The above quote is a not only an hommage to Groucho, the grandaddy of American comedy, (and most likely father to Woody Allen, the daddy of American comedy and I'm not sure I want to know who the son or daughter is) but also the best way to describe the sentimental ties of my maternal family.
It's a very strange phenomenon to be constantly criticized and feel somewhat rejected in a club of which you are a lifelong member, e.g. your family. This is more or less the mechanism of sentimentality (to not pronounce the "L" word or what passes for it) that runs in mine. You know you are one of them because you are made to feel you are never quite up to scratch and whatever gripes you have about this club, you cannot forfeit your membership. After all, they had a hand in your genetics and there is no way out of this one. (Not even the cellular fission that occurs during a nuclear holocaust could undo it!)
The members of the club, notably grand-dad and his eldest daughter, have done their very best to make those who were foolish enough to become members of the club by law (read: marriage) feel so very unwelcome that my mother's generation are nearly all divorced. I, on the other hand, do not have this luxury. I cannot divorce my forebears. All I have to console me is humor.
You may ask: "How bad can it be?" (Ask the gay divorcés!) Oh but there are so many examples-- where does one begin?
A couple of days ago, I came across a picture of a wedding that we (members of the maternal family, viz. "The Club") crashed in Maine in August last year. I remember grand-dad furious and hurrying us up to get to the dock to get on the lobster boat to get to the island where this grand house and very luxurious wedding was happening. The deep anxiety was that there would be no place to dock afterwards. This was not true. No one was allowed to dock anyway. This was, for all intents and purposes, an exaggeration to manipulate us into doing what he wants, a common ruse of the patriarch.
We were there horribly early, sticking out like sore thumbs as the guests that no one knew, with a silent train of waiters with heavy trays of hors d'oeuvres lining the walkway. Since we'd made it passed the train with required decorum, indulging in an hors d'oeuvre and cranberry juice hither thither, we'd decided to rest in some of the sundry Adirondack chairs and wait for the masses of the truly invited to arrive.
Grand-dad stuffing face with Goldfish, his Better Half & yours truly (mit chignon).
Grand-dad was incensed. He had wordlessly stuffed his face with the Goldfish crackers that were in large bowls on the bar but we, choosing to sit where everyone could see us, had really crossed the line. He came over to us sitting in this plush makeshift living room in the front garden of the house and spat in Chilean:
"Ustedes son unos rotos!"
Which is Chilean for you are all lower-class turds, or plebes, vulgar guttersnipes, etc. He then stalked off since he apparently didn't want to be associated to "The Club" that he in part, founded. We could not pacify him for the entire evening, at leat until someone had given him enough champagne to distract him and a diversion was created by a very obliging Chilean lady who was an appendage of The Club that evening.
I couldn't care less. I'd been denounced in The Club sundry times and believe that spoiled children should be left to have their tantrums on their own. It is a strange habit to throw stones at those we love, but isn't it all in Groucho's quote? Don't we judge and belittle others because we have no esteem for ourselves?
0 commentaires:
Post a Comment