12/8 (my wtw creative nonfiction essay)

For my cousins--

for M, I cant wait to watch you grow up.

12.17.20

<3

My mom's best friend is Becky. I could have called her Miss Becky or Mrs. C, but after a summer day of driving down the beltway and me showing her, from the passenger seat of her twelve passenger van, which ukulele chords I could play on repeat, she christened me a class act and herself as my cool aunt. She's been Aunt B to me and my siblings ever since, but I always take a secret pride in knowing she was mine the very first.

    That was the summer after seventh grade, and since then, Aunt B has played many roles--voice teacher, theater teacher, math tutor (that didn't last long), party host, personal thrift shopper, editor, and summertime chauffeur to me, my siblings, and her children, who we call our cousins.

    I never know how many cousins I should say I have, if the number is three or four, but it's not really four until the seventeenth. Or it could even be five if we're counting that way. But then if it's five, who's to say the photos on the wall are just cousins I never met? I only met my biological cousin twice, but before the pandemic hit I'd see my unrelated ones nearly every other day. See, these are questions you can't answer. I've never asked Aunt B what she thought. I don't know if she'd even be able to give me a definite reply because I think we view family the same way a lot of the time. 

    That's another role my Aunt B plays. She fosters. 

   I've come to learn that people think of fostering in either one of two ways. They either think of cute babies and toddlers, or they can only think of the hard goodbyes, which do inevitably happen. Every once in a while I'll meet someone who commends Aunt B for being "so brave." Those kind will throw bless your heart's like confetti and ask if she's met any menacing teens yet. I'm briefed on all the responses, all the "it's not easy's," the slightly annoyed "Aunt B doesn't foster teens yet but the ones she's met seemed nice," and the "I'm sure you could's," not because I'm sure that person I just met could, but there already aren't enough foster parents to go around and why drive away interest? I've learned not to tell them about the hard stuff, you don't delve into the goodbyes or the things you can't just look for and find on the surface. You don't scare the potential. To the ones who aren't potential, I've been taught to be polite. Look them in the eye and answer every question I can. Shake hands. Take every side eye on the way out with a grain of salt because I'll know I did my part well.

    And I don't spite them, they all mean well. Every "bless your heart" comes from gratitude. The "you're a saint's" come from fear. I have better things to worry about than the glances we get walking into a restaurant or when we all sit together at the park, eyes glazing us all over like we're a memory match game with a few missing tiles. I know the pattern like a constellation, I know if my family isn't there I'll get mistaken for another daughter because despite my darker hair and smaller eyes, the differences are slighter. I know that they glaze over me, Aunt B, and the two older girls, and stop on the two youngest daughters before looking around, wondering if they missed someone. Out the restaurant window, across the sidewalk, which car did we come from, which store, which aisle? But I don't spite them--I can't. Most of the time what they do isn't conscious.

    Human brains are wired to detect change. Our hardware is made of common sense and problem solving. We look out and see a group of ten and when only eight of them look alike, we want to know why--it's natural. The differences between my cousins are confined to a few things. Two prefer unicorns, two like ponies. Three like their food warm, one can't stand heat in her mouth. One loves science, one math, one social studies, and one isn't yet in school but she loves being read to. One is a carbon copy of Aunt B, with thick blonde hair and deep, knowing eyes. One looks more like her father, she even has his gestures and unmatched wit. The other two have beautiful brown skin and curls in their hair. One of them loves to be active and play sports, the other likes to sing along to music. They are all my cousins, none of them biological to me. That changes nothing. 

    My family is not a blood-ties matter. It isn't dependent on if you have your mom's cheekbones or the frame of your father. It matters not what we look like, nor who we resemble. So don't ask me about my cousins and put a color in front. I'll ask you don't stare as we walk down the street, but if you slip up I understand. Maybe you haven't seen it like me, you haven't seen the tired eyes and the pleads to watch the kids so Aunt B can sleep a half hour on the guest bed. You haven't seen the house cleaning till it's spotless, the visitations, you haven't felt stares on your back just because of the people you eat with. Maybe you haven't had to hide your balled fists in your lap at the first hundred starers or direct a shiny smile at the floor. I'm not even angry for myself; I've been stared at before. I'm angry that these little girls will grow up getting stared at just for being loved.

    Aunt B has chosen to teach my cousins about their race. She believes it's an important thing that they know who they are and that there's a beautiful culture behind it, and I agree with her. They will grow up hearing names like Rosa Parks and George Floyd. They will learn that the more melanin you have means the more danger you’ll find yourself in. They will learn about injustice but I pray it may be something they're pardoned from experiencing, and that our society grows more loving, more accepting, more kind. That we can partially rewire our circuit boards and see family before difference and unity before race.

    The girls in my class used to tell me Aunt B wasn't my real aunt, as if I wasn't aware. I'd retort with "Don't talk to me about my family." But now I'm singing a different tune. Do talk to me about my family. Go ahead and ask questions about my family, because questions garner answers, and answers can be detrimental to change. And when you find something saying that blood ties draw the line of importance and likeness forges connection, I'll be here ready to listen and decide for myself.

    But for now, let me play with my four beautiful, smart, sweet, wonderful cousins and any more who come our way.