Where is Your Family?

I was having casual conversation with an acquaintance at my boxing gym, when she asked me a simple question: “Where is your family?” The conversation had gone somewhat smoothly to that point, with equal give and take. Though both mildly distracted by the hubbub in the gym, we were committed to asking the ritual getting-to-know-you questions. She sat against the ringside ropes, massaging her calves. Her words hung in front of me like stale air: Where is your family? Repeating them made them no less comprehensible. Within that moment, I evaluated all of my closest relationships. Which could count as family? Which would I keep in mind when the follow up questions of “Where are you in the mix?” and “what do your parents do?” ensued? Finally, ready with the best possible answer, I realized that much more than a moment had passed. The woman now stood several feet away from me chatting with someone else.

Before I entered the foster care system, the answer to any question about family ran deep in my bones. It flowed through and from me as air. My family: Eight children. Four boys, four girls. Apostolic. We women wear dresses. We cover our heads. We believe in one God. Potomac Maryland. The same house for some twenty years. I knew me. I knew every detail about where I came from and where I would indeed be going. For sixteen years I sang, ate, and shunned the rest of the sinning world with same people.

The day I left proved to be the longest one in my memory. My English teacher asked me to see her after class. She took me down to the counseling office where after being examined, I was told social services would be visiting my parents and I would most likely be leaving my home. Two days later, after splitting my time between my best friend’s house and English teacher’s place, I went to the police station where I was further examined. A female officer took me into a bathroom with bubble gum pink walls and asked me to undress. She took pictures of my body as I stood with my hands on the wall. That night, I sat down to a spaghetti dinner with a heavyset blonde haired woman in pants, her teenage daughter, and their blazing television. The mother brought a roll of paper towels over to the table and sat across from me. “You can call me Auntie,” she said, in a matter of fact way. “You’ll share a room with Grace.” She was the first of six foster mothers I would have in the next five years.

Shifting from home to home, I lost a piece of my foundation’s rock each time. I put on the literal clothes of another and adapted new customs with each transition. In Germantown, I learned the value of education and strict rules. In Kensington, I needed to drop all the books and dress more “My age.” In Chevy Chase, I ate organic and learned to swing dance, but asked to leave when I stopped feigning happiness. In Damascus, I just watched TV. In Silver Spring, any mood but enthusiastic would not suffice. When finally I turned twenty one, and aged out of system, there remained no recognizable part of my past. I had become a chameleon with no true color. My personal values lay dormant in the cells of my body, cold in the dresses I shed, the songs which had slowly faded.

Last Winter I left Maryland to attend college at a conservative Christian institution in Rexburg, Idaho. I was unprepared for the experiences I would have. It being a school based solidly on family values, I was asked frequently about my background. My answer varied depending on who I spoke with, and this troubled me. I found myself longing for the simplicity of having just one story. I longed for one family in a home, anxiously awaiting my return. A dull pain grew in me each time I saw a roommate on skype with her loving, doting parents. One night, it came to be too much to keep in. I left my apartment after dark and went walking through the empty town, deeply saddened and trying my hardest not to curse God for the life I have lived. I asked God specifically for clarity, and didn’t realize the prayer was answered until I studied the painting, Madonna of the Rocks by Leonardo Davinci.

I am by no means a talented assessor of art, but the minute I learned of this piece, I knew what it meant to me. It depicts the Virgin, or Madonna, with the angel Gabriel, Christ and John the Baptist. The figures are placed in a pyramidal arrangement, and exchange a certain amount of comfort and warmth between them.

What struck me of this painting, was the fact that instead of focusing solely on the people in the painting, Davinci studied every aspect of the background as well, including a botanical study of every plant. The background held an incredible amount of detail, yet the distinction between the famous individuals of the painting is not made obvious. Instead, they are recognized more subtly by the gestures and expressions they make. My blood family compares to the dim setting. They hold the key to the exact physical make up, which is me. However, my actual family compares to the individuals of this painting. Though all be not blood related, they are most observably connected by circumstance and heart.

Ask me who my family is now. I no longer feel as if I am telling a made up story when I list my closest friends. I am part of a heart exchange that runs as deep as the one between the Virgin, her son, Gabriel, and John. My family, my friends, love and me.