Finding your family

Death is hard. It is abrupt. It is shocking. It is sad. Death is something we all have to experience throughout our lives, but hardly anyone is ready for. I wasn’t ready when my grandmother died in her sleep on Friday night.

I am strongly connected to my family. I talk to my mom on a weekly basis. I snapchat my younger siblings. I even let them know my Netlfix password. But, I haven’t seen them since I moved to beautiful Colorado in January. So on Saturday morning, when my mom called I could hear her pain, but do nothing about it. The punch in the gut however, was when my older brother, Chris, took the phone and said, “sorry you’re dealing with this alone.”

I didn’t tell him then, but the only thing I wanted was a hug from a familiar face. I wanted to be home, with all seven of my siblings, both parents, my nephews, and our dumpy basset hound. But, I was stuck in Denver, more than one thousand miles away from my parents dining room table.

But, Chris was wrong about me having to deal with this alone.

When I moved to Denver, I knew no one. I packed my Dodge Dart, walked off the graduation stage, and drove out here to start a new job. That was nine months ago.

Today, I have a family in Denver. A family of queers who would sacrifice their Saturday night, smash through CoraFaye’s Café fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and macaroni & cheese while watching the latest episodes of “How to Get Away With Murder.” A group of boys who would fuel my inner sorority girl, and dance with me, or offer to transport me to and from the airport.

I am blessed to have an accepting and welcoming family in Indiana, but unless you love NASCAR and republicans, there comes a time to move out of the Hoosier state. Being queer, we get to choose our families.

Urban Dictionary defines family as: people you love and love you back, not necessarily blood or biological, but you trust them and they trust you, and they take care of you and you take care of them.

Yeah, sounds about right.