The black sheep at family gatherings

Dragged back into my hometown during the holidays, I was required to attend a family Christmas party. The winter was eerily warm and brown, not with dirtied snow but with dead grass. The feeble winter isn't even able to muster a frosty breath from me as sparse Christmas lights meagerly clung the roofs of old houses, wincing out glows to desperately exude holiday spirit in desolate neighbourhoods. My hometown isn't exactly a mosaic of art and culture, the architecture is drenched in brown whilst the population is bleached with White, peppered with the indigenous population who hold their ground in a colonized backdrop. It was a rusted cage but despite the dreary confines, my aunts and uncles dug their roots in this little town.

After being dispersed across the world, a handful of Vietnamese refugees wound up finding sanctuary in a quiet town on the belly of Alberta. They discovered their kin at the local Church and forged their own populous with the few Viet bodies that found their way into the same town. They’d meet up ever weekend, rotating between each other's homes; praying, drinking, laughing. Shoes and coats piled the lobby, the adults bundled in the dining room, rich with the aroma of beer and cooked food, with hearty conversations happening all at once. The kids scampered around while the teens lazed on the couches and as custom, we'd all culminate in the living room to pray before breaking back out into our boisterous indulgence. More members were invited into the circle while some faded out. The community ebbed and flowed but overtime, it began to dwindle as the children flecked off to pursue their future.

My mom moved to a city about two hours away, trading low brown buildings for tall grey ones, joining my twin and older brother (most of the kids seemed to have resided in the same city). I moved further, all the way to BC where my older sister already made home. I get forced back into town because of a dentist appointment. A few kids still reside there while others are visiting. With so much of us back in the same place for only so much time, it was the perfect opportunity to congregate again. A reunion of our domestic immigrant tradition. By the time I got to my uncle’s, it was already vivid with chatter and food.

I stood in the kitchen mingling with who I could (which is really only my twin and a cousin we're staying with) where the adults--habitually, I still differentiate my aunts and uncles as the “adults” and us as the “kids”--would occassionaly weave through us. A few who'd come in and out of the kitchen would maneuver around me with blank expressions, eyes looking through me. I felt like a piece of furniture blocking their way and it made me feel burdensome and alien. I became cognizant of the women in the room. All of them pretty and feminine, the first generation with hair dyed dark and eyes traced delicately with pencil liner where as the second generation had long curls cascading down their backs and long eyelashes. The young moms were sitting on the living room floor, corraling their babies and toddlers who fumbled around (their White husbands didn't attend). The one girl younger than me is now in college and dating a boy back from my grade. I still remember her as the crazy middle schooler but now she's turned into a young lady, her hair spun into locks and her face pink with makeup.

Trapped in the small congregation of my family, I remembered how much of a minority I actually am. My hair is cut up in different lengths, my face bare, exposing the red and yellow pallet of my natural skin. I showed up in black baggy clothing that obscured the shape of my body. If you didn't focus on my face, if you just saw me from the corner of your eye, you could've assumed I was one of the boys. This wasn't the shy and scrawny girl my aunts and uncles remembered. My hair used to spill straight and even across my shoulders, my clothes were plain but as small as my body. I could tell just from the beaming smiles and the fond cadence in their voices that my aunts and uncles were fawning over how pretty I was turning out, even without me needing to know a lick of vietnamese. When you look at how tall your niece is geting and how much she resembles her mother everyday, you begin to envision what she'd look like as an adult. You don't envision the queer androgynous body that they turned out being.

After the party, my twin asked if I noticed if I was being stared at weirdly. I mentioned how I felt like some of the members didn't seem enthused to see me and my sister informed me we were getting particularly stink-eyed by one of the aunties. She’s the most religious of the bunch and was always stern. I remember her gripping her son by the wrist and wacking the back of his hands with a wooden spoon. I still remember the loud clap of the hard wood against his small hand as he wailed in pain. I was scared of her, not just that she'd hit her kids but that she didn't hesitate or hold back even when my twin and I were watching from against the wall. At the same time, I remember her being the aunty who always made sure we ate enough food, filling our plates with seconds without asking. It breaks my heart that any fondness she could've possibly had for us has been replaced with burning judgement.

My whole family is a black sheep in the group. It's the only family in the circle where there was a divorce, and a messy one at that. My dad was the first to die too early, he used to always show up to the parties already wreaking of booze. My brother is an estranged problem child, my older sister is one to brandish her tattoo cloaked skin but resigned to a modest long sleeve for the party to avoid judgement, and then there's me, the queer scrag who extinguished the wholesome girl of their past. My twin is probably the only one who could blend in to the picture-esque conservative fantasy although even that'd be short-lived considering she’s aroace. My mom stopped attending the gatherings and church after the divorce, having only recently started talking to the group again. I discovered that the aunty who was staring daggers into my back went around telling the other women not to associate with my mom and to “keep their husbands away from her” (please, like my mom would want to deal with any of your men after everything men have put her through!)

Even at the party, I noticed how all the women dressed festively, cladened in white and red dresses. My mom harshly contrasted the clique, only sporting a worn-out blue top and jeans. We were a last minute invite as we just rolled into town, I don't believe they deliberately ostracized her from their dress code but the visual dichotomy still felt indicitave of my family's place in the enclave. Similarly, my older sister was sitting with the young mothers but was the only one without her own kid. She'd shrivel at the prospect of getting married and starting a family. My sister thrived in the hustling environment of a big city, possesing a pocket of space all to herself. I remember seeing her old apartment for the first time and gawking at the pornographic art paintings and photography that filled her walls. I can't imagine her forfeiting her explicit expression to go nuclear. A few of my aunts and uncles haven't seen my brother since our dad's funeral and the rest indefinitely longer. If they asked any of us how he's doing, we could only respond “he’s alive”.

It feels cliche to be a black sheep as if every family doesn't have its own mess and drama. Granted, there were family members who did greet me warmly and our language barrier could be what's really keeping us at arm's length. However, I've been accosted with the subject of finding a man and getting married enough times to not sense it in the air at family gatherings. Even if not spoken, the thoughts of what I've done to myself and what consequences that'd breed is thick in the air. There is still the patriarchal assumption that our happiness and value is defined by our domestic life if not at least completed by it. Inching towards the “deadline of marriagability” yet still not priming myself for partnership, I look like a wayward soul still stuck in their tomboy phase. The next time I wander into a family gathering, whenever that will be, what will I look like then? How many more of the kids will be added to the board of nuclear lifestyles and how many could possibly turn out like me? Would the adults still be gossiping?