My parents were not perfect. They never represented themselves as such. They were not mind readers. They never represented themselves as such. They loved each other, and they loved my brother and me, and I felt safe and cared for while I lived at home.
And now, across the Salish Sea, they still care for me. They help me pay my bills and enjoy the life I live so that it can be equitable with my roommate/brO. They continue to think about me and consider my feelings and ask for my opinion and snicker at my jokes and frown helplessly at my continuing weird takes on our family history.
But what motivates my writing sometimes is knowing that I was Loved, and so many are not. So many people have black holes of mental illness and assault convictions and alcoholism swirling around their parents. They have poverty and intergenerational abuse and racism and food insecurity as constant companions. When I write about these things, it’s because my parents gave me a life in which I could mentally afford to think about others, and to see my privilege as a member of a contented family as exactly that, not a sign that god loves me better.
