Happy Birthday

I hear talking as I walk through the back door into the laundry area. I stand quietly, nobody heard me, so I listen - it is the normal chatter about old times. There is lots of laughing, but is it really funny? I look down as I close the door close, the door is hitting the jam - I push the door towards the hinges and it easily shuts. I make a mental note to fix it later.

“Hey, he finally made it!” Mom smiles from her recliner. The queen receiving visitors and gifts. 

“Like I would miss your birthday!?” I walk across the living room, lean down give her a kiss on the cheek while dropping a card in her lap. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to give me anything.” This is a complete lie as we all know she keeps a mental inventory or checklist of gifts and visits - don’t dare miss one. She plays the game, acting surprised to receive a card.

“Well then, I’ll just take it back.” It is an old game as I act like I will retrieve the card and everybody has a good laugh - they all know.

“We didn’t think you were coming?” Melissa motions towards me from the dining room table where she is gathered with our cousins from mom’s sister. 

“Nah, it all worked out and here I am.” I find a chair next to her, the only sibling I truly love. My sister, my protect, my proxy mom growing up - the only person in the family that I have ever asked for advice or told the truth.

“So, did you meet the new grandson?” Mom dollars from her seat behind us, it seems Becky told her the reason for my being tardy.

“Yeah, we finally met him.” I glare at Melissa and quickly soften realizing I never told her it was a secret.

“Oh, what is his name?” Aunt Jean seems to scream from the couch.

“They named him, well I guess the momma named him, Jackson.” I smile, remembering the little bundle I had in my arms less than an hour ago. He was now 3 months old, but we had just met him due to ongoing dispute between my son and the baby momma. Yes, not a traditional approach to having a child, or maybe it is now, as mother and father are not together and apparently do not even get along.

“Ah, that seems to be a popular name these days.” My sister addresses the table, mentioning her husband’s nephew naming his son the same and then a coworker with a son named Jackson as well.

“Show us the little fella, I’m sure you have plenty of pictures.” My cousin Laura calls for me to produce my phone and share pictures of the little guy.

Instinctively, my hand moves towards the phone in my pocket, but then I stop it. I look around the room, remembering the things said about my first grandson, my son and my wife over the years. I see cousin Jackie whose son professed it was against nature to mix races and there is uncle Bobby who loved to drop the N word and told me they are inferior.

The room spins, I stand up and walk to the kitchen and grab a glass and fill with water. I see Aunt Jolene across the room through the glass as I drink. She had expressed her dismay with having “coloreds” in her family, ending with “can you imagine?” She had vowed to disown her daughter when the daughter tried to date a black man. It was great when the daughter adopted a girl from Africa many years later.

And there is Jean next to Jolene, who professed that black people stink so many years ago in her very own home. It was her sumJean after riding the city bus one day. I lower the glass and set it in the sink, spotting my brother Jeff on the couch. 

He always wears a hat and today it is a glowing red with MAGA across it. He once told me racism doesn’t exist because he has never seen it followed by a long critique of black athletes acting uppity when speaking about about police brutality. My own story of scary situation with local police and my son does not sway his opinion.

Finally, there is mom who told me to find somebody of my own race so many years ago when I first met my wife. More than once, she told me to find a good white girl and quit messing with “those people.” She likes to call my wife “classy” and “well spoken” - this from a woman who did not finish the 10th grade. 

I turn and lean back against the counter and in fact do pull out my phone, checking for messages before returning to my pocket.

“Wait, you forgot to show us the pictures!” My cousin Dee yells from the dining room. I can see her through the opening in front of the sink in the short wall separating kitchen and dining room.

“Nah, sorry, I don’t have any, they are all on grandma’s phone.” I shrug and make a face that I think shows my forgetfulness even though I now there are plenty of new pictures of the little one on my phone plus nobody even asks about the other grandson - his shadow every weekend, his number one priority these days.

“Geez, really? What kind of grandparent doesn’t have pictures?!” Aunt Jean is beside herself and she turns and continues whatever conversation she was having

Everyone returns to their talking as I stand in the kitchen. I watch the faces contort and laugh and share old stories, but I realize I do not belong there - I never have and I should not have shown up. I had the excuse, I had a way out with the time with the new baby, but I made it all worked and ultimately showed up. 

It may be harsh - these people may be my family, but they know nothing about me and they are not people I would ever hang around. I think of the many gatherings at my house where none of them showed except for mom. I then go back two years, I feel the anger rise, and I am standing at dad’s funeral where only my siblings had shown. I pull the phone from my pocket again and feign reading an important message. I drop it back in my pocket and walk back to mom’s throne.

“Hey, sorry, but I have to go, her car stopped again so I need to go get her and get it going again.” I raise my hands to express my disappointment and convey there is nothing I can do.

“Oh no, well I understand. I appreciate you coming.” She leans forward and I plant another kiss. 

I back away slowly and exchange pleasantries with the rest and give Melissa a genuine hug as he whispers for me to be good. I want to tightly wrap my arms around her and not let go, I want her to protect me like she did when I was little. I want her to go with me, but I know this is where she belongs and it is I who does not belong.

I return to the backdoor to leave, push it back and pull it open as I now know it’s problem - I stare at the hinge again, searching my car in my mind for a screwdriver that could be used to fix it, but I know the car has nothing. Unlike my father, I never carry tools with me - something I always regret. I stand between the door and the storm door to depart when I hear it.

“You know she probably just texted him because she doesn’t want him here. She has his claws in him and keeps him from me. I just don’t know what he sees in her, well her kind, they are just different.” Mom announces to the room and there is no disagreement.

The anger subsides and I am now embarrassed, feel like a fool for ever showing up. I gently close the door, hoping nobody hears and jog to my car down the street. I sit with the a/c blowing, thinking I will cry but there is nothing, there is nothing left here for me.