By Kathryn Leehane
I am from a latchkey,
from powdered milk and Noxzema skin cream.
I am from your typical suburban home.
(Manicured, stout—it muffled the clangor of 6 kids.)
I am from oleander bushes, beautiful but toxic.
They adorned the front of the house.
I’m from forced family art projects, Saturday morning cartoons, and loud, unfiltered debates.
From an overburdened mother and an emotionally-absent father
who did “the best they could with what they knew at the time.”
I’m from a code of silence and ridicule designed to maim.
From Life isn’t fair! and Alderetes are better not bitter!
and especially, Don’t eat too much of that—you’ll get a big can.
I’m from communion wafers choked down with cheap wine and Catholic guilt.
From Revolutionary War patriots and laborers of the Southwest copper mines
whose family traditions seem to have been forgotten.
I’m from Burger for a Bunch and Friday-night TV dinners eaten alone.
From my brother who abandoned us at age 24
to that same brother who killed himself 16 years later.
In the hall closet, my mother kept a bankers box for each child,
meticulously organized photos and mementos,
reflecting the perfect childhood that never was.
My and my brother’s boxes live at my home now.
Reminding me it wasn’t all bad.
And celebrating that I broke the cycle.