There is a story in my family that my grandfather was a member of the KKK. This story is told differently from what you might be thinking. There is an eye roll and a condescending tone when it is told. It is told as if he was a silly little man making silly little decisions. It is told as if he just didn’t know any better. A 40-year-old man didn’t know any better. It is told with that southern manner of “tisk, tisk”, people shouldn’t do things like that. The story doesn’t hold the true intensity associated with a man choosing to commit horrible crimes with his buddies to oppress an entire race and gender. It is told as if there wasn’t terror and torture associated with this organization. It was just another story about our family’s history.
There is a story in my family that my ancestors came to the United States and Canada during the potato famine in Ireland. I am sure that is factual. But it is told as if they got a little hungry and jumped on a boat to cross the Atlantic. It is told as if they just started over after reaching new shores. It was no big deal. They just moved to a new city and got an apartment. There is no mention of the concentration camps the poor Irish were living in before they managed to leave Ireland. There is no mention of the horrific trauma instilled on them by the English who were literally trying to commit Irish genocide. There is no discussion about what they had to do to reunite what was left of their purposefully separated families and get on that ship. And there is no reference to the prejudice they faced from being Irish Catholic in this new world.
There is a story in my family of my mean great-grandparents. When my great-grandmother is mentioned, there is a bit of fear that comes along with her name. There may even be a small shutter in those who knew her. But it is played off. “You didn’t want to cross her.” “Her kids really didn’t want to do anything wrong.” It is almost said with pride. She knew how to control her children. She knew how to run a tight ship. People laugh when they mention how my mother was named for her. “Two peas in a pod. Isn’t that funny?” Hysterical. They say my grandfather would not have had it easy in that house. It would have been like living in a prison. But he made it out of there okay. I am sure he wasn’t too badly scarred from it. I am sure he was fine.
There is a story in my family that my grandfather made it through five amphibious landings in World War 2. It is told with much pride. I don’t know if it’s true. But I also know he is the type who could have done it. He had already lived through hell on Earth. He knew what to do in hell. I don’t doubt he was involved in at least one. There is a story in my family that my grandfather was honorably discharged near the end of the war. But it wasn’t from an injury. This is where the whispers start. He was drunk and disorderly, but when they looked at his record, the judge didn’t have the heart to discharge him dishonorably. I know that’s true too. But this is where the eye rolls come back. The condescension starts. “Poor Grandpat. He could never put down the bottle.” But come on. We all know soldiers were not discharged from the military for getting drunk. We know that the definition of “disorderly” runs a wide spectrum. Whatever his behavior was, it was bad enough for the military to see him as a risk during the chaos of war. And that’s bad.
There is a story in my family that my grandfather didn’t have much respect for the law. He had one of those charming personalities that made everyone like him when they should have hated him. “The gift of the gab!” There was so much pride in that. It was spoken as if living above the law as a privileged white, male veteran was almost heroic. There is a story in my family that he moved around a lot because he didn’t like to stay in one place. But then the whispers start. There may have been a few warrants in different places, but we can’t be sure. There are whispers about babies with other women and how he just could not seem to keep his hands off the women. “You know, like men do.” And there are whispers about the house he might have burned down for the insurance money. “He was so crafty like that.” “He was always getting away with things.” But nobody talks about how living in his immediate family would have been a living hell. Nobody talks about his affiliation with the KKK and how that gave him friends in high places, a way to do bad things without any repercussions, a way to stay out of jail. Nobody talks about that.
There are stories in my family, but they are only part of the truth. They don’t discuss the generations of trauma and how that built an extended family of people who despise themselves. They don’t talk about the massive undercurrent of fear that permeates their choices turning every single day into an episode of the Hunger Games. There is no discussion about what drives the trafficking and rape of their children, the domestic violence in their marriages and the hate-fueled crimes against other people they see as less than them. It is an addiction. It is a fix. For half a second, they feel like they have some power in this life. They feel like they have a way of ending their pain by passing it on to another. It doesn’t work though. It will never work. Trauma has to be healed from the inside out and only the most courageous will make that choice. People would rather stick to their current horrible behavior than face their pain. I have learned that the hard way. But I keep hoping we can bring the true painful context to these family stories. When we get real, we can make real change happen.
Elisabeth,
Thank you for your heart felt story, again.
Many families have secrets and the shame that comes with it. It just depends on how the stories are spun.
Justified, rationalized and the self deception.
Very few people are vulnerable or transparent.
The spin takes the edge off the truth.
In my family, my cousins grandfather was a Chief of police in Indiana.
He was also in the KKK.
Like you said, friends in high places…
There are stories of a fishing lake where meetings were held and lynchings carried out.
Traumatic experiences kept in the shadows…
Who rapes their own children? tragic
All we can do is the next right thing and try to pass on a better legacy to our children.
My son just entered UC book camp.
On the one side we speak of a shameful past.
On the other, a future with hope and someone to be proud of.
USMC
Thanks for sharing. It’s so true how we share family stories in a distorted, privileged, diluted way. Its very validating to hear you say that. My brother was racist only because he didn’t take his meds for bipolar. My dad was old of course so it was just his age and experience. And when I spoke out I was breaking the dysfunctional family roles. Don’t expose dysfunction. And for God’s sake don’t talk about how any of it makes you feel. You helped me today by sharing
You have had similar experiences to me in that way. The honest context will pave a way for that better future for everyone involved.
thank you for very much for sharing your stories with us; you have helped me so very very much
Thank you. So powerful. And so healing to read. I crave this level of truth and honesty.
