Prelude to My Non-Gothic Life

I heard my cousin say something depressing.

My aunt is supposedly studying theology at a local university. This came to me as a surprise because she is a grandmother, and has already aged beyond the standard "college age group." Additionally, religion is not something that is openly discussed on that side of the family. Thus, I had no idea that theology would be of any deep interest to her, or, for that matter, worth spending thousands of dollars on professional study.

"Why, hell..." My cousin Ben said, after hearing this news. He was wearing a polo shirt and ripped jeans. I could not decide if the jeans were designer or just worn from many nights of drinking and running amuck. He slouched deeper into my grandmothers forty year old couch and worked the wad of dip around in his lower lip. "I'd probably set the place on fire if I set foot in a church. I'd straight up burst into flames."
My uncle and my cousin Gina laughed.
"I have no business being there," Ben said. "No sir."

How sad, I thought. That's probably the BEST place for him. But it would be too weird, too out of the norm to board that train of thought. It would also be too weird and out of the norm for me to suggest I thought so.

That side of the family has layers. They're like onions. There are things you get to see, the "appropriate" parts, and then there are the hidden, unseen things. Motivations for bizarre actions go unquestioned. Its the epitome of the Southern Gothic movement in literature. There is no need to ask why this and why that and whats up with this. One is polite, and cheerful, and nothing is ever wrong. This is not to say that something is always wrong, but occasionally there will be something that it seems everyone talks around. And still occasionally I wonder if I'm the only one who smells the rats.

There are nine cousins, and I am the third oldest. Three of my cousins are married and have children. Two older than me, and one younger. I like watching them. I like to see they way they interact as married people, as families. I hope to myself that they're happy, that they're safe. I wonder if they'll play charades and gestures and pictionary with their emotions. I wonder if there's hope for me. I wonder if all the bad modeling will lead us all to the same highs and lows. I wonder what we'll do when our grandmother passes away, and the house and the glue that presses us together a few times a year will still adhere. I guess one day we'll find out.

Still there are some things I am certain about. I want to make sure I smoke out all the rats in my relationships. I want to shoot down the elephants in the room and transcend awkward levels of communication. As much as I love Southern Gothic literature, I really don't ever want to live in Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio. Or McCullers' Sad Cafe.

And I still wait for the fresh start that will be the prelude to my non-gothic life. So as Ben giggled like a school kid, and my cousin Gina changed the conversation, I stayed polite. I didn't say a word, and I tried to think about something else.