Pariah

pa·ri·ah

[puh-rahy-uh];noun

1. an outcast.

2. any person or animal that is generally despised or avoided.

It was a little more than one year ago, in late March that I received a message that confirmed all I'd suspected, all I knew to be true but did not want to acknowledge. Gordon's phone call was the dose of reality that held me fast and forced me to acknowledge that though I was blood, I was no longer a part of the Gifford family.

My grandfather, the patriarch that no one ever envisioned as ever being able to embody anything but vitality had passed. Time had made it known to Jack that even he was submissive to its tendrils. His time upon this earth came to an end at home with his beloved by his side, in a manner that a man of his station required. It was not as pleasant as though he passed in this sweet goodnight, but when his time came it was with dignity and respect.

Or so I'd heard.

Third hand.

When the call came, a week after the angels called him home. It was my brother Gordon who informed me that 'it was best if I didn't attend the funeral. That it would be too much for my father, too much for everyone.' and that 'I would be a distraction from the celebration of the life my Grandfather led.'

I did not attend as requested out of respect for my Grandfather, and my Grandmother whom was left to grieve. I knew that though the words stung, they were true. My father would not be able to control himself in spite of the occasion and a scene would ensue, embarrassing all involved.

Reading Gordon's blog after it was updated, it was clear that neither my little family nor I were missed. It was clear then, and is clearer now that I am the pariah.
The one that when a family comes together to celebrate, mourn or play, people worry that I will attend.

My brother Brady moved sometime last summer. We found out when a birthday card came for Charles a few weeks after his birthday passed in early September. The postmark was Salem, Oregon, where the family home had been in Idaho and no return address was given. We only recently learned where Brady's family now lives, and it's nearly Christmas.

Thanksgiving is about family, coming together and sharing those things, those people and the intangibles in one's life that they are thankful for; even when you don't get along.

After being a focused upon subject in school for a few weeks, BW and JB asked if my parents, their grandparents, were still alive, as we'd not heard from them since they last saw them at AunT's funeral in Spokane. That, and so many of their friends have grandparents who are active in their day-to-day lives.

Charles's parents who live 4 hours away by plane take part in their lives as much as they are able and for that we are grateful.

To JB and BW, it made sense. If the grandparents weren't present in their lives, it was because they were no longer living; not because the family was so entirely dysfunctional that they could no longer associate with one of their children. But that is in fact what has happened.

It's the result of year’s worth of misunderstandings, poor communication and missteps on my part as well as others. Together we played a role in what has become the fray of the family. But now my position within that primary family upon which I was raised is clear as is where I stand. And truly where my future lies.

Those I was raised with do not know me and have not for quite some time. They have made it so very clear through their subtle, subconscious and overt requests that I am not welcomed nor wanted to participate in their lives.

It wasn't Gordon's phone call late last march that served as the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. No. That was left to the Christmas card that we received in the mail. The one that announced a new child into their lives, to be born sometime this coming summer.

Gordon deems it an oversight; that life caught up too quickly is the reason he didn't call to let us know that his little family was expecting. But it occurred during a time when we'd exchanged several calls, primarily about the Thanksgiving holiday that had recently passed.

That I am not welcome to join them isn't what hurts the most. Quite the contrary.
That acknowledgment is a relief. No longer do we have to go through the stressful and awkward rituals of forced family engagements that leave us all exhausted and dreading the next culturally mandated interaction.

No. What hurts is the realization that no matter how hard I was to try to convince them through words or deeds, they would mock me and say that I was only seeking attention. That I play the part of a victim or martyr.

That is not who I am though, and each time that I rise to defend myself from such accusations, I participate in the demise of my own character. And so why post this? To finish this particular chapter, to put the 'fin' at the end of that pattern of behavior and subconscious acceptance of the idea that I am inferior.

The collective 'they' would disagree. But that is the beauty of it all; I don't have to participate in that conversation any longer.