Family Ties
Christina Cauterucci
Issue date: 9/4/09 Section: Commentary
It should have been one of the proudest days of my life. In September of 2007, a high school friend called and told me to check the Yahoo News welcome screen. On it was my name and my picture accompanied by Associated Press coverage of a D.C. protest against the war in Iraq. I was elated, surprised and humbled. This was my fifteen minutes of fame. Furthermore, it meant that my anti-war activism was somehow bearing fruit. Over the next few days, I drowned in phone calls and emails from friends who had seen the article online or in the paper, congratulating me on making the news and risking arrest to gain publicity for something that was important to me.
Then, Aunt Judy from Alabama phoned my parents.
"Steve and I saw Christina in the paper at that war protest," she told my father. "We were shocked." My Aunt Judy's husband, Uncle Steve, is a longtime member of the Army Reserve. While I was demonstrating against US involvement in Iraq, Uncle Steve was preparing to deploy there. Anxious to quell any tension, Dad asked what Uncle Steve thought of the article. "That's why he's going over there," Aunt Judy explained, "to protect her right to freedom of speech."
Though this episode of clashing beliefs (for the record, I do not agree that this war is protecting anyone's freedom) ended peacefully, I still walk gingerly around my aunt and uncle, navigating the fragile intersection between being honest with myself and maintaining courteous relations with my family members. When they come to visit, do I take my "No Blood for Oil" poster off the wall? When they ask what I've been studying at school, can I talk about my class on nonviolence? I care about Uncle Steve, and I want to ask about how he's doing, but any conversation about the war inevitably veers into disputed territory: torture, defense spending, the role of women in Islam. Making the choice to bite my tongue and avoid confrontation is never easy, but as the song "Blood on the Ground" by Incubus goes, "blood in my mouth beats blood on the ground."
Now that they know where I stand on the issue that has effectively cleaved America into two opposing worldviews, my ever-multiplying crew of relatives (we're Italian) has made me acutely aware of my role as the token liberal in an almost exclusively conservative family. Rob, who married my cousin Casie in Arizona last fall, wore two concealed weapons to his own wedding ceremony and makes sure that I hear all about his support for Sheriff Joe Arpaio, the notorious Phoenix law enforcer who is constantly challenged for his overly harsh treatment of prisoners by the American Civil Liberty Union. Another cousin-in-law, John, has worked on every Republican presidential campaign since Reagan's and displays a collection of hundreds of miniature elephants throughout his home. He never lets me forget that I'm a "dirty hippie" and loves inciting me into a debate. I would rather forget about who voted for whom; I am more than the vote I cast at the polling station and I resent being pigeonholed. I came out of the political closet though, it sometimes seems like I wear a hammer and sickle on my sleeve at family get-togethers.
A family is an unlikely social unit which asks harmony of people who do not choose one another, who might share nothing in common but genes or a legal document.
It seems almost miraculous that any family voluntarily gathers to spend time together, considering that the cast of characters in most clans rivals that of a reality television show.
Maybe it's an acquired fondness that comes from a lifelong bond: my cousin was around when I went through my Polly Pocket phase in first grade, when I plucked my eyebrows too thin in eighth grade, and when, in tenth grade, I threw up in her dorm room wastebasket after a bad experience with gin. I guess I can forgive her penchant for country music and dubious taste in men. And what if we have deeper, more fundamental differences? We'll just have to look at it as an opportunity to form a relationship with someone we might have initially dismissed if not for sharing the same last name.
Interacting with relatives can be an exercise in tolerance, but I think the unconditional if sometimes strained support of family ties is ultimately rewarding. I'm thankful to know that at the next holiday, my family will always end up back at the dining room table together, concealed weapons and all.
Cauterucci is an American Studies senior and Staff Writer.
Then, Aunt Judy from Alabama phoned my parents.
"Steve and I saw Christina in the paper at that war protest," she told my father. "We were shocked." My Aunt Judy's husband, Uncle Steve, is a longtime member of the Army Reserve. While I was demonstrating against US involvement in Iraq, Uncle Steve was preparing to deploy there. Anxious to quell any tension, Dad asked what Uncle Steve thought of the article. "That's why he's going over there," Aunt Judy explained, "to protect her right to freedom of speech."
Though this episode of clashing beliefs (for the record, I do not agree that this war is protecting anyone's freedom) ended peacefully, I still walk gingerly around my aunt and uncle, navigating the fragile intersection between being honest with myself and maintaining courteous relations with my family members. When they come to visit, do I take my "No Blood for Oil" poster off the wall? When they ask what I've been studying at school, can I talk about my class on nonviolence? I care about Uncle Steve, and I want to ask about how he's doing, but any conversation about the war inevitably veers into disputed territory: torture, defense spending, the role of women in Islam. Making the choice to bite my tongue and avoid confrontation is never easy, but as the song "Blood on the Ground" by Incubus goes, "blood in my mouth beats blood on the ground."
Now that they know where I stand on the issue that has effectively cleaved America into two opposing worldviews, my ever-multiplying crew of relatives (we're Italian) has made me acutely aware of my role as the token liberal in an almost exclusively conservative family. Rob, who married my cousin Casie in Arizona last fall, wore two concealed weapons to his own wedding ceremony and makes sure that I hear all about his support for Sheriff Joe Arpaio, the notorious Phoenix law enforcer who is constantly challenged for his overly harsh treatment of prisoners by the American Civil Liberty Union. Another cousin-in-law, John, has worked on every Republican presidential campaign since Reagan's and displays a collection of hundreds of miniature elephants throughout his home. He never lets me forget that I'm a "dirty hippie" and loves inciting me into a debate. I would rather forget about who voted for whom; I am more than the vote I cast at the polling station and I resent being pigeonholed. I came out of the political closet though, it sometimes seems like I wear a hammer and sickle on my sleeve at family get-togethers.
A family is an unlikely social unit which asks harmony of people who do not choose one another, who might share nothing in common but genes or a legal document.
It seems almost miraculous that any family voluntarily gathers to spend time together, considering that the cast of characters in most clans rivals that of a reality television show.
Maybe it's an acquired fondness that comes from a lifelong bond: my cousin was around when I went through my Polly Pocket phase in first grade, when I plucked my eyebrows too thin in eighth grade, and when, in tenth grade, I threw up in her dorm room wastebasket after a bad experience with gin. I guess I can forgive her penchant for country music and dubious taste in men. And what if we have deeper, more fundamental differences? We'll just have to look at it as an opportunity to form a relationship with someone we might have initially dismissed if not for sharing the same last name.
Interacting with relatives can be an exercise in tolerance, but I think the unconditional if sometimes strained support of family ties is ultimately rewarding. I'm thankful to know that at the next holiday, my family will always end up back at the dining room table together, concealed weapons and all.
Cauterucci is an American Studies senior and Staff Writer.
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