gens, gentis

I've had a very strange year so far... If I were to give it a title, it would have to be something along the lines of "The Year of The Family".

I've never really known or understood, or even pondered on the notion of family. My family unit was always outside the box. For instance, I've never known my father, don't even know what he looks like, and while growing up family to me meant my mother. Her own family was always more often than not out of the picture, not just because they happen to live in another country but because they'd always treated her as the black sheep of the family.

When talking about that part of my family, I always end up saying my mother's family rather than 'my' family - that is how detached I am from these people. There was never any bond and the only reason I say family at all is because I was told that is what they were to me. In reality, they are mere strangers who happen to share a few genes in common with me, maybe.

Anyway... It all kicked off last October, just as I was starting my final year of university. I received an email from a cousin I hadn't heard from in years. She was informing me that 'our' grand-father had passed away around two weeks earlier. Cheers, hon, for letting us know two weeks later.

Since we'd been made to miss the funeral, we saw no point in getting in touch with anyone and simply came to term with the loss between us. Well, I only met my grand-father twice in my life, so it wasn't as hard for me as it was for my mother.

Fast-forward 6 months later or so, and we receive a call from my grand-mother out of the blue. I'll always remember how my mother barged into my room, holding the phone away from her in one hand as though it was some bomb she was holding. Her face was white as a ghost as she whispered it was her mother (they have a lot of issues). She asked me whether she should answer or not. I shrugged and said it was up to her. She ought to choose whatever option she thought she could live with. She answered.

As it turned out, the only reason the grand-mother called was because they needed my mother's signature to get money from the grand-father's will. That meant she had to travel all the way to them to sign some paperwork that would hopefully release the money - from what I understand anyway.

Before we actually went to meet the 'family' I had a shock of my own. I woke up one day and sat at my computer, and for some reason typed my father's name (the only thing I've ever known about him) into Facebook's search box, certain that I would find nothing.

Well, his name popped up in front of me. Of course, there was almost nothing I could see, except for his name, place of birth (which confirmed that he was the right person) and date of birth. I had to laugh bitterly at the fact that there was no photo. Of course not. The one thing I always dreamed of knowing for myself... what the man bloody looks like... After over a week of hesitation I finally plucked up the courage to send him a message. I just had to try.

A week later, he replied back. He revealed nothing about himself but acknowledged the fact that he knew he was my father. What I realised from his message to me was strangely clear and painful at the same time: he had never really thought of me as a person, or a child he had, but always as some mistake of the past. He went on and on about how he and my mother were so young at the time, and even had the nerve to put the blame of the accident (me) on her because she was so pretty. After that pathetic effort to justify himself to me, he ended his message with a cheesy and almost insulting "I hope you've found the man of your life".

I was so disappointed... This man was my father? This man who made spelling mistakes and couldn't even write in a heartfelt manner (even to tell me to get lost, you know)? This coward of a man who spent his life blaming a woman for the accident, the thing that should never have existed (again, me)... my father?

But I'm stubborn. I wrote him again, this time telling him about what I've been doing in my life these past few years, hoping that he would reply back and tell me a little more about himself. I also gave him a choice. I told him he had a choice, he could choose to ignore me and I would respect that choice. I told him that if his decision was to ignore me then his subsequent silence would be my answer and I would never bother him again - I was afraid that he would reply with mean words telling me to get lost this time and I don't think my heart could take it, so I asked him to remain silent if he didn't want to hear from me.

I had to promise not to insist ever again because it is the only way I can ensure for myself that I will never fall for the sudden urge that comes in waves from time to time to know him.

He never replied back. And now, every time I feel that urge to write him again, the promise I made comes back to my mind and stops me, which is good.

My father is a stranger to me and we will forever remain ghosts in each other's lives. I could pass him by in the street and I wouldn't know it was him.

He is the ghost in my life I have decided to lay to rest because I realised that there were things that would always be beyond my control. Whether he can live with his own ghost or not, I know that I can now live with mine because I gave him the choice and he made that choice.

Family...