Wednesday, 17 June 2009

  • Family Matters and the Quicksand of Love Advice

    Great-Aunt Lynne never makes peach cobbler for me, unless I request it ahead of time.  I didn't, so I know something is up.  My mother's side of the family loves me, because I'm a decent person who doesn't make the family look bad.  They've loved me even more, recently, because I took the time to memorize the family tree, so I know who's whom, and how we're related, thereby announcing that I'm the future family leader.  Then, I make sure they know how LUCKY they are to have produced offspring, like me, considering some of the members we allow to tell the world they know us. 

    But this is different.  Great-Aunts Lynne, Beverly, Joy, and Cousin Joyce aren't so jovial.  I haven't seen them since I graduated from college.  Tensions were rising, because I haven't forgotten that they failed to include some cash in my graduation card.  I'm on to them, and they know it.  I expected the peach cobbler, ice cream, and heartfelt "How are you?" were a nearly-adequate peace offering.  I should know better.  Women don't apologize in such spectacular form, except on sitcoms, so this must be a trap.  "Don't let your career interfere with having a good home life," and "you should spend more time finding a good woman than [insert whatever they think I do, instead]."  The quicksand of love advice.  My mouth is too full to explain that I do what I can and the women of the world need to get their collective acts together.  Man, patriarch training is hard.

    It isn't usually like this.  Apparently, they've grown concerned at the lack of bringing-a-girlfriend-around-to-meet-them that's been going on since... ever.  My blue-eyed cousin Kenny dates a former Chicago Bulls cheerleader who does non-profit work with... uh... disadvantaged people or something.  They love that.  Being a lawyer isn't so glamorous compared to that.  That's him, always stealing my thunder.  Unfortunately, he's the only male relative my age, so we're stuck with each other, while he dates a girl who's eaten with Michael Jordan.   Somewhere, Cousin Syl is off drinking some exotic-sounding top-shelf liquor complaining angrily that "North Korea doesn't want a piece of Obama," or something.  "North Korea might just bring China and Japan, together, for once."  She's clearly had one too many.  Of course, if she's right, we'll never hear the end of it.  You've never seen a person exercise her bragging rights so wholeheartedly.

    I'm hoping Kenny decides to be a champ and get me another pulled-pork sandwich, because Muslim Michael won't eat them, and that means more for me.  They scowl at me, disapprovingly,  that no amount of pie can change that, and they know it.  There's nothing quite like being scowled upon by older black women hardened from the harsh realities of active participation in the Civil Rights Movement prior to moving, here; they met MLK in Memphis the day before he was assassinated, but all they say about it.  They hardly discuss things like that, anymore, and I know that now isn't the time to ask.  Whatever charm I have comes from keeping them happy so they can keep me well-fed during these Chicago visits.  Great-Uncles Steve and Andre are more amendable to discussing their experiences in the Vietnam War, and that says a lot.  Mom isn't even here to bail me out with the story about how Lawrence "lost" his autographed copy of Roots. 

    Somehow, I feel that in their old age, they'd rather not think about these things, anymore; resolving with the aspiring patriarch's romantic ineptitude is an easier task than how to obtain voting rights and make sure their sons aren't killed for taking wrong turns on southern roads.

    Right now, my main concern is how to get the older ladies in my life to make me more food without having to pay a girlfriend as the price of admission. 

     

    TheBigShowAtUD©

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