Visiting Jack

Awkward, awkward, awkward family.

I was driving through Appalachia when I decided to visit my uncle Jack, mom's 95-year-old brother, in Hagerstown, MD.

Jack and I were never close. I pulled over to call my mom to ask what to bring him.

I took notes: Pinot Noir.

I asked about the war: Jack doesn't talk about the railroad in Korea. People were getting slaughtered all over. Once, they went to the front lines, out of boredom, to see each other. Most of them made it back. He won't talk unless he's drunk.

I was glad the old folks home didn't smell. Jack's room was by the front door as if he planned to take off at any time. 

He hadn't known I was coming because he couldn't hear his phone. I waited at the door while the attendant roused him to give him a little dignity before interacting with me. 

"It's Vanda, Dotty's daughter," the attendant said. 

"Vanda? Hunh." Jack said. I was the last person he expected. 

"You can come in," the nurse said to me. 

He looked like a small nautilus on the bed. I tried to hug him from an awkward angle, him trying to get up, me, down. Our history with hugging was always awkward.

After establishing what his physical handicaps were, how much yelling it took to communicate, and how close he had to be to see my face, we settled into a nice chat.  

I asked this patriarch from my mom's side if he liked my dad, as they were both doctors and must have had at least professional respect.

“Well, he was a good drinking buddy,” Jack said. It was a compliment. I had other feelings about my father’s drinking. Jack’s son had other feelings about Jack’s drinking, too. It’s like they didn’t have psychotherapy or AA back then. Everyone just shuffled along, traumatized.

He also said that my mother was the only normal one in the whole family. She felt that way too. “Who's normal?” I thought and marveled at the arrogance of thinking it’s you.

"I hate the food here," he said. It may be a way he distinguishes himself from the riff-raff. 

And there is riff-raff at his old folks home. Some guy threw a fork, hitting him in the head. 

"Thank God I was wearing this," he pointed to his Korean baseball cap. 

"But, I'm surrounded by goodness," he said, waving his good arm. 

My uncle Jack loves St. Philomena. He has pictures and statues of her. His old eyes lit up when he told me she escaped burning arrows. She was accused of witchcraft. At one point, she was imprisoned. They decapitated her to kill her. 

"Wow, she finally got killed." I wondered why but didn't ask. 

"She was a martyr," he said, as if that was a good thing. 

We didn't discuss any of the sad stuff --his prodigal son who doesn't talk to him, who my sister married, the acrimonious divorces, his young Korean girlfriend, who caused a scandal. 

We talked about his friend, the only other guy alive from Korea. Jack called him recently, but it was the middle of the night where his friend was. His friend berated him. Jack never called again -- his best friend for the longest time. 

"When we had to choose a guy for something, I picked him cuz he was the last one. I said, 

'I guess I get you.' Our friendship lasted decades."   

Uncle Jack wasn't calling because he had imagined an insult. How often do we imagine an insult that may or may not be? 

Did I imagine an insult the night I confronted Uncle Jack? 

Nothing newsworthy happened. It's just that once after Jack and Mom shared some wine and laughs, I went to hug him goodbye. 

I noticed, for the first time, a tiny reluctance, but I hugged him perfunctorally. He did what he always did, waddling his shoulders back and forth, making a jokey deal about my breasts. We all laughed, being good sports. 

But then something happened in that black hole of a space between people who are drinking and people who aren't.  

"Hey, Uncle Jack, can you not do that when I hug you? I want to hug you, but a part of me doesn't because of that little joke I noticed." 

"Oh, he's joking, Vanda," my mother said. 

"I know. I said that, Mom." 

This wasn't going to go well. I know never to discuss anything important when I'm triggered and when drinks are involved, but I did. 

When you're triggered, you blame people, you make them wrong, and that never goes well. 

You might say, "Well, he was wrong." but being right about how wrong someone is never makes a difference. 

Add alcohol, and you might as well just lob a grenade into your family system.

Of course, he got all indignant, and suddenly, I'm the bad guy. He's a dentist from the hills of Cumberland, Maryland. You can take a boy out of Appalachia, but you know the rest. 

And I went and got all liberal and citified according to them. 

I left the house with my mother assuaging the situation. 

"Vanda's sensitive, Jack." 

On the drive home, I pulled over, feeling nauseated. I called a friend. 

"Oh my God. How many times had I hugged him when I didn't want to? How often had I not said something when I wanted to say something?"  

"Yeah." was all my friend said. She had been through it, too, but with her dad. 

I don't mean to be one of those women who gets offended by everything, and there are a lot of them, and they drive me nuts. I’m n ot sure what the difference is. 

I've worked in restaurant kitchens where it was fun to sling around sexual innuendo when any remotely phallic food started a big, private joke we all shared across language barriers. When the chef waved a cucumber and asked, "Quieres pinga en su ensalada? (Do you want penis in your salad?)." It would make me howl. 

I guess I can explain the difference. In the restaurant, we had an implied agreement.

Men of my uncle's generation felt they had the license to comment on my appearance or sexiness; they didn't even think to ask. Once, when I was looking particularly lovely, he said, "Yeah, you're the kind of girl I would have gone for." 

"Ewww, Uncle Jack Perverto," I joked.

Imagine if I had pretended to grab his penis when we said goodbye --a little jokey-joke. 

We changed the subject back to his war buddy. I don't want to call and find out he's dead," Jack said, like a joke. Then, he turned to Philomena's picture. 

"I'm surrounded by goodness," he said again.

That's the way it is in the end. With your mobility impaired, you slow down to the essentials. You forget things you don't even need to forgive if you forget. 

After I drove away, I felt good. I felt like I had done something good. I had cut through the awkwardness with generosity. I felt surrounded by goodness.