A family is looking at cameras in the electronics section. A three-year-old boy takes a picture of his dad. 

Boy: “Wow, what a pretty picture!”

He takes a picture of his mom.

Boy: “Wow, what a pretty camera!”

Me: *Failed attempt not to snort-laugh*

My husband and I caught a particular contagious illness a few days before Christmas 2020. We were lucky enough to not be down and out, but we didn’t want company. My family was understanding and held our gifts for a day when we felt better. His family showed up unannounced and walked into our house without knocking, arms full of gifts and small children (our nieces and nephews). 

Me: “Excuse me, what is this?”

My husband shrugged at me and then turned to his family.

Husband: “Why are you guys here?”

Mother-In-Law: “Well, you said you couldn’t come to Christmas, so we brought Christmas to you!”

Husband: *Covering his face with his shirt* “Because we’re sick. Get the kids out of here!”

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, that stupid [Country] virus scam? You’re fine. Just take some vitamins.”

Me: “No, you—”

Mother-In-Law: “It’s probably all the processed foods you’re eating. My kids were never sick growing up.”

I know this is a lie. They were sick as much as any other kids; they just never went to the doctor unless they were bleeding or something was broken because [Mother-In-Law] didn’t believe in vaccinations or modern medicine. 

Me: “Honestly, this is not okay. You need to leave.”

Brother-In-Law: *Unsure* “Mom said she cleared this with you?”

Husband: “She did not.”

Brother-In-Law’s Wife: “Maybe we should go?”

Mother-In-Law: “No, just put the playpen over there. We can put the gifts on the table. You—”

Me: “Leave!”

Silence. [Mother-In-Law] wears the pants in their family and has never liked how outspoken I am about her tyrannical ways. 

Mother-In-Law: “This is a holiday for the family. If you don’t want to participate, that is your choice. You can go sulk in your room.”

Husband: “Mom, you need to get everyone out of here.”

Mother-In-Law: “So, you would rather spend your Christmas with your—” *air quotes* “—‘wife’ than with your family?”

Husband: “If it means protecting the kids, then yes, I do.”

[Mother-In-Law] motioned for everyone to pack up and leave. Then, she turned on her heel, leaving the door wide open. I got up to close it, only to see her throwing the middle finger over her shoulder. 

Me: “You know, Grandma got run over by a reindeer!”

[Mother-In-Law] posted photos all over Facebook, talking about how great it was to have all of her loving children and grandchildren with her during the holiday.

A week later, [Mother-In-Law] called and asked why we hadn’t apologized for our behavior. She sounded ill but wouldn’t admit to anything more than a stuffy nose. Several of [Husband]’s other family members — including one of the toddlers — also got “a bad cold” over the next few weeks, but since none of them would test for [illness], they steadfastly denied having it. And we never did get the gifts his family brought for us.

As a warning, this will probably anger many readers. I also apologize for not having tissues to hand out.

I was the unwanted grandchild and the youngest of my paternal grandmother’s grandkids. My grandmother made it very apparent that I was an unwanted extra in the family. She gave me literal garbage as presents for birthdays and holidays — and only because she was obligated to wrap something. 

As an example, one year as a teen, I got a gift that had been made with multiple pairs of old, stained pantyhose that had been cut up and then stitched back together to vaguely resemble a shirt. Yes, fully see-through pantyhose. The foot parts of the pantyhose, complete with stains, had been cut and Frankensteined into “ruffles” on the sleeves of this bizarre monstrosity.

Grandmother hadn’t even made it herself, so she couldn’t even be allowed “effort was made and just went horribly wrong”. She had found it in a garbage bin behind a thrift store — as a “donated craft” thing that even the thrift store had rejected putting out on their floor. After she fished it out of the trash, it was shoved into a brown paper grocery bag and just dropped next to the pile of beautifully wrapped gifts from family members who cared. No, she didn’t wash it. Yes, it still reeked.

My dad was angered by how Grandmother treated me, and he would openly defend me and confront her face to face whenever she pulled this. She would get angry in turn, argue, and turn it around to try to make him feel guilty for not appreciating that I got anything at all. (She was very manipulative and, unfortunately, Dad had some work cut out for him to break her control over him entirely.) He did, however, allow me a huge amount of leeway for how I felt and spoke about her. I referred to her as ‘the old bat” and shocked my then-boyfriend when I called her a b**** in front of both of my parents. 

At the time, my boyfriend couldn’t believe that, one, I had sworn, as he hadn’t heard my potty mouth before, and two, who I had called that, especially in front of her son. He glanced at both of my parents and was even more shocked to see both of them nodding their heads in agreement. This was his introduction — and warning — about what one member of the extended family was like.

My crime, and the reason for Grandmother’s lifelong hatred of me? I was the only girl among the all-male grandkids. I wasn’t a grandson to help carry on the family name (please ignore the five other male grandkids), so I was a “wasted birth”. Since men don’t “buy” daughters to marry in this country, I couldn’t even net the family any value that way, either. (Her own marriage had been worthwhile because at least she had been able to bring the family something when her then-husband paid six cows for her. No, I’m not even kidding; that was considered a huge dowry in her village. Moving to the USA did very little to affect her worldviews.)

