Intellectual Malnutrition

When I was small, I remember all the little revelations occurring in
our family, the things they tried to hide from me, the things they
thought would hurt me, the things I knew anyway. Before the end of my
first decade, I had small and idealistic point of view, of the world,
the country, my city, and my family. My uncle, the oldest of eight is
where I remember the whole thing starting, the thing meaning the death
of my unrealistic views. He, in is late forties or early fifties, began
dating a teenager, this was not, mind you, illegal she was eight teen
maybe nineteen, but what difference do those years make? She was still
young, the first time I met her, I was around ten, I swear she looked
the same age as his daughter, younger than his son. Hell she is younger
than his son. She, at least as tall as my mother, had a tattoo going up
her leg, leopard, with the tail wrapping around. It still didn't feel,
I saw them hug, and it didn't feel right. Another one of my uncles the
second oldest, who had also known the girl, held some animosity towards
this relationship, when I say some I mean the whole my cup runnith over
syndrome only instead of love it is hate. I remember asking why my
uncles, who used to be so damn close were like this, like nemesis, like
villains, like enemies, no one told me, but I knew. They were two
flowers once planted so close together that no weed would break the
bond, but suddenly they pull apart, growing in different directions,
sprouting as though there are two suns to reach for, and they so
disgusted in the other couldn't wait to reach there nirvanas, their
distant havens, their separate utopias, can it be a haven with so much
anger? A few years down the road, still dismayed by the thought of a
hate stronger than the blood, the blood that ran through my veins, I
kept wondering why I felt so in the middle of this masochistic mess,
when there was no clearly defined middle. I felt lost in the cycle,
lost in the past, lost in a family that doesn't even know that I am
lost. I'm not sure they know that what they do hurts me, punctures me,
contorts how I see the world, I'm not sure they know that I am here,
that I hate stumbling upon their angry letters, and deeply hidden
secrets, how much I hate tripping over their hate for one another, and
that I despise that they don't seem to see what does to me. It appears
they all suffer some form of intellectual malnutrition; they can't be
that na?ve, that can't be in that dark of a room. Why am I still
waiting for them to age me? Why do I feel like I have so much to teach
them? Why do I feel more enlightened than them? Why do I feel so much
older than them? Why do I hate to feel anything for them? Why can't I
refer to them as we, instead of them? I still have memories, of insane
antics and of my cousin calling drunk, he was nearly thirty at the
time, I was twelve, he wished my a happy birthday, or as he said it,
wow another year ya old bat. I am frightened of the impact they may
have on me, I am afraid of becoming them, afraid of my future in the
frigid community, afraid of what they may do next. Whatever fear I had
for the world, only increased, as a fear of my family prevailed. What
would happen next? How soon could a dream, and my heart be broken? How
quickly would they do both? Another mile, another day, I am scared
again, for what, so you do not have to compromise, a light, a car, a
red glare, refusing change, the car halted, disturbed, broken, lost,
miscommunicated, disenchanted, unloved, disheveled, pessimistic, me. I
could sit here and name off broken marriages, abandoned children, drug
addictions, gambling problems, and other unnatural habits, and events,
but I won't; not for your advantage but for mine. When I was younger,
still an optimist in heart and mind, I was ambivalent, undecided,
searching, in all of you for a sign, for record, unbroken, a voice, or
even a hug on a non-holiday; like a toddler searching for a misplaced
toy, I was soon distracted, not by more important matters, but by petty
bickering. When I was extremely young, somewhere around five, despite
my age I did notice some problems, and when asked what I wanted to be,
I responded "I don't know, but I don't want to be one of them". Maybe I
am judging, maybe this was all uncontrollable, out of your hands, maybe
you really didn't know what you are doing, one of these days I will be
recognized and maybe you will despair over the lost years and memories,
but you better start soon, I have little hope left, my faith in you is
dissolving, salt in water, love in hate, you in me.