I don’t remember the first time I asked where my grandparents were. I was aware that all my neighbourhood friends had grandparents. They came to visit usually around Christmas. Some grandparents even lived in the same house. Some of my buddies showed me the toys their Grannie or Gramps gave them. There were toy soldiers, spinning tops, Punch and Judy puppets, picture books, a kite, and even a tricycle.
When I asked my parents, they just said my grandparents were gone. The same was true of uncles and aunts and cousins.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“To another place,” my mother would say, upset, and quickly turn away. Even before the age of six, I knew enough about her body language to realize that certain topics were taboo.
It was a second-grade class assignment that brought it to a head. With our parents’ help, we were to make a family tree. We were shown how to draw a trunk, roots, branches, and leaves, all to show the breadth of the extended family. My classmates were excited. Shirley Moffit said she could go back four generations to her great-great-grandparents, and bragged about the huge Moffit family reunion last year in London.
My family consisted of me, my parents, and my younger brother. I came home and explained the project we were expected to do. I showed my mother the drawing I had made with Mom and Dad in the trunk, and two branches: one with my name and the other with...
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