Not sure about that title. It is both. Why she hates me. But also , the fact that she hates me and told me why is “Why she is a bitch” … well, actually the causation of why she is a bitch is probably way longer than this little story.
Should I name her? I mean. You will know who I am referring to, I am sure. But do I put it in writing? Give her even more reason to hate me? Because I call her out on her inability to evolve past her childhood dysfunction? Maybe she has gotten over it, but then comes the fact that she laid the reasoning for her hatred on my lap, like some sort of present or sacrifice.
“You were Grandma’s favorite.” She said, “You and my brother.”
I disagreed with that statement, at the time. I knew there were cousins that were closer to our grandparents - but it wasn’t because they were favorites. It was simple proximity. My parents, more likely my mother, spent more time with her parents. We went over Grandma’s house every Sunday - or every other Sunday - and for the holidays. Always. And for a time my grandmother ‘watched’ me after school. We were around, we spent time with my grandparents. This cousin did not. Her parents did not.
There were 10 brothers and sisters in my mother’s family. Some of my grandparents’ kids came around often, and were close with them. Others barely came around at all. And there were some that were in between (having 10 kids allows for that range, I suppose). This cousin’s family was one of the medium level visitors. But their son played football at a young age, so some of us in the family went to his games. They were awful - by that I mean I never quite understood football, and it seemed unnecessarily aggressive. Which could describe her brother. Unnecessarily aggressive. One time when we were playing in the backyard, he was chasing me, taunting me, as older boy cousins do to younger weak cousins (or so I am told) - and he WHIPPED (caps intended, because it was forceful, had intensity and velocity) something hard at my back. I later found out it was an ice cube, but it might as well have been a rock. It hit my body with such force that my back arched at the impact, my torso pushed forward, while my head and legs stayed back a step. My father saw it happen, and had a general, “What the fuck?” type reaction. I was more concerned about my loss of air - and thought it was related to my asthma, when it probably was that I had the wind knocked out of me. I do remember my father questioning, “He threw an ice cube at a girl’s back. Who the hell DOES that?” Georgie. Georgie does that.
So my interpretation was that those that saw Grandma & Pop often, they were more ‘favorites’ than the others. If you could even call it that. To me, we all had the same footing. Were treated the same by the grandparents. Christmas gifts and birthdays were all the same. We got the same $5 in a card, the same chocolate Easter Bunny, the same bologna sandwiches. There were 23 of us. They couldn’t afford favorites.
So the phrase, “You were the favorite.” didn’t sit well with me. What does that even mean? “We all heard ALL about you. It was always about Anna. Anna this and Anna that. How good you were in school, how you got good grades, how you did this or that. How one time you made dinner and brought it over to her..” and , “I hate you for that.”
How do you respond to that? How do I defend myself? Firstly. Yes, I was good in school. I can’t apologize for that. Maybe if you were good in school you would be raved about too. (no i did not say this outloud) Yes, I did do nice things for my grandmother. I went to visit her. One time I did bring her the Chicken ALA King that I made - it was really good. Maybe, if you came to visit, or did nice things, then she would tell stories about you too. But still, I never thought that made me a “favorite”. Maybe because I knew having a favorite wasn’t right.
So here I was, an adult. Being told by my also adult cousin, that she always hated me because she believed that my grandmother liked me more. I knew on multiple levels that this was not my fault. She also hadn’t thought it through - just a few steps deeper. I guess she wasn’t able to hate our grandmother - for having a favorite, or rubbing it in. I hadn’t done anything wrong, except treat our grandmother well. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t disrespectful to our grandmother, there was nothing wrong with the way she treated her. I just was nicer. I think that was , and is, it. I am nicer.
And why she is a bitch.
She didn’t have to tell me she hated me. She didn’t have to tell me that she had childhood dysfunction that led her to hold a grudge against me. We barely interact, we barely see eachother ever. This was at a funeral or a family gathering that only happens when the stars align just so. I have to consider that perhaps it was something that stewed inside of her, and needed to be said. She was so injured by this slight from our grandmother that in order to heal she needed to confront me. Except , it still wasn’t me that injured her. It was nothing nefarious that I had done. I suppose I could have defended myself right then - said, “well, that wasn’t my fault.” I didn’t. I was too stunned. This woman, my cousin, hated me. That stings.
Perhaps it is something that I shouldn’t give more time in my brain. I have mentioned it to other family members - their response has been, “well, she is a bitch, I’m not surprised.” or even, “yeah, you were one of the favorites.”
But there were so many favorites. Seriously. Maria (even though she also was abused), Jimmy, he lived across the street or around the corner, Michelle, she was the baby girl of the baby girl. I didn’t even consider Georgie a favorite. …..
Georgie died very young by the way. It was tragic. He got some sort of brain/nerve damage from cutting himself at work at a deli. He slowly wasted away - getting to the point of not being able to walk, do things for himself, etc. After high school and through his illness he became a very very sweet man. He was loving and gentle and so generous. He was the type that if you liked that thing on his wall he would give it to you, or if he saw something you would like on the internet, he would get it for you. He loved classic cars, especially one brand - Maybe Buick? He had a beautiful car in his garage that he had painstakingly restored, and when it got to the point where he couldn’t do the work himself, he instructed his best Buddy (that was also his name) on what to do, and Buddy did it. The car became Buddy’s when George passed. I tried not to hold onto any ill feelings towards George. Who he was as a child was not the person he grew into. I never hated the boy, or the man. Yes, I thought he was a bully when we were younger. I will never forget that. He was so very full of life, and spirit. Even if that spirit was mischievous. It is heartbreaking that this was taken away from him, by some freak thing.
Tracey lives somewhere far away now. Southern. Maryland? Virginia? And her parents moved out there with her, and the family doesn’t hear much from her. Her father, my uncle, suspiciously will interact with one of his other siblings but not another. Apparently favorites are a thing after all.
postscript: I'm not sure why I am putting this on the K blog. Maybe because it is a story about my family. So then also her family. I don't know if she will ever come across my cousin Tracey. It's not like she would come to town for my funeral or anything. Oh wait, I'm not having a funeral. So - probably K will never meet her. So that's good, I guess
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