Solution Series: Family

You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them…you don’t choose…God’s gift to you…you are to them…choose your family…gift to you…you are to…family..God’s gift…you are…family…to them…God’s gift.


Family. It’s a word that wraps its arms around you. It comforts you; consoles you. It catches your tears in the palm of its hand. Raises the corners of your lips to make you smile. But, when its hands are weak, it makes you cringe.

Speaking of cringe, that’s exactly what Gene did when he touched her. She always cringed when he touched her. Well, at least ever since it happened. She was young then. But, not too young for her not to remember, and she is not old enough to forget. That is, if a person can even forget a thing like that.


Gene had just gotten home from a day of service at BT’s literacy program. She was sitting in the kitchen responding to text messages and emails from her Blackberry. She was bit of a neo-luddite, but she gave in when it came to her cell phone. Suddenly she felt a cold hand on her shoulder. She cringed before slowly turning her head to link a victim to the feeling.

Her father greeted her and asked her how her day went. In her usual bland voice, she told him that her day was fine. He continued inciting dialogue into the room. Her responses remained reserved. She refused to give him any of her emotion. She felt like he didn’t deserve it after what he’d done. And, he had the nerve to approach her in the kitchen—the scene of the crime.


It started years ago. Gene was just a little girl; 8, maybe 9. She was home singing songs in the mirror with her mother. Hairbrushes belie cordless mics. Her father came home from work, and he brought with him the vision for a new hobby. With zeal swarming his voice, Mr. Yus told his wife and daughter about his desire to cook “soul food”.

Now, Mr. Yus’s plan was not very typical for a young white man(well also one-eighth Asian) in the South. But, then again, neither was his marriage to a black woman. Moreover, the years of silent stares from his parents became exclamatory yells of disappointment. But, hey, her parents weren’t exactly throwing confetti either. It was an imperfect love story. A love story that took punch after punch from “loving” hands. Miscegenation was the devil’s work; evil-doing that must be beaten out through violence, whether loud or quiet.


From that day on he cooked. At first, everything tasted like a bad joke; sour, flat, and dry. Then, slowly, day-by-day, meal-by-meal, things got better. Collard greens got juicier. Neck bones got more tender. More salt. Pepper. This could use a bit more sugar.

Eventually, it was like watching a master at work. And, in fact, he was at work; on a mission. He made all of his wife’s childhood favorites, the stuff mama used to make. Grandmamma called them “old slave meals”. Gene called them weapons of mass destruction.


A few days before Gene graduated from high school, her mother died. They buried her the day after she received her diploma. People all over the city came out to console Gene and her father after their loss. Some of them ended up restraining Gene. Not from ranting in front of the casket, but from attacking . It was during the sermon, or at least the nostalgic journey through the memories of her mother, that she identified the actual cause of her mother’s death—her father.

Everyone insisted that Gene overreacted. Her mother died of natural causes. There was no murderer. She did it to herself. They tried to convince her. Besides, she’s in a better place now. A place, however, that none of those people were willing to go on their own. The blind cowardice of the believers.


From then on, Gene refused to eat her father’s cooking. He gave up soul food, however, after his wife passed away. And, Gene went off to Hughes College. It wasn’t her first choice. In fact, she only chose Hughes because her mother liked it, and her experience there had been lackluster. She was stuck with a choice made for her by someone who was gone. But, at least she didn’t pick up the freshman fifteen.

Now, she sits in the kitchen with the killer, as he talks about a meeting he had with Sidney. Gene is the last person to care. Her mind is drifting back to her mother. She needs a hug, but her father is too removed from her to realize it. A tear falls, but he doesn’t see it. No one catches it. No one raises the corners of her lips.


It’ll take someone strong. Strong enough to not have all the answers.

Or, maybe just strong enough to turn a brush into a microphone.

OxyJon