When Preppy agreed to go on a weeklong vacation to a Smoky Mountain cabin with his family, we didn’t know we were going to be homeless. So now, in the midst of us living out of boxes and negotiating the rugged terrain of buying our first house, he has to leave. Since we’ve been crashing in Smyrna, and I don’t drive, that means I’ll be sleeping on the sofa at my pal Slutty Mandy’s until Preppy’s return. Now we’re both packing suitcases, which lately we’ve pretty much elevated to hobby status.
My family rarely took trips when I was a kid, for which I am eternally grateful.
My family rarely took trips when I was a kid, for which I am eternally grateful.
That sort of forced togetherness in confined spaces is really just pulling the pin out of the grenade and waiting. Eventually, there’s gonna be an explosion. When I picture Preppy in a four-door truck with his father, mother, grandmother, two nieces, and a small dog, I feel whatever the opposite of envy is.
But Preppy is a peacemaker, one of those people who can diffuse a potentially bloodcurdling situation and get everybody laughing, which is probably why his mother was so insistent upon his coming along.
“They’ll be here to pick me up tomorrow morning at seven,” says Preppy. “And I hate to ask you to get up, but… Mama said they had to stop like every ten feet to let Granny or the dog or the girls go to the bathroom, so they’ll probably need to come in. I’ll need to straighten up.”
“The house looks fine.”
“No. I have to straighten up. My sister hasn’t told her kids about me. Or about you.”
He gestures to the photographs of us together throughout the room. We’d put them out so it would feel more like home.
“Well,” I say. “You do what you need to do.”
Preppy studies my expression, but says nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I continue. “It’s your family, not mine. It’s not my place to give an opinion here.”
“Thank you,” he says, and we resume packing and a new subject.
The nieces in question are a couple of pre-teens, who are unfortunately falling victim to the common parental misconception that children are incapable of evaluating and forming opinions about the people in their lives. I’m certain they’ve noticed Uncle Preppy isn’t married, has never had a girlfriend, and isn’t the hunt-and-fish type of man they know back in Mississippi. If they don’t know right now, they will soon, and all this secrecy is accomplishing is cementing the idea in their minds that something is wrong with him, which deserves to be hidden. Those girls aren’t being protected from anything. They’re just being given something to be very confused about later.
But Preppy is a peacemaker.
But Preppy is a peacemaker, one of those people who can diffuse a potentially bloodcurdling situation and get everybody laughing, which is probably why his mother was so insistent upon his coming along.
“They’ll be here to pick me up tomorrow morning at seven,” says Preppy. “And I hate to ask you to get up, but… Mama said they had to stop like every ten feet to let Granny or the dog or the girls go to the bathroom, so they’ll probably need to come in. I’ll need to straighten up.”
“The house looks fine.”
“No. I have to straighten up. My sister hasn’t told her kids about me. Or about you.”
He gestures to the photographs of us together throughout the room. We’d put them out so it would feel more like home.
“Well,” I say. “You do what you need to do.”
Preppy studies my expression, but says nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I continue. “It’s your family, not mine. It’s not my place to give an opinion here.”
“Thank you,” he says, and we resume packing and a new subject.
The nieces in question are a couple of pre-teens, who are unfortunately falling victim to the common parental misconception that children are incapable of evaluating and forming opinions about the people in their lives. I’m certain they’ve noticed Uncle Preppy isn’t married, has never had a girlfriend, and isn’t the hunt-and-fish type of man they know back in Mississippi. If they don’t know right now, they will soon, and all this secrecy is accomplishing is cementing the idea in their minds that something is wrong with him, which deserves to be hidden. Those girls aren’t being protected from anything. They’re just being given something to be very confused about later.
But Preppy is a peacemaker.
He wants this trip to go as smoothly as possible, and this is one concession he’s willing to make in the pursuit of his goal. I am not a peacemaker. I am usually referred to as a troublemaker. The anti-peacemaker. I tend to have very strong opinions about what is right, and what is wrong, and if it makes people happy, so much the better. But if it makes them unhappy, that is their cross to bear, because it’s still what’s right.
When I wake up the next morning, Preppy is already showered and dressed. The pictures of us are all missing. I could say something. I could say, “This hurts,” or, “This is the first time I feel like you’re not taking my side.” But I’ve got twenty minutes left with my man before we spend a week apart, and that’s not how I want to spend it.
I report on all of this to Slutty Mandy as I’m putting sheets on her sofa that night.
“It’s hard for me,” I say. “I want the people who love me to pick sides, and I want that side to be mine.”
“It’s not about sides,” she replies. “It could be an issue of timing. If his sister’s got some homophobic issues, he might have determined the best time to address it wasn’t with her daughters while she’s not even there. Picture if all you wanted was five minutes to take a pee and instead you find out your uncle’s a queer.”
“But you agree it should be addressed.”
“Of course. Later. And I’m very proud of you for not choosing to make it an issue at that precise moment. You’re showing progress, my love.”
So, I might not be a peacemaker, but I live with one, and I’m learning. Slowly.
When I wake up the next morning, Preppy is already showered and dressed. The pictures of us are all missing. I could say something. I could say, “This hurts,” or, “This is the first time I feel like you’re not taking my side.” But I’ve got twenty minutes left with my man before we spend a week apart, and that’s not how I want to spend it.
I report on all of this to Slutty Mandy as I’m putting sheets on her sofa that night.
“It’s hard for me,” I say. “I want the people who love me to pick sides, and I want that side to be mine.”
“It’s not about sides,” she replies. “It could be an issue of timing. If his sister’s got some homophobic issues, he might have determined the best time to address it wasn’t with her daughters while she’s not even there. Picture if all you wanted was five minutes to take a pee and instead you find out your uncle’s a queer.”
“But you agree it should be addressed.”
“Of course. Later. And I’m very proud of you for not choosing to make it an issue at that precise moment. You’re showing progress, my love.”
So, I might not be a peacemaker, but I live with one, and I’m learning. Slowly.
