Things you only know if… you don’t speak to your family
The pandemic forced Candice Brathwaite to reassess the definition of ‘family’ – with surprising results…
perhaps it was the overwhelming boredom that comes from being in lockdown for more than two months. Or maybe it was some deeper longing tugging away at my insides – but either way, I decided to fill the time by signing up to one of those websites that allows you to fill in the gaps on your family tree. While deep down I knew what would happen, like a moth drawn to a flame I found myself getting excited by the revelations that I imagined would come to pass via this magic website. But beyond my grandparents on both sides, I could go no further. After three strained days of trying to go through birth and marriage records almost a century old, I had to admit defeat: this was all I knew about my family, and more than likely all I would ever know.
You see, I’m estranged from most of them. Ill family feelings have meant that for reasons such as protecting my mental health, I have had to draw a firm line in the imaginary sand about who I allow to have access to my life – and, more pressingly, access to the lives of my two children, who are currently six and two.
Pre-pandemic, this was not only necessary but normal. OK, they would never meet their maternal grandfather (my father sadly passed away before they were born) or the rest from whom I’m estranged, but their lives were filled with love and care by people who we have now had to consider as family. My son’s childminder isn’t just someone we pay to make sure he doesn’t get Lego stuck up his nose; she is an aunt of sorts, messaging us when she should be taking a well-earned holiday to check in on ‘her boy’. My daughter’s school friends are more than just those she trades Fortnite secrets with. They are part of a wellorganised wheel who help us manage when either myself or her father find we can’t make it to the school gates in time. We know that her friends’ parents will happily scoop her up and fill her up with jam sandwiches until we are able to collect her.
But since the entire world has been beholden to Covid-19 and we’ve all been forced to socially distance and tighten up our usually vast social spider diagrams, the silence has been deafening. Aside from the safety nets that I’ve worked hard to cultivate, so few have called to see if my children are OK. I can live with feeling alone. But it’s not something I want for my children.
Now more than ever I’m having to work with a therapist to remind myself that the idea of love and attention from those who have treated me in ways I wouldn’t want for my offspring is exactly that: an idea. An idea that, once evaluated, isn’t such a good one. Pretence and control are no substitutes for being loved without hiccups (as my grandfather would say). This pandemic has forced me to grapple with the knowledge that in a century to come there could be great-great-great grandchildren of mine who will find that their quest for their family’s history begins with me.
Over the past couple of months, I have heard about friends and work colleagues Facetiming and Zooming grandparents, aunties and uncles. Seeing some of those even lament a connection because it’s ‘only’ technology has often filled me with rage. For my family, even a digital connection is out of bounds.
So we have had to double down on loving each other. Arguments that could swallow most relationships whole simply cannot go the distance in our home as we are all we have. My partner and I have used this time to put pen to paper about what we would want to happen should one of us meet what we believe to be an untimely end. We’ve tried hard, especially with our six-year-old, to remind her that she doesn’t need to maintain relationships with anyone she feels is causing her harm, be that mentally, physically or financially. And I am learning to lean into the idea of seeing my partner’s family – his mum, dad and sisters – as my family. They love me without hiccups and have tried in vain to connect with me over the years.
Admittedly, I can be a little standoffish and have for years stayed well away from things like the parent Whatsapp and Facebook groups that now seem to be a lifeline for so many. During these tense times, the upside to digital connections has become obvious and, although I will perhaps never live through another pandemic in my lifetime, I’m almost embarrassed at how quickly I wrote those connections off. Now more than ever, messages and Amazon deliveries of books and toys for my children from Instagram friends I have never met in real life mean so much to me. These gestures of love and care have helped to ease some of the pain that comes from being estranged from family.
And even if you’re not estranged from your family, you might have realised that, during this time, the love or connection you truly desire might come from elsewhere – and there is nothing wrong with that.
‘I Am Not Your Baby Mother: What It’s Like To Be A Black British Mother,’ by Candice Brathwaite, is out now (£12.99, Quercus)