I love my family.
As problematic as they can be, I love these chuckleheads. They are all that I have. But to pick a family member I dislike is asking me to reach back into the crates of memory.
A family member that I don’t like? Well, he died about a decade ago. Thirteen, in June of this year. This name was Nathaniel Jones, and we was murdered in North St. Louis.
Nathan and I were close, not just in age. He would be 40 next year had he lived. When we got to middle school, we fought like cats and dogs! He was mean to me and I never knew why. Like it seemed that my presence irritated him. I remember once in fourth grade he purposefully slammed my right hand in a door.
He did all kinds mean shit to me. I really don’t know why. I still don’t.
Where I thought he would be my protector, best friend and cousin, it was apparent that was never going to happen. Not again. He made fun of me. Didn’t talk to me. And when he started selling drugs and got shot the first time? I told him to leave Missouri.
Spoiler: He didn’t.
I grew not to like him because he was a jerk to me. I asked him not to leave me, to do better so we can get back to what it might have looked like to close this chasm time created. I didn’t like him because I didn’t get him. I didn’t understand why he disliked me.
We were family.
He was my cousin.
He was also mean to my brother and I couldn’t kick his ass for it. And he died with me still being mad at him.
Now, I can look back at this relationship and saw how chaotic he was. How problematic his behavior was. He died with me not forgiving him. The worst part? I don’t think he even cared.
[image from brickset.com]