Content warning: abuse and family tension

Being an outsider in one's own family is rough. We've all seen these characters before: Harry Potter and the Dursleys. Cinderella and her stepmother and step sisters. Lately, we’ve been given Penelope Featherington and her mama and sisters in Bridgerton. It’s the cat and mouse game of temporary acceptance, of conditionality, of fickle love – of begging for scraps of acceptance and wanting to read more into them than could ever be there. It’s the thrill of an elaborate heist to steal something precious that should have been yours to begin with.

These tales have always been around because storytellers often saw the dynamic of the “other” in play around them – in their own lives or communities. Sometimes a person just does not fit in with the very ones who claim the same blood in their veins, the same roof over their heads, the same childhoods and experiences. Sometimes, one remains so different as to have always been unwelcomed. We see it reflected in common phrases and language as well. “I’m the black sheep in my family” or, “Yeah, I get asked if I’m adopted a lot”. 

With pride month in our collective recent experiences, folx are more open about sharing stories of rejection and trauma from those we love, of found family and of choosing joy, and of how it can shape a person to be cast out or invited in. Thoughts of being the “other” usually live rent free in my head, but lately, they have been loud and clamoring for attention. And so I’ll share some of them, in case you too, unfortunately, understand what it is to be that ever-present outsider.

I wish I could say there was one clear reason that my own family has always seemed to hold me at arm’s length. Was there one burning instance of unforgivableness on my part for why they have always treated me like mud on the bottom of their shoe? What could I have done for them to always have made it clear to me that I was outside the golden circle of their belonging?

Is it because I’m queer and that has been apparent to everyone since I was a kid? Is it because my hair is thick and coarse and curly and theirs is thin and oily and straight? Is it because I preferred books to their football? 

But if that one crystal clear reason exists, I've never been able to figure out what it was. Instead, I see clues – fragments that slowly shape themselves into the outline of a family and a figure outside it:

A single moment here sketches a line near the bottom of a page: a sneer from my mother when I took a deep breath and said I’d had a bad day. 

A comment there draws its way up from the ground, rounding out a silhouette: “If you want to be a part of this family, you have to do whatever I say” from my father. 

An attack streaks dark lines into the paper, defining the edges of who is inside this family and who is outside: running desperately out of the kitchen and making it to the yard before my very high brother caught me and tackled me to the ground, throwing my phone into the street so I couldn't call for help. 

A bruise adds depth and definition to the forms gaining shape on the page: purple on my wrist from my father forcing me to scrub the dishes harder because I missed a spot the first time. 

A whisper creates shading, adds shadow and highlight: from a family friend that I may not actually be my father’s blood. 

Strategic silence shows the blank space on the page is even more empty in contrast to the defined family at its center: from my brothers when I reach out and try to form connections as adults.

An awkward moment holds the page out for others to see: When it slips that I’m not in the family group text.

I often have to remind myself that it's actually a good thing I don't fit in with them – that if people who were unkind, abusive, and ignorant really liked me, that would be a bigger problem. It doesn’t mean the rejection doesn’t hurt. Knowing something intellectually does not negate the emotions there.

So it’s not surprising that I feel seen in stories of the outsider within their own family. But my reaction to stories of families who all like each other and who all belong does surprise me a little bit. I feel off-balance, like I’m reading a book and accidentally skipped a chapter. There's a small part of my brain that feels like it’s trying to play catch-up in the nuanced dynamics of these characters, like I’m going back to class after being out sick for a week and everyone has moved on to a new unit.

If you too know what it is to be “the other” in your own family, I’d like to remind you that we are in good company. Can you imagine if Harry Potter fit in with the Dursleys? Who would want to read that story? Or if Cinderella was just like her step-sisters? Would we like Penelope Featherington as much if she didn't look at the dismal situation around her and make the decision that she would shape it – that she would be the one deciding her own path, not those who belittled her?

And to those lucky enough to have an imperfect family that accepts and likes them – thank you for often sharing that with your friends who are othered. I can tell you from experience that we adore when you bring us over. I was lucky enough to be brought into many of my friends' families who actually liked me. It was an awe-inspiring feeling for me. I'm grateful to each and every friend who chose to direct some of that sunshine toward me. I lap it up like waves on a shore, and I aim to create more of that sunshine for others in the future – no heist required.