My family classified itself by the scholarly categorization system of the Peanuts comic strip. My brother was Linus, a quiet reminder of what was important. My dad, Charlie Brown. The central character, yes, but also bumbling, unaware, a reminder to us all that his rages and requirements grew out of a place where he was simply lost. Mom was Sally, although looking back I’m not sure why. Maybe it was that Sally was unashamedly female, willing to love no matter what came in return. Me? I was Lucy, of course. You can tell even now in how I write this, the one to analyze, pronounce, decree. Five cents, and the psychiatrist is always in, always ready to tell you what is what and what you should do about it.
Me being Lucy is also about me being the loudest in my family. My dad tried for that distinction, all that yelling and drama. But somewhere early I determined that I would not let that win: that somehow, some way, I would have the last word. I would study, persevere, attack where needed. I would control the football, happy to snatch it away, to watch him fall in failure in order to right the balance. But mean and obnoxious and over the top as Lucy was, she was never the bad guy. Lucy loved every one of them, especially Charlie Brown, no matter how rude or annoying she was.
So, that was me. The whistleblower, naming my father’s alcoholism when no one else could stand to see it. The rule maker, setting the terms of how things would go so that I need not risk the terms others would set. The loud mouth, saying out loud what I was sure needed to be said. But always, amidst it all, staying one of the gang, keeping something intact. Loving in the way I knew how.
Diana
Karen A.
hollyhorrible
Mandy
