Family

I tuned in halfway through to TV One’s News Debate: The State of The New Zealand Family. The debate needed to be about parenting, not families.

I grew up in a loving family. It wasn’t a nuclear family, not after my father died when I was six. My mother raised three boys by herself. She sacrificed things for her boys. It wasn’t easy for her. According to Destiny Church and Maxim Institute she did a bad job; one son gay. They imply she should have shacked up with some guy to give us a father figure. Dick was our father figure. Go ahead an laugh, but I’m referring to Dick H, a neighbour. My brother Mark had him speak at his wedding on behalf of the family. Dick was the coach of the Under 19 rugby team my brother was in. Both brother’s played for Tamatea Rugby Club and Dick facilitated it. We had a father figure.

I wasn’t like my brothers. I recall her saying once that she could dress me in white until I was four, without me getting covered in dirt like my brothers. I wasn’t interested in sports. Under-12 softball was what I played, badly. My loving family didn’t force me to play sports. I was a bookworm, I got to read books instead. I always danced to a different tune. I wanted to know “why” about everything. My mother said one of the smartest things she did for me was get a library membership for me. I was a geek, but my brothers stood up for me anyway.

One of my eldest brother’s school friends once called me stupid. My brother dragged him home and forced him to read my school reports. My brother would have been about fifteen or sixteen at the time. As a “B” student, I did a lot better academically than the friend, who was generally a “D” student. At the time, I didn’t care what the friend thought, but looking back, I’m proud of my brother’s actions.

I used to stay a few days with my other brother when he was in Wellington three or four times a year, on my way to or from Christchurch, where I went to university. After a few visits, he realised I didn’t feel the need to do the things he was doing, but I was always welcome to stay. When he was living in Sydney and I was looking after our mother, he paid for a vacation for me to see him. After that, it was eleven years between us seeing each other; when one of us was in New Zealand, the other was overseas. I visit him in San Diego, knowing there’s always a place to stay. He was pleased when I turned up at his wedding with a week’s notice, even though he didn’t expect me to be able, but that’s what credit cards are for.

That’s what a family is, not some predetermined structure. Both my sisters-in-law love me. That’s part of being a family.

Several years ago, I needed to stay overnight in Wellington. From one cousin, I got the phone number of another cousin. I called on a Friday, but it was his work number, and I got his assistant, who promised to pass on the message. She said he would be in Masterton visiting his mother (my favourite aunt). On Sunday, I drove down via Masterton to see my Aunt. He was there, but got my message only an hour earlier. Staying was not a problem, even without confirmation. His boys were seventeen then, a few years older than the last time I’d seen that part of the family when they were both in nappies. Unquestioning acceptance after sixteen years is part of having a good family.

It’s not all rosy; I have one aunt that the nicest thing I can say about her is that she is a bitch. Another is a bitch who I made effort to talk with. She complained once that I didn’t call her enough, but had no response after I said I’d returned every one of her calls.

My mother wasn’t the easiest person to live with, and looking at my brothers, I can see traits we all share, but when I look at other people and their family relationships, I see I’ve done pretty well with family.