Going away and growing apart

The Kitchen Sink
    By Karen Abravanel

Until last December, when my father arranged a family reunion in Orlando, my grandmother had not seen her first cousin in nearly 50 years. The night before the visit, we gathered in my grandparents' Fort Lauderdale apartment to look through old photo albums for her cousin's picture. "There's Sammy," she said, pointing to a yellowed picture of an infant. "I used to take care of him all the time." The baby, of course, was now in his late seventies.

The following day, I met a whole new set of cousins whose names I've already forgotten. And at the end of the visit, paralleling the awkwardness of opening our cousins' biographies somewhere in the middle, my grandfather demonstrated his inability to read past the early chapters of my life. "We're going to be leaving soon," he told me, as I said my goodbyes. "So be sure you go to the bathroom now, because you'll be in the car for almost an hour."

My cousins laughed quietly and explained to me what I already knew: just as my grandmother could not believe that Sammy was in his seventies, my grandparents could not acclimate to my growing up. I used to grow frustrated and embarrassed when they treated me as the child I no longer was, but recent difficulties in relating to my own family have made me more sympathetic.

With our sporadic visits and occasional phone calls, it is little wonder that my relationship with my grandparents is distant. We are separated by many decades and thousands of miles, and I probably know even less about their lives than they do about mine. Since we see each other rarely, we have little time to compensate for this mutual deficiency. Our relationship is an accumulation of incomplete encounters.

In New Haven, I am 3,000 miles from my parents and brother in Portland, Ore.--the same span that used to separate me from my grandparents. I worry that the distance will force our relationship down the same path. Staying connected requires a concerted effort, and the longer I live away from home, the harder it is to avoid feeling detached.

I knew that attending Yale, and moving across the country to do so, would require some sacrifices. I knew that I would not get to go home as frequently, and I realized that my parents would not be able to just drive in for dinner. I also knew that college would make me a different person, and I expected that my family would adapt. But I forgot that they would change too--that, yes, their lives would continue in my absence--and that I might have to adapt to them.

During my visits home, I often find a different family than the one I left--sometimes I have to push my way back in. Now accustomed to my absence, for example, my mother allows guests to sleep in my room, my father sits in my chair at the kitchen table, and my brother behaves as if he were an only child.

As I try to relate to my brother, I can now empathize with my grandparents' difficulty in adjusting to my growing up. David was in fourth grade when I left for college, and now, several inches taller, he hovers at the edge of adolescence. Since I only see him every few months, his gradual changes appear especially dramatic. I know him better as a fourth grader than as a pre-teenager, and find it strange to treat him differently.

To my mother's dismay, David often humors my nostalgia. "Remember when we used to live together?" he asks, rehashing old jokes and stories with me. Yet when he shows me his independent analysis of Plato's Allegory of the Cave, or begs to see another R-rated movie, he can no longer hide the fact that he has changed.

I try to follow these developments over the phone, and since I call my parents and brother far more regularly than I call my grandparents, I am usually successful. But with my involvement limited to phone calls, I am still relegated to a fringe role in the family.

In this new role, I can provide little assistance in family crises. Last weekend, while my mother was out of town, my brother came down with a fever. My father had to stay home for two days, faxing his work back and forth between our house and his office, while all that I could do was check in by phone. And hanging up relieved me of what little responsibility I did have.

A few days later, somewhere on page 27 of my 400-page sociology packet, my mother called with a new assignment. "I want you to talk to your brother about Outdoor School," she said, referring to the week-long camping trip loved and loathed by Oregon sixth graders. "It's coming up, and he's a little nervous about it."

"Right," I sighed, distracted. "Do I have to talk to him today?" Hours away from my sociology midterm, I told her, I had no time for Outdoor School. David would have to wait until I was less overwhelmed.

She apologized, wished me luck, and told me not to worry. "Get back to work," she said. As I redefine my role in the family, I realize that I can take advantage of the distance between us. I can choose my family obligations and decide whether or not to detach myself.

I hung up the phone, relieved that assuring David was no longer my duty, but somehow wishing that it still was.

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