Family Roots

As a child, my extended family spent a large amount of time together. We had Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s house, we visited aunts and uncles every week, and we spent weeks at our great-grandparents’ house sharing beds and space. Because of all of this time together, I had cousins who were as close as sisters and brothers.

Of course, as I’m sure for most families, family squabbles and time drive you apart. One moment you are a kid with playing as your daily agenda, and the next moment you are an adult with a to-do list that has no time to visit with extended family.

But when you are an adult, and the people who were such a huge part of your childhood need you, would you be there for them, even after all the years that you weren’t?

Recently, I’ve had to answer that question for myself. Most people who know me or follow my stories, know my cousin Scott has been going through a rough time. (He posted a letter of apology on my blog March 5, 2011). I’ve noticed people look at me strangely when they realize that he is a cousin. I care deeply about what happens to Scott as he is like a brother to me. I’ve shown up at a hospital, a jail, and a treatment center where I have been asked who I am to him. I have been treated as if I don’t have a right to want to see him as a cousin. As I questioned the DEA agent, I was in return asked twice how I was related to Scott. It was apparent that my concern, as a cousin, was not readily accepted or understood.

Our story is much more complicated than the simple label of cousin. It’s not that he’s family or that quote about blood being thicker than water. I have family that I barely know or have seen in years, and I wouldn’t jump to help them out as much as I would Scott.

The fact is roots of childhood run deep, and I can’t remember my childhood without thinking of him. The thought of him not being there when I show up at his house hurts more than any uncomfortable place I will have to trek to see him until he gets his life straightened out.

I truly believe that family is more about how far your roots intermingle and fuse together than sharing parents or blood.

To me, Scott will forever be that boy who played Superman to my Wonder woman along with my superhero sister and two other cousins. We were the superheroes battling evil, not old enough to understand that sometimes the evil of the world are not bad guys. We’d huddle together, throw our hands into the center, and yell out as we ran around catching the imaginary bad guys. We didn’t understand then that the world was not so black and white, and that the bad things would not be so easy to chase away.

Scott is the kid that needed protecting when after the death of his brother, we learned how cruel children could be. I stood up for him then. Sometimes I was terrified as I yelled at older kids who’d upset him, but I never backed down. For I’d lost one cousin already, and I was not about to let them torment another. I didn’t want to see him sad; his tears broke my heart more than the fear of standing up to a bigger kid.

But the seal on that bond that made us more than just cousins and more brother and sister came as teenagers when we lived together. For four months, we did everything together. We were inseparable. But it was really those late night conversations when I’d be studying or reading and he’d throw himself across the bed, and we’d talk about girls on his end, guys on mine, what high school was like, and everything in between that brought us together and made him call me sis. He was the one constant in my life at the time, and though I know he looked up to me then, he was the one person who didn’t make me feel disconnected to the world.

And even though life attempts to sever those deep connections as you grow up, the roots run deep when they are intertwined together and who you are is a conglomeration of the memories you hold. Many acquaintances speak about brothers and sisters who have disappointed them and how they’ve given up on them. Some have said that they refuse to help loved ones anymore. But Scott’s wife pointed out at one point in her anger that we were doing everything to help Scott and nothing to help her, who she views as the victim.

Her roots do not grow with ours though. She was not there when the roots of our family were being watered and fertilized. He was, and the connections created run deep and will not be severed by the mistakes people undoubtedly will make.



Who else will remember where you’ve been so that where you stand now matters? Who will share your story about the broken arm on the Ken doll or the Easter snooping as our mother’s filled the Easter baskets? Who else has caught crickets with you or dyed Easter eggs?



Scott’s actions may be a cause for disappointment, but it was more of a disappointment that his self-destruction had gone unnoticed. We’d failed him by not noticing from the start. We will not give up on him or believe that he is hopelessly lost. His story is part of mine, and I will make sure the two continue to grow.



This picture was taken about thirteen years ago. This was the last time that the five cousin "superheroes" were all together as adults. Left to Right: Top: Cousin Christy, Sister Erica  Middle: Me, Cousin Stacy  Bottom Row: Scott