Ever since I can remember, I have been obsessed with genetics. Of course, when I was four years old I had never heard of the word. But I was already into making rudimentary family trees with M & M candies. I instinctively understood the concept of grandparents, great grandparents, and how two brown M & Ms could have a red M & M baby if there were some red M & M grandparents. The importance of past generations seemed imprinted on me for some reason. I simply wanted to know my ancestors.
At that time, I did not know that I was adopted, and that I was not genetically tied to anyone in my life. I wanted to know Mom's family, Dad's family, aunts and uncles and cousins. Mom spoke often of her family, sharing memories of her childhood and her feelings for her parents, grandfather, and her siblings. However, Mom's oldest sister Amy was the only sibling with whom Mom maintained constant contact. Mom had so many brothers and sisters, and there were many cousins, but they were either never permitted, or never chose, to be a part of our family.
As I grew older, it became obvious why this was the case. Mom had many secrets that her siblings probably knew about, and she did not want her kids to know of her past sins. When it came to Dad's much smaller family, I believe Mom wanted them kept far away for similar reasons. I had no clue that very bad things had happened on Eagle Street during the 50s, before I was born and brought there to live. I felt the quietly simmering sadness between my parents during the last 10 years of Dad's life, although I did not know what caused it. It wasn't advisable for a 10 year old child to approach her parents and ask them why they never hugged and kissed. I don't remember ever hearing them even just talking to each other. They never acted out in anger against each other in my presence. They seemed to be living their own separate lives while living under the same roof. It was just a fact of life that they never seemed to want to be in other's company, unless the tv was on and they were watching a program they both liked. The happiness in their relationship, if they ever had happiness, was long gone by the time I was added to the mix.
Dad's mother was still alive in the 70's, living in a far away state. I would often ask Mom why we never visited Grandma, or why she never visited us. Or why she never sent us birthday or Christmas cards, or even called long distance on special occasions like Aunt Amy did. Mom told me that Dad's mother didn't like kids. She told a story of a time in the early 50s, when Dad's only genetic son, Darwin, was a toddler. According to Mom, Grandma Goodman (Dad's mother had remarried) came to visit, and she did not want her young grandson to toddle around the living room. She made him sit in his little wooden rocking chair, which upset him. Some of that story could have been true. Perhaps Grandma visited in the winter, when wood was burning in the fireplace. Dad had fallen against a potbelly stove and suffered severe burns on his hands as a child. Grandma could have experienced a bit of PTSD and didn't want her grandson suffering the same fate. But I wasn't old enough to think about how Dad's mother might have felt. The picture I imagined in my little kid's mind was that Dad's mother was a mean old lady who hated kids and liked to punish them by making them sit in the corner. Mom was content knowing that I believed Dad's mother did not care about me at all.
I remember watching the Waltons as a kid and envying that family, because they had grandparents who lived with them. I couldn't help but feel that we kids were missing out on something really important. But Mom did not seem to think it was all that important. Mom was completely in charge of who we were allowed to know, and she styled her family in the way she felt comfortable. Even Dad's sister June, who lived in Texas, wasn't in contact. I remember meeting her one time and being so impressed with her because she was a very good artist. I didn't know yet that we had no genetic connection, and so I was convinced that I got my love of drawing animals from her.
Mom, even with all her seemingly old-fashioned values, was definitely not old-fashioned in some ways. Mom was family fluid. You were either in on her terms or you would be replaced by another person. Essentially, we were more like farm animals than human beings. We had to have a useful purpose in order to earn Mom's love and acceptance. Once we became a nuisance or had nothing to offer, we were out. And new people could be added to the family if they brought value or usefulness. One thing was certain: we had to fit into Mom's ever-changing story. And it was her story to tell, not ours. We didn't dare tell.
Mom learned early on that kids were extremely valuable because they ensured a government paycheck. I believe this was one reason why she kept adding more and more kids to the family. Once a kid left the nest, the social security check went away too. That kid was now useless, unless they could offer something of value. Value, such as stolen goods that mom could resell.
When Dad died, Mom immediately shoved his memory into the closet. She wouldn't allow me to have a photo of him, and started making disturbing statements about how she never was in love with him. Dad's memory was soon erased from Eagle Street and replaced with a life-long criminal who temporarily became Mom's "love of her life."
Skippy, her drug-addicted mentally ill and career criminal fifth child, had nothing of value to offer society. He was crazy, high, drunk, and stole everything he put his hands on. But he had plenty of value for Mom. She happily bought the things he stole and resold them. So even though she would never admit to being his real mom, she kept him in her life because his thefts were a benefit she couldn't resist.
I knew as a child that my worth was linked to my musical talent. Mom needed to have what sister Lynda termed, "a show-off kid." Mom wanted me to become a concert pianist and told me many times that her dream for me was to win the Miss America pageant. I did not like to perform in public. In fact, it made me physically ill, but mom did not care. She made me play for company, whether they were friends, relatives, and just strangers who showed up at our house to buy a puppy or a stolen typewriter. To refuse to perform guaranteed me a beating later in the day, so I always complied. I added to my usefulness by learning to groom dogs, type up dog pedigrees, act as a poodle "midwife," and later, juggle and make balloon animals when we kids were forced to work as clowns.
Mom was a shrewd matriarch. She built her family to serve her purposes, tweaking it from time to time, culling out the useless and adding possible moneymakers. It was not a nuclear family, although she strived to convince outsiders that it was just your typical Mom, Dad, kids and dogs household. We were like dancing bears in a Russian circus. In order to keep Mom happy, we had to keep dancing, or else risk being tossed from our engineered family on Eagle Street. So we all danced for her, all in our own ways.
