm not going to get into the racism of that statement, or how wrong it is to internalize racist logic, or even how it's up to the individual to determine their own identity. It's interesting that they choose to completely ignore my mother's contribution to my life.

What I find amazing is that when I question their bad behavior, their rudeness, their insensitivity, the presumptuous self-righteousness, they bombard the discussion with race. Isn't it funny, then, that I don't have this problem with any other members of my dad's family? Last time I checked, they were all black, quite black, in fact. Perhaps his brother wouldn't be 100% behind my identity as biracial, but I've no idea, as he's never seen fit not to accept me as Erica. I adore my father's aunts, uncles and cousins, but often never talk to them because it is awkward to do so, while avoiding his mother and sister's manipulations. It's strange, but my father's side of the family is far too involved in each other's business, while my mom's side don't see each other nearly enough.

You'd think they'd learn, if only from the tragedy of my mother's family, that life is too short for dictating how another should live their life.

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