Zombie Grandpa

This zombie grandpa thing is causing more of a reaction in me than I thought it would. I mean, it’s just some dude who I don’t know, have never met, and have never spoken to, so his miraculous desert adventure is really just some chapter out of a lost Hunter S. Thompson novel at best, Warren Ellis at worst. Except I’m finding myself having all sorts of unidentifiable emotions. Furrowed-brow emotions. WTF is this shit emotions. In trying to identify how I felt, get a word for it, I thought about some of the kids we work with here.

One of the things we do at my job is run these little groups for kids and their families. The families get to go off and vent and bitch and moan and share and re-gather themselves, while the kids get to run around shrieking and banging on drums. We get a lot of different families coming to these events — adoptive families, pre-adoptive families, families with adopted kids grown and gone, step-families, foster families, kinship families — pretty much any permutation of adults-rearing-kids that you can think of. And because (as you should never forget when you’re talking about adoption) these kids all had their own lives before hooking their lives together with new grown-ups, sometimes the kids meet somebody at one of these events that they used to know.

A while back, a family with two adopted siblings ran into a foster family with a group of siblings in their care, and they discovered that all these kids were bio-siblings. The sibs had one of those “notorious” families, where if you mentioned their name to any social worker in the county you’d get a story to make you cry. So the kids, they’d been through some really bad shit. The littlest ones were sometimes obviously traumatized, but other times, just obviously little kids. Of the older sibling group, the younger boy was doing better — seemed happier — than his older sister, who was very pent-up.

Once these two families had figured out they were raising a sibling group, they decided to get together before one of our events to have a moment to let the kids talk, after telling them that they were siblings. The younger kids were told just before coming to the event (they were young enough that if they’d been told earlier, they might have forgotten), while the older kids had been told by their parents earlier that week, so they’d had time to ruminate.

The adoptive parents were pretty harried when they arrived, and confided to us that they’d had a helluva time with the older girl since they’d told her about her siblings. When we were chatting with the kids, trying to keep it relaxed, my boss asked how they felt about meeting the kids. The brother went on and on about how excited he was, while the sister stayed quiet. Finally, the mom very pointedly told her to say something. “Just say what’s going to happen today,” she told her, exasperated. “What did we tell you?”

“Uh, you told me I’m going to be meeting some kids.”

“Who are the kids?”

She shrugged. “Some kids.”

“Don’t start with this. Who are these kids?”

Finally, she mumbled, “Supposedly, my family.”

Not long after this, the girl ended up in a hospital, for some pretty serious self-injury attempts.

I did and didn’t understand this. The girl had been really badly traumatized, and as the oldest of the entire sibling group, she probably saw and understood a lot more than the other kids had to, and that’s a heavy burden to bear. So this was an event that was bound to poke at whatever unresolved issues and memories she had, and the fact that it led to self-injury isn’t too surprising. I understood that. What I didn’t understand was her unwillingness to accept these kids as her siblings, even though she knew perfectly well they were.

It’s making more sense to me now. I’ve done a lot of hard work to build up some boundaries in my life, and standards and expectations of the people I will let into it. That’s something that’s made me feel safe, and protected, and steady, this idea that nobody can get in unless I let them, and that I now have the sense and strength to only let in the people that are healthy for me.

Then, along comes mysterious Zombie Grandpa, and he’s family. And I realize now that family members have an opportunity to bypass my quality control in a way that nobody else does. I do not give people a chance to become a part of my life unless I have gotten to know them. But sight unseen, there is now a complete stranger who I may give a chance to. This is not to say I am obligated to maintain a relationship with any family member in any way — lord knows I’ve cut a lot of family out, and never been sorry for it — but it is to say that this intangible concept of “family” and a genetic link makes the potential beginning of a relationship very different.

The thing is, “family” as a concept means that a stranger you have never met can change your life simply by existing. You don’t have to talk to them or relate to them or anything with them, but there is this uncomfortable (for me) knowledge that without him, I wouldn’t exist, and without me, he is losing a large part of himself. We are a part of each other, without ever having met. WTF. It’s a symbiotic relationship thrust upon two completely unknown entities. I mean, imagine if the Hand of God came down and plucked any random person from the planet and told you, “Now, for the rest of your life, you will be affected by the fate of this individual.” Oh, sure, you don’t have to talk to them or hang out with them or know them at all. I sure don’t know my sister, or my dad. But if either of them died, I’d want to know. If my sister had a baby, I’d want to know. I feel a pull towards knowing the basic structure of their lives, and I’m sure they feel a pull toward the basic structure of mine, even when I have no desire to be a part of that structure. And maybe that’s the genetic pull, the heritage talking.

So, I understand this girl who denied her siblings more. Because there she was, working her shit out, doing pretty good, feeling safe, feeling like she was in control, and then suddenly the Hand of God threw down some babies and said, “You will never be rid of these — these little creatures are a part of you forever.” If they were just some stranger’s little kids, she wouldn’t have to care, she wouldn’t have to change her life to accommodate. But if they were family, then suddenly new and complicated creatures were going to be invading her bubble. Things she hadn’t asked for, or wanted. So, “Supposedly, they’re my family.” Because she desperately doesn’t want them to be.

I find myself veering between calling my Zombie Grandpa, well, “Zombie Grandpa,” “my mom’s dad” and “supposedly, my Grandpa.” For a long time, I’ve understood the value and importance of “choosing” your family. But I’ve never had to consider this idea that family might appear out of thin air and choose you. It’s uncomfortable.