Thank you!
Yes, we are the courageous ones. This helps me to see my families stories and secrets in the light of truth. Thank you, Elisabeth.
Yes! Thank you Nora!
One of the “stories” I overheard as a young girl, around 6 yrs of age because there is 5 years between my brother who is the main character in this story. One night my sister who was 20 yrs old brought two of her girlfriends to our house after the bar one night and they slept on the Livingroom floor. The next morning my Mom and sister & her 2 friends were sitting around the kitchen table as my sister & her friends were laughing relating how they awoke in the middle of the night with my brother’s hand down their shirts as he was feeling their breasts…my 11 yr old brother. This is a line from one of my sister’s friends, “I woke up & the little bugger had his hand down my blouse.” hahahahahah!!! This is the same attitude that was prevalent when my Uncle copped a feel as he was hugging us, his hand would slip down to our butt in front of a room full of people. My 11 yr old brother went on to mess with my 4 yr old niece till she was 17 yrs old and sexually abuse many of the females in our family and any of my friends that he could get his hands on till a group of us as 20 somethings decided to speak up…we ended up having an intervention with him, as my sister was present…the moral to the story…he never got the help we were hoping he would and there were a number of years he continued to attend family functions until my older brother told him he was no longer welcome. That split our family with my sister defending my abusive brother…she died the other day still clinging onto her denial…I stopped contact with my abusive brother a long while ago and am just now beginning to heal from the 5 plus decades of dysfunctional living…it is never too late to heal…one day healing is WAY better than one more day in Hell on Earth…IF someone had the courage to intervene, the story may have had a different outcome back then. BUT, Our courage saved the next generation, because our children KNOW the difference between what is ok & what is NOT ok!! I made lots of mistakes in my parenting from the generational dysfunction I was working so hard to not pass on, but one thing I did change was the sexual abuse part…my kids knew the stories in a different way than the “funny” version…
This is a perfect example of missing trauma context. I am glad you are working to get the truth out and keep the next generation safe.
When I think back and wonder why my mom was the way she was,like two people,a sweet person who would change into a mean person, I think of some of the family stories I heard growing up. We lived in a large eastern city so we would travel back to the small midwestern city each summer to see relatives. I would hear stories about relatives that I didn’t know and cray things they did. My older cousin would tell my mom the nutty and sometimes mean things these people had done. (My cousin was closer to my mom’s age so they talked a lot.) Sometimes I was right there with them at the kitchen table, but other times I was just close enough to hear. I was young then so would ask probably nieve questions about these people. I was always one to ask why even when it wasn’t really welcome. Mom didn’t really like me asking so I stopped. These people would do all kinds of new things every year because when we went back the next summer, there would be new stories or a continuation of the old story. When I grew up, I met one of these crazy distant cousins. He was a policeman in a small town. We only met for about ten minutes but in that time he managed to be very offensive. Don’t remember what was said. My mom’s mom had come from that dysfunctional family. Grandmother had all kinds of problems both physical and emotional. My mom fought back to have her own life, but became a very controlling, critical, narcissistic type. I don’t mean to be overly harsh by using the term narcissistic, but that does describe that side of her behavior. I think she wanted to control everything especially emotions because of growing up in this chaotic type of environment. Her mother had been overly emotional and ill often so these were things she couldn’t stand. Sad to say this didn’t lend itself to me having a very healthy childhood myself. My dad died when I was a baby and this lead to my mom making many undesirable decisions. I wish dad would have lived because his death lead to mom’s desperation to find a man – any man. – Don’t look at what kind of person he was. But back to the odd stories we heard every summer – the weird thing is that when she listened to those stories it was like she wasn’t part of that family. It was like she was a stranger listening to odd tales. There was no connection even though I realised when grew up that she knew many of these people. She hadn’t kept in touch with most but knew them. She was part of that family, even though I never knew those people. She was shaped by much of that dysfunctional thinking and fought against it, but ended up not making good decisions because of that influence.
There were plenty of my extended family members that my mother pretended not to know. She looked down on them. But I know she had traumatic experiences with many of them and they shaped who she became.
The part about every day being like The Hunger Games, though. That one sticks hard.
So exhausting!
I’ ve been lurking in the background , reading your blog for over a year now. This amazing insight forced me to comment in here. Thank you
Thank you for lurking and commenting Ami!
A narcissistic move. Mom is quick to point out the violent history of my dad’s family and I agree, very violent family background. She did this type of whispering in our ears (her children) to discredit my father and to alter our thoughts about him. As damaged as my father was, mom was that much more because she did it with a smile, with manipulation and gaslighting at its finest. Don’t get me wrong dad was guilty of all but she reinforced the blinders on us kids to side with her and pass no judgement on her and our dysfunctional family dynamics. Mom is the type who will stir the pot and then stand back and play innocent as the mayhem unravels, then she’d blame dad. As a child I didn’t see it but looking back now in my adulthood, it is as clear as day because she tries it on me. I nip it in the bud with her and call her out immediately and that feels good. She tries but knows she can’t get away with that with me. Thanks for the voice Elizabeth.
Yes! Keep her in check. Keep putting the truth in front of her.