It’s a bit taboo. It’s not often discussed in a public setting or mainstream in society. The reality is that it’s more common than your typical sequence of grandparents to parents to me. I’m talking about my broken-branched, family tree.
I have stepsiblings (kind of), cousins twice removed, "second" parents from a different bloodline. The whole gamut when it comes to family relations. As I’ve grown older, I realize I took for granted those relationships because to a young girl they just seemed so easy. I’ve never been treated as an addition, just part of the equation and it’s more familiar to each of our lives than we understand. My “family” might not grow the same fruit, but we are all in the same bush.
To the halves
Back in seventh grade, I moved up in the world of locker rooms. I no longer came fully dressed to tournaments, with a tentative camp setup in the bleachers full of NIKE duffel bags and hand-sewn blankets. Now, I had a bottom shelf locker to store smelly tennis shoes, and an extra set of socks for when I forgot to load the drawstring backpack. As we dressed for practice ahead, an older teammate asked how my sister was feeling (recently ill with a stomach bug). To no one’s surprise, I revealed WAY too much information on her symptoms and hours spent in the bathroom. During my embarrassing tale, another teammate much closer to my age said “You have a sister?” Seventh grade! I’m 12 years old and the village titled, Colome, full of a whopping 200 people did not know I had a sister. A sister that drove me to school every day. A sister who curled my hair in the mornings. The sister who shared a bed with me for 7 years, even through potty training and my kicking stage. I never looked at my siblings as “half” until that moment. They weren’t. We went through the same heartaches, the same milestones and the same art projects in elementary school. Even today, I can’t explain my relatives in Winner without someone saying “That’s Dustin Schrader’s little sister.” Sure, back in the early 2000s when Mary J. Blige was singing about Family Affairs, we didn’t stop to think that families aren’t defined by a wooden sign, engraved with a last name hanging on neighborhood front doors. It’s who you grow up with, learn from, admire and frankly, being the baby, who you let take the blame.
To the steps
Until recently, I’ve always said “my mom’s boyfriend.” It’s not because she hasn’t had a steady man for the last 15 (?) years, but because I haven’t hinted with Beyonce songs enough. Now, during explanations, I cut to the chase. My stepbrother, my stepdad, my Grandma. It’s a mouth full of half truths and a lie but it’s much easier than explaining 24 years of my life. People get confused when I tell grandmother stories. I have 4. How? Well, there was Grammy who challenged me to eye spy every day and let me dress up in the living room while the neighbor wives gossiped over coffee. Then, my mom’s mom (Grandma Carol aka dill soup extraordinaire) and my dad’s mom. If you have me on nearly any form of social media, especially Snapchat, you know my dad’s mom. And of course, Grandma Karen. She’s (here we go again) my half-siblings grandmother. She’s always presented me with Christmas gifts and family ornaments, something I could never explain my gratitude for. She goes above and beyond to comment on my daily life, showing undeniable grandmotherly love. At 24, I look back and think, she didn’t have to do that. She literally had no reason to make me feel as her own, but I always have, especially when my realistic, matter-of-fact, attitude kicks in. Step-family members share a different bond. We understand that we aren’t sharing hairstyles to cover up thin hair or extra powder on the nose when drinking wine but we live with the attitudes of the same people. It’s honestly a blessing.
To the not even semi-related
You truly have no reason to be in our lives and accept us for who we are other than you are genuinely good people. You take the stragglers and send them home with free food. Cheers to letting me call you my brothers and sisters because saying “my mom’s best friends' kids” or my god parents' offspring is just too convoluted.
My purpose is just to expose that The Brady Bunch was a show. While their boxes fit perfectly in those 9 squares, it would not be complete without the “outsider”, Alice. Try not to view the world from a cookie cutter experience, because that is a rarity, not reality. As a reminder to myself and you the reader for reading this far, be thankful for the haves and have nots. The halves and the wholes. Be thankful for the family and friends who are a piece of your pie.
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