This is less of a blog about training and racing, and more of an insight into my support system, my family. Its funny I say support system, because the traditional thought is, a support system would be considered, particularly in multi-sport, as a group of people who are there to help you, encourage you, and basically be the moral support you need to race. This past Memorial Day, my family gathered at one of my Aunt's house, and reminded me of our twisted form of "support". Ours is not, what one would consider, traditional. When we support, we mean, taunting, razzing, and constantly asking the question, "So, when do you think you'll stop doing all this non-sense?" Real feel good moments. But, I know, in thier own way, they are there for me, even if its to laugh at me after I crash.
But this gathering of about 20 of us, proved once again, why I don't think its a great idea to invite them out to a race. First off, 20 of us, sounds like 220 people, all working in the options Pit at the Chicago Merc during a huge trading frenzy. And we wonder why, at the age of 40, most of us are hard of hearing. I have always considered myself fortunate to be Italian, and in particular, 100% Italian, from parents who are immigrants, where Italian is still spoken as often as English. Most of my family has kept that same tack - marrying 100% Italian husbands or wives, so, its basically family, on top of family, but, we all understand each other. And I have always laughed at the stereotypes of Italians portrayed in the media, b/c, I know better. But, the one thing Hollywood got right, we are loud, I mean louder than necessary. For an outsider, it would seem as though there is a huge fight breaking out, when in reality, its just us talking. That's why it always seems like there are more of us, we are basically shouting at each other just to talk about the weather. Still, every male in my family tells me the same thing, don't marry an Italian girl, they are crazy and this family can't take any more crazy. On Memorial Day, truer words could not have been spoken.
So, on this great holiday, with many of my cousins around, and my 95 year old grandmother in the house, my generation decided it was time to remind our parents and granparents, at the bang up job they did at raising us. We started trading war stories as to emotional scars we got as kids, that have stayed with us well into our adult life. Not to mention the ridiculous superstitions we grew up with, only to discover, how goofy we looked, making the sign of the cross every time someone sneezed or dropped a fork.
But, back to the stereotypes. The common theme in American culture is that the Italian male is the head of the family. Nothing could be further from the truth. Every Italian family I know has a matriarch, and let me tell you, even from her deathbed, she still rules with an iron fist. There is no one who will get the attention of a room full of family like the eldest female. She calls the shots, trust me. And by all means, don't make her mad. The same is true for us. My grandmother, God bless her, is completely mentally clear, and gets around fine. Heck, she still remembers the names of her grammar school teachers. However, she has been a bit ill as of late, so, we are always concerned when that happens. So, to see her at my Aunt's talking and laughing was great. Until it was story time. She was all smiles until one of my older cousins decided to explain his fear of elevators, and why, it was her fault.
Now, my Gram has always been a tough lady, but, she still has a huge heart, and is extremely sweet and nice. But you get her going, and watch out. Apparently, at the tender age of 4, my Gram and her sister, took my cousin in question to Bonds Department store, while babysittiing. So, they got in an elevator to get to the floor they wanted, and low and behold the elevator, did not go up, but rather rapidly, descended, and opened to a Fallout Bomb Shelter, designed for a nuclear attack. Understandably, this was a bit traumatic to my cousin, at the age of 4, and made all the more so, by my Gram and her sister laughing. However, my cousin, wasn't laughing quite as hard, and as he aged, developed a true fear of elevators.
Now, as he relayed this story, my Gram's ears perked up, and for everthing she remembers about her grandchildren, and she remembers quite a bit, that little piece of history escaped her. However, what she did remember was baby sitting my cousin on later occassions and having to walk up flights of stairs b/c he wouldn't get on an elevator. And she made it quite clear, she was none too thrilled about that, either. Of course, this was all wrapped around the phrase, "If you weren't such a cry baby, I wouldn't have had to damn near kill myself to get your grandfather a pair of socks!" As another cousin mentioned, its phrases like that, which are usually the start of a horrible fight.
As most of us ran for cover to laugh, my cousin, sat there in shock, at the fact that my grandmother had been holding a grudge having to walk stairs all this time. Not to mention, she didn't remember why he was afraid of elevators, until the age of 18, even though she may have had something to do with it. But she wasn't done there. She was just getting warmed up. One by one, she was tearing apart all of our life-scarring stories, and we couldn't help but laugh at each other, when our stories were told through the words of this woman we all looked at as our sweet grandmother. But at 95, why hold back? I fully supported her rant, realizing, why not tell everyone how you feel? I mean, I think if you reach the age of 80, the gloves can come off. Sure, some of us have nervous twitches, some of us have physical scars that will never go away, others have debilitating fears of spoons, but, we are all family, so, its ok. Ok, so, maybe some grown men in my family still can't climb a ladder without the fear of getting pitched off, that's ok, we're FAMILY - these things happen.
The funniest part is, when I talk to friends about my childhood, or even my adult life with my family, I realize, its not just any family, its our FAMILY that is insane. Now, anyone who knows me, knows, I am far from normal, but, at one point, between laughing fits on Monday, I was at the kitchen counter with my sister, and we both watched these people, our blood, telling each other horrible things about one another, and stories of our youth, that we don't even remember, and realizing, that, we are 2 things, really looney, and really lucky. See my Gram's point was dead on. Yeah, we are all goofy, but, its us, its our blood, its our family, they are our stories. They are our history. They are our tears and sounds of laughter. They are our highs and lows.
When I started this blog, my family was at the front my thoughts, b/c no one provides greater fodder for something like this than the people closest to you. So, I suppose the Italian stereotype of having a big, close family is true. But, that's only a small part of the story. Its what that closeness brings, both good and bad. But you go through it all together. I have 3 cousins, all female, all sisters, who live on the same block. Now, I love my sister, but, if I had to see her everyday, one of us would be in the morgue. And, honestly, we all had odds if the 3 girls would make it without a hate crime. Its not to say they don't fight, but, by and large, they get along, and have grown even closer. They realized that no matter how many friends they make, no one will be closer to them, than each other. No one will support them more. And that's what a true familial support system means.
So, do I mind that my family thinks that racing is crazy? Well, when you consider the source, no. My main point of this blog is, no matter how wacky your support system is, as we get into the heart of the season, remember to thank them, and love them back, even if they are nuts. Me, I'm still trying to get over my whole fear of spoons.
