Kinship

Kinship carries a strange connotation, and subtly lends itself to a possibly doomed obligatoriness bound by filial ties, and such a definition perfectly surmises my relationship with my extended family. “They” are my mother’s immediate relatives, and my father’s. They are unlimited in quantity, and have a very subtle yet an undeniable hold on us. Their ghosts often guide our sense of morality, our religion, our political attitudes and also our clothing preferences. Their moral rectitude is impeccable, and it is for their acknowledgement and approval that we should desire. They present themselves in physical forms to us during annual festivities, sometimes less frequently, but their presence lurks all year around; it guides our thoughts and actions everyday. We do have a few rules to follow around them, though they are quite easy to remember: Do not take up too much space, do not have too much of a voice, and always know your place.

My sister and I have often struggled with following these rules, as has my mother. I can attribute majority of my earlier resistance to my lack of understanding of social cues and to general, unfounded rebelliousness against people perched at the top of the hierarchy (the latter has shaped my behaviours to this day). While my surface level defiance was associated with the lack of reciprocation of positive reinforcements, a regular coming-of-age platitude (and an average adolescent’s nightmare), my mother’s and my sister’s defiances were nuanced, rooted in denial and dismissal. In becoming mature, it is for this dismissal and denial that I am banishing these ghosts from my life.

In the past, the pursuit of my identity was framed within the context of this kinship, to which I had ascribed my mother’s brilliance, and so gratitude was only obligatory. As I was growing older, the ghosts had started acquiring specific textures and flavours, and they kept creeping in: ghosts of cultural uprightness, ghosts of menstrual stigma, ghosts of gendered ambitions and responsibilities, ghosts of conjugal duties, ghosts of conditional acceptance. Any words or actions in defiance to these ghosts had to often be made behind closed doors, out of ear shot from the omniscience, and every little transgression was a little bargain we made for our identities now moulded by the tacit rules imposed on us. And I now say imposition because the invitation had long since outstayed its welcome.

As I stand at the crossroads of my life, I am forced to confront the outcome of this identity forged by numerous ghosts, a few strokes solicited and a few more unsolicited; the identity that is stifled in movement, muted in colour and radiates disapproval and disappointment in feeling. As I re-evaluate my beliefs, I’ve had to confront my own contradicting actions and behaviours in the past, and rectify them. The ghosts have been banished – or rather, are in the process of banishment. They still come in everyday from habit, but they leave of my accord. In the wake of my little epiphany, I can ascribe my mother’s brilliance to nothing but her own resplendent light. 🙂