Family Matters

The father of one of my oldest friends once told me I am the best storyteller he knows, a high compliment for a journalist.

I love to tell stories, particularly funny ones. I get into them: hands waving, voice inflection, dramatic pauses, the works. Currently, this is my favorite.

My father works as an architect and owns his own small business. Dad’s been remodeling our home in Boca Raton, Fla. for about two years. Boca is located in one of the wealthiest counties in the U.S. Donald Trump lives 20 min. away on the island of Palm Beach. Anyway, in front of our house is a sign promoting his firm. One day, my father receives a call complaining about the construction at one of his projects—our house.

“The construction has been going on for years and it is an eyesore in our community. This is a disgrace. There’s a port-a-potty for God’s sake!” the man on the other line said.

My father quickly pointed out that the house in question is his own and all permits were in order, so he has every right to be doing the work. This quickly escalated into a heated argument and my father, a hot-blooded Latin man, did not back down. The guy, Chris, hung up. My father quickly called back and left a nasty message when Chris didn’t answer. “A real man would have not hung up the phone.”

So, my father went home that night and put a new sign in our front yard: “CHRIS: KISS MY ASS.”

That one always gets a laugh, especially if you’ve met my dad.

I start this with a story about my dad because family is an important part of who I am, and something that’s been on my mind lately.

My parents came here from Brazil, and although they’ve become quite Americanized in the 22 years they’ve spent here, one thing never changed: family always comes first, always.

I was the first born, the apple of my parents’ eye. I was a big hit at the pediatrician’s when I asked to be excused to use the bathroom at 20 months old. Next came my middle sister, Heather, and the youngest, Rachel, she’s nine.

I was an awkward “tween” with braces and frizzy hair, and all I really wanted was to kiss a boy, not exactly the cool big sister I’d imagined myself being. But my relationship with my sisters has grown significantly since the days of conning Heather into playing “maid” and getting her to make my bed.

During my four years of high school, my family suffered a series of unfortunate events. It began when my mother discovered that my father had been having an affair. They separated for four grueling months before they agreed to work a little harder on their marriage.

About a year later, my grandfather (my father’s father) died of a vicious cancer that spread through his body before it was detected. My parents flew to Brazil along with my father’s six siblings. My grandfather was afraid of death and was never told he had cancer, the disease that killed his sister. He died believing his children had gathered to celebrate the end of a long lawsuit with the company that fired him decades earlier. The day he died my father called and said my grandfather told him I was his favorite granddaughter because I never let him sit alone at family gatherings. A picture of my grandpa, Abba, sits on my desk. It was taken the last time I saw him—one month before his death.

If this is starting to depress you, it’s depressing me too. That’s not the point. Just bear with me.

Through all that and most of my life one woman was always there, my nanny. Now, don’t roll you eyes and the upper middle-class girl with the nanny. She was more than that. Cassie played a major role in my childhood and acted as a second mother to my sisters and I. She’s the reason I love to read. I don’t remember life before her and all of my most cherished childhood memories include her.

Two days before Thanksgiving in 2002 Cassie died in her sleep of unknown causes. She was 52.

Although I’ve never lost a parent, I have a pretty good idea what it must feel like. It’s a wound that aches for a lifetime, one that never heals and re-opens easily. Cassie did not watch me walk at my high school graduation, she will not pose for a picture with me at my wedding, nor will she nanny my children as I conquer the world, like we’d planned.

After Cassie died, I was left to be the guardian of my sisters. The great protector, I call myself. Protecting got a little harder when I came to college 14,000 miles away. I call Heather, now 18 with a serious boyfriend and college plans, and ask a hundred questions. I threw a fit in Admissions when she wasn’t accepted to Mizzou. I tell her not to gossip about other girls and to put on more clothes. I talk to her about sex. All while she does the classic teenage look-away and deep sigh.

Rachel is a little easier. She’s so young; a pair of sunglasses that match mine do the trick. After four years of doing it, I still cry when I say goodbye to her at the airport.

The point to this babble is I am still very much a part of my family. Despite the fact that I am engaged to be married to a man I cannot imagine a life without and preparing to start my own little family. I am not ready for MY family to become extended.

This is my struggle. Am I daughter of Hendrik and Rosangela? Or am I Zach’s wife? I want to watch my sisters grow up, not tell them they’re grown when I see them on Christmas. My fiancé, he’s the youngest. His brothers are grown, married. I feel foolish when I ask to live near my parents or when I cry because I spot weaknesses in my parents' marriage. It’s like I’m still a little girl. But, the truth is I am. I am the little girl running across the parking lot to greet Daddy when he gets home.

And that little girl is terrified of being a grown-up.

- Stephanie