I grew up in a blended family of sorts. It was not the Brady Bunch type of blending with two families merging. In my case people brought their children to my house and we blended. Some of these children were my cousins.  My mother was the magnet. She attracted people with sob stories and felt she was the only one who could rescue them out of their difficulties.  

First there was my cousin Steve. I loved Steve. My earliest memory of Steve is when I was two years old and he lived with us in Kingston's newest housing scheme called Harbor View. I mean Kingston as in the island of Jamaica. Steve was four years older than I was. He used to do somersaults and try to get me to do them too. He used to make these gross sounds by cupping the palm of one hand under the armpit of his other arm. Steve and I used to sit on my father's knee on the verandah and listen to him read the comic strips in the only newspaper on the island, the Daily Gleaner. I believe Mutt and Jeff and Dagwood were our favorite strips back then. It was then, I suspect, that I developed a love for reading. To this day I still read the Gleaner now that it is online. Steve, my playmate and cousin, left for London to live with his Mom. Jamaica was not yet an independent nation and many Jamaicans in those days, late fifties to the early sixties, migrated to England seeking a better life in the mother land.

Shortly after I turned nine, I felt like I was an inmate living in the local asylum. That was when Darlene came to live with us. The potential for madness was always there, I guess. It just spiraled downward after Darlene came. Darlene was the first “non-cousin” to live with us, but she was not to be the last. Her parents had nine children, all girls, and they could not financially provide for all. Once, I tried to explain to a friend the circumstances of how Darlene came to live with my family. My friend said, "You mean Darlene's mother gave her away like puss kitten?'' That, in a nutshell, was how she ended up living with us.  

Darlene was six years old. She had to be taught everything. Everything was new and strange for her. In the rural community of Potsdam District in St. Elizabeth where she lived previously, there was no electricity, so all the electrical appliances and the indoor plumbing were novelties for her. She was like a fish out of water. When she saw the maid with the electric floor polisher, I remember her saying, "A wha' dat the maid a use?" Her language and behavior was fascinating but bizarre to me. She spoke the Jamaican dialect with the intonation typical of the people from St. Elizabeth. 

The first really strange thing she did was to steal little things from the house to take to school. Her loot was mainly silly things like my hair clips and my father’s old goggles. As she got older, she would steal money and con some school friend out of her money. She would lie even when the evidence was put in front of her. We were constantly locking things up and urging houseguests to hide their valuables. That to me was insane. She was a child that could not be trusted.   

The cousins started moving in and out again by the time I was eleven. First, my cousin Milton moved in, then, our cousin Sharon joined the household. Milton’s mother had migrated to London and left him behind. Sharon had three other siblings and her mother was not coping financially, so she was sent to live at our house.  Milton later moved on to other relatives but returned to live with us as an adult some ten years later. 

Initially, Milton and I were fascinated by our younger cousin Sharon that we never knew existed before. She had a twisted front tooth that was really ugly and needed braces. Well, how dare we take the attention off drama queen Darlene! Darlene would bully and taunt Sharon and with my own eyes I saw her  physically attack Sharon. Milton and I would rush to the defense of our fragile cousin. Little did we know then that Sharon would one day turn out to be a United States army veteran adept at handling her M16. How is that for irony!  

I used to pray that somehow Darlene would disappear from my life. I was embarrassed that we lived in the same home and her values and social skills were completely opposite to what we were taught at home. I lived in fear that people who did not know us well would judge me based on her negative behavior. I now believe she may have had some form of attachment disorder. The stealing, the lying, the aggressive behavior and the poor hygiene were merely symptoms of a deeper problem. At any rate, my prayer was finally answered after eleven long years when she asked to live with one of her older sisters and moved on to create havoc in that household. In her adult life she re-established her bond with my mother. When Darlene needed a loan she bonded, when my mother wanted the loan repaid the bond snapped temporarily until the next loan.  

When I was fourteen, Leighton came to us through the foster care program. My mother had watched a television program on foster care and decided we should help a child who had no family. The social worker said he was about three but later provided evidence that he was really five years old. It was a déjà-vu experience. This time it was Sharon and I who were captivated by this cute little boy that had no middle name, no last name and no birth date. I insisted he should have a middle name like normal children. Sharon created a middle name for him: Jason. She was thinking of Jason, a little Jamaican boy, who was lost at sea in the 1970s and was eventually rescued. 

I did not recognize the symbolism at the time. We were rescuing this lost boