family portrait

"If you're going to hold someone down, you're going to have to hold on by the other end of the chain." —Toni Morrison

I've been hestitant to try acupuncture because I've never believed in even possessing a chi, nevermind displacing it, but my family is starting to make me second-guess myself.

My family is very August: Osage County. You probably haven't seen this play, unless you were in Chicago during its first run or have hit up Broadway in New York lately, but Tracy Letts' latest could not possibly be written about any family other than mine. I know that's the beauty of the play, of course. You love it so much because that's your family on stage. That's you, smoking in the attic during a desperately needed moment of solace. That's your grandmother, letting the pills excuse leaked secrets as if Moment of Truth was being filmed in your living room.

Maybe you don't do drugs, and maybe your arthritic grandmother would push through the pain to knit you socks if your feet were cold. But I bet there's a black sheep somewhere in the family who spits venom and swallows no pride. I bet there are alliances and shameful secrets and betrayals and all sorts of things you'd rather be blissfully ignorant about. I hope I'm wrong.

But every time I go home, I see a little more of my family in the Westons. I'm not ashamed by it, because that's just who they are (plus, it's like watching inbred hamsters fight over the running wheel). Each trip back, I notice a little more anger has been stockpiled in my absence, a little more hostility bubbles. I don't get it. I just don't believe in truths not told, grievances not shared, betrayals not healed. Harboring so much anger that it eats away at you. What's the problem with expelling anger, if it's only an interruption of counterfeited peace? Do it for your chi.