Andrew's Upstanding US Citizen Homepage

A visit to my aunt's house always depresses me. Demons from my past, present and future rule over my conscience when I pace the echoing halls of her posh, but uncomfortable, Encino palace. Everything that I regret about my childhood, measure myself by today, and fear about growing older works its way through my mind undeterred by the distraction of a family gathering. Though my aunt is always changing and updating the look of her less-than-humble abode, the chilling thoughts that her home provokes can never be touched up.

When I was young, the difference between my aunt and my own family on the economic scale is not quite the blaring divide that sets up contrast ripe for conflict, but the liberty with which money was spent – specifically on my cousin – often made my greedy juvenile mind madly jealous of the possessions that were paraded before me upon each visit. It was the stereotypical story of a parent fighting for the favor and custody of her children with showers of baseball cards, electronics, and unconventional freedoms; otherwise known as the complete lack of discipline. I coveted it all.

My own life was overflowing with desires that never got fulfilled, so to appease my wants, I stole from my cousin. On visits for family dinners each Sunday, I would excuse myself from the living room where the family convened, borrow my father's car keys, and sneak the valuable rookie and all-star trading cards from my cousin's room to the car. It was a dishonorable routine that did not take long to get discovered. The shame still haunts me today, as I continue to compare my life to the lavish luxury of that bastion of wanton superficiality.

There is more than one reason why I cannot walk freely in those echoing halls. The weighted burden of disappointment pulls my gaze down to the frequently waxed hardwood floors. I was supposed to be great. I was supposed to be some genius computer whiz millionaire – the pride of my parents – standing up in the face of my aunt's intimidating success. Instead, I dropped out of high school. As a substitute for prosperity, I now claim a work in progress while I struggle to pay each month's rent. Over a year without a real job and the only thing I can give myself credit for is my resourcefulness.

Through it all, I have not heard too little about how great my cousin is doing in college. Laced with tales of typical wild college life which further the contrast with my comparably tame existence, these updates only seek to remind me of opportunities bygone and out of reach. A dinner conversation at my aunt's house is less than pleasant; it is pageantry.

The torment of my frequent, mandatory visits does not let up when the conversation stops, though. Sitting at the end of the dinner table each Sunday night is a clock that ticks backwards, counting down to inevitability. My grandfather is there, and I don't think he knows my name anymore. His sense of humor has given way to confused grumbling as he waits for his food to be served and cut up for him. Without sounding too rebellious, I tell myself that I want to die early – or at least before I reach the state my grandfather has.

I cannot look at a man who has lost his pride. To have anecdotes of your incontinence passed around the table like bread rolls is a low; an indignity so far beyond the climax of one's life, that death seems more welcome to the sympathetic observer than to the subject himself.

With each visit to this nest of personal anguish comes the desperate search for a reason to excuse myself. Distractions come in high demand. Though new floors, new walls, new cabinets and new counters smile at me in an obnoxious attempt to mask the vanity they represent, my only respite is my aunt's pool table, which is far too often covered in relics of her perpetual renovation.