Family Fodder

In unrelated news...

By Zach Hively

​I’ve just returned home from a distant state, where I spent an unspecified period of time with an undisclosed number of people to mark some major milestone date or other with an unnamed member of this very vague party.

That’s it. That’s all I can write.

It’s like I said to several of the shall-remain-unidentified people in attendance (because they each suggested I might be loading up on writing fodder at the event in question): No one could anonymize this many people in my family.
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At least, not all at once—and most definitely not when several of them admitted, privately and quietly, to reading my work.

This revelation, that my unnamed family actually reads what I write, is really quite humbling. It’s also seriously terrifying. I don’t even know what I’ve written, let alone what they’ve read.
You see, you grow numb, after a while, writing for the newspaper. This field is all about the clicks anymore, and the social media shares—or so I gather. I’d have to actually post to the socials in order to collect hard evidence on the matter. I don’t post, though, because any platform I’ve heard of is already out of fashion with the young people, those the age of my cousins’ and my sisters’ kids, of which there are several more in existence than I realized before counting them all in one place.

Even with print editions of the paper, you watch the people waiting for tables in sushi restaurants skip over your hard work and go straight to the horoscopes. It grinds you down. You word count exists to create ad space for yet another pot shop, and that’s that. You submit your pieces, accept that they will light a lot of fires this winter, vote pro-cannabis, and carry on.

This system works pretty well for you, until you are surrounded by twenty-seven other people, all with some sort of genetic or matrimonial bond, and you’re overwhelmed by just how much they all look alike except, of course, for you. They tell you you look like your father, but your father is many years older with much shorter hair, so you think maybe they are just being kind to him.

Perhaps you actually can write about all this, you think. It’s not like anyone will call you out on it; after all, you’re not even sure they’re listening when they ask you how you’ve been and you talk for the next hour about your dogs.

But then, your cousin says something complimentary about reading your work online for several years now. It’s a specific observation, too—not the “You do this writing thing, don’t you?” sort of bid for connection you get from certain, more immediate, family members. She means it.
However, you can’t very well write about that, because as soon as you include one of your cousins, you have to include them all. Unless you anonymize them. But you can’t, because you have only two cousins in the bunch, and they talk.

And, they read.

You now feel you’re being monitored by Big Brother, even though a brother is the only familial relation you don’t have out of the twenty-seven other people at your grandpa’s ninetieth birthday party.

You wonder, as soon as you write that, if you just said too much about your grandpa and his age. Too much to protect the privacy of your family (including, most importantly, yourself)? Did you just risk this piece being shared with everyone on your dad’s side of the family?

You decide to leave the reference in place. It’s always possible your readers will think you mean the other grandpa on your dad’s side turning ninety this weekend.

With thanks, and apologies, to the photographer who must remain uncredited.

That’s where I stand. Despite the plausible deniability, I don’t feel like I can write any of that stuff. Not only because my audience is half a dozen people larger than I ever suspected, but also because it wouldn’t be much fun to base an entire piece on a family function.

Sure, family foibles are highly relatable, nearly universal experiences. You’d think we could all connect over ragging on a brother-in-law or equivalent. (Not you! One of the OTHER brothers-in-law.) Practically every family has a paternal aunt who takes on the ludicrous bulk of coordinating twenty-eight people from across the country—on the same weekend, mind you—and welcoming them into her own, actual home. That’s a tie that binds us.

And who doesn’t enjoy talking in hushed tones about the long-haired, bearded, childless writerly-type in the family? No one knows quite what to make of him, except to say, “For a hermit, you’re doing pretty well this weekend.”

Really, though, I can’t imagine any reader (including my familial ones) wants to relive all their own awkward family experiences. Not when there are plenty of local pot shops to visit. Besides, my family, it turns out, is not half as awkward and strange as I expected. If I did write about them, I wouldn’t even have to anonymize them. But I would, because I cannot remember that many names.