I then compounded my crimes later by having a (worthless) female child, who was also born “out of wedlock”. My daughter was conceived when we weren’t married, but my then-boyfriend broke down into tears when I told him, called himself an ultimate dork for not having a ring on hand, and asked me to marry him as soon as he heard that I had a bun in the oven. He promised there would be a ring soon, even though he couldn’t slip one on my finger at that exact moment. We got a marriage certificate soon after, but I carried my baby to term and waited a bit longer to recover my health before we bothered with the wedding ceremony. One of my most beautiful pictures is one in which my husband and I are cradling my infant daughter between us, still wearing our wedding regalia.

However, yet another sin was added because we aren’t religious, so we didn’t have a priest or person of God performing the ceremony. This meant that the child would be cursed before God and her soul would go to Hell. There was no point in asking for God’s forgiveness or getting her baptized after the fact because we had committed the sin and God’s wrath was already upon her and steeped into her very flesh. (Apparently, Jesus didn’t die for everyone, just the select people Grandmother says he died for.)

My grandmother’s opinion of a cursed child was confirmed when my daughter proved to be “broken” after being diagnosed with hearing loss in her infancy. Grandmother made it no secret that my child being deaf was a “stone around my neck” and God’s punishment upon me, as well as upon the innocent baby. She claimed that my daughter would have been born perfect if only I had been married “properly” before conceiving. People with disabilities like hearing loss or blindness are viewed as incapable of living independent lives, in her eyes. They will always be a drain on someone, whether it be their families or the government.

My dad came absolutely unglued at her attitude about his grandchild, and that broke the last chains of her control in his mind. He disowned his mother on the spot, which resulted in screaming phone calls until she was blocked on everything. 

For a short time, she would come to our house and pound on the door, screaming to be allowed in. When that failed, we had curses scribbled on linen and taped to our windows — stuff like “May God bring the curse of Job upon the inhabitants” and other lovely things. She was eventually forced to leave when the law became involved. Unlike back in her home village, law enforcement here viewed bribery very negatively. I still have her shocked reaction on security recordings from when one officer quoted the Bible as clearly stating that the law of the land holds God’s authority.

As for my daughter? I could barely get her away from my dad. I never had to change a diaper at their house because Dad was insistent on getting his one-on-one time with her, even if it was a five-wipe diaper and then she peed on him. He doted on her, but not to the entitled princess stage; she just knew that she was loved.

She will never know her great-grandmother, which is for the best.

This is more of a lifetime of experience, but one moment sticks out. Australia is a multicultural country, so most people inside Australia don’t see “Australian” as a culture of its own, more like a flavour of their own culture. In day-to-day life, it has little bearing as people don’t really care, but every year of school and every course I have done has had a section dedicated to culture.

It’s just bureaucrats patting themselves on the back about being inclusive, and it’s usually extremely offensive. As a kid, I was taught and performed a traditional Māori war dance despite none of us being Māori and half of us being women. As an adult, I was taught that if I’m going to meet someone at work and their name is foreign, I should research their culture and at first meeting, greet them in the traditionally appropriate way. (I was smart enough to never do that.) I could go on and on, but the most common was writing an essay about my culture and how that impacts my interactions with other cultures. “Australian” was not an acceptable answer.

I try explaining that aside from being Australian, I don’t have a culture, but that answer is only allowed if you can point to the stolen generation or some other racist movement that stripped your family of its culture. But I am very, very white and can actually name my genealogy (a handful of the whitest white places ever), so I am left arguing with teachers to convince them I really don’t have another culture.

Me: “No, really, it was just my parents and siblings in my life until I started school. I grew up with the same books, TV, and holidays as everyone else.”

Teacher: “What about other family? Grandparents?”

Me: “I only really have one grandparent, and I barely see her. If she has any particular culture, she has never shared it with me.”

Teacher: “Even just your parents, then — someone had to raise them. They will have a culture that they raised you with; you just haven’t noticed that it isn’t the norm.”

Me: “Look. My mother was abandoned to raise herself, so she wasn’t raised with a culture, and my father was disowned, so if he had one, he actively rejects it and didn’t teach it to us.”

Teacher: “I’m sorry, disowned?”

Me: “Yep. Apparently, his side of the family is really strict and traditional, so our entire branch was disowned for something.”

Her eyes lit up like she had caught me.

Teacher: “Traditional how?”

Me: “I don’t know. I was disowned. I know it’s a large family that has lived in Australia for generations, but I have no contact with any of them. Our name is from [culture #1], and we’re descended from [culture #2], [culture #3], and [culture #4], but while I know the names of them, I know nothing of their practices. I could research them, but they have no bearing on who I am as a person.”

Teacher: “Hmpf.”

That was the end of the conversation; she just stared at me until I sat down. I wrote about not having a culture and feeling disconnected from those around me. I probably would have gotten a bad grade if it was that sort of course. But it was just pass/fail, and unless you say something racist, you pass.

I have since learned a lot about my genealogy, and it is quite interesting, but to this day, I am simply Australian.

I just read this story. My sister’s younger son was a dead ringer for me when he was a youngster, especially since we were both redheads. (I now have gray hair and he has no hair.) I never heard anything like the remarks in that story when I was out with her and her two sons, except for comments about “your beautiful little red-haired boy.” Granted, he was born when I was in my twenties, so maybe the situation just didn’t look scandalous.

I did have several of my sister’s friends say things like, “So, that’s where the red hair came from.”

I felt like asking, “Why? Where did you think it came from?

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