As I’m getting older, my definition of “family” is changing, and I’m increasingly leaning into it.
Here’s an example. I’m a member of the black professional organization at work. In fact, I’m their dedicated editor. Meaning that I edit most of the communications the organization’s leaders send out to the corporation’s 20,000-employee community. So I knew that their annual Family Reunion was coming up way before most people did. I could have ordered the commemorative t-shirt well in advance, volunteered to greet attendees at the door, and asked around to see who else was going so I’d have folks to sit with. But I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I went back and forth for two months about whether I wanted to go at all.
I do the same thing for months before my real family’s reunions. My father’s people (the Huffs) get together every two years, in a different city where there’s a critical mass of family members. I love the concept of keeping us all together that way, but I never enjoy progressing through 3 days of trips to local attractions, formal banquets, and picnics with 300 people I really don’t know. My siblings and I didn’t grow up around extended family, so when we all go to the reunion we tend to huddle together in a corner of the room and talk among ourselves. I’m the most outgoing, so I will do the social butterfly thing on behalf of the other 3. But it just feels like work.
I don’t know most of the people in the black professional organization, either. Especially since we’ve been working in the semi-digital, hybrid environment that makes it so much more difficult to really get to know each other. So I found myself experiencing the same kind of social anxiety ahead of their family reunion that I experience ahead of the Huff’s gatherings. And similar to what happens with those gatherings, when it was time for the professional organization’s event to start I almost allowed guilt to push me to go. After all, I’m their dedicated editor. How’s it going to look if I don’t show up wearing my commemorative t-shirt?
But I followed my heart instead by walking down to the locker room at the gym in my building, changing into workout clothes, and heading to my Thursday cycling class. I hadn’t been in a few weeks, so as I set up my bike Brandon said, “Hey, we missed you!” And just before Jessie, the instructor, started us climbing the first hill he said, “Linda! Great to see you in your spot. Welcome back!” Then I spent the next 45 minutes smiling, wiping sweat away, and playfully competing with Ellie to guess the most song titles on Jessie’s playlist. I didn’t want to be anywhere but right there, with my cycling family.
The funny thing is, I’m always the only black person in that class, and often the only person of color. So why do they feel like my people? I found this possible explanation while I was poking around online for definitions of family: “Your family members are the people who have your back when you need support; they’re the ones who cheer you on as you’re celebrating life’s successes; and they’re the ones who laugh with you (and only occasionally at you) during your silliest slip-ups.” Sounds like the cycling class to me.
And it sounds like yesterday’s Thanksgiving gathering at a friend’s home. As we sat around Trish’s dining room table eating too much food, we laughed about how she had to improvise because the cooking bag she’d bought for the turkey was too small. And Deanna winked at me as Jim praised the stuffing I made, letting me know she’d keep the secret that I put mushrooms in it, in spite of his expressed distaste for them.
I was sitting at that table because I’d decided to stay home in Philly this year, rather than make the drive to my sister’s place in Virginia Beach. It was great to be nowhere but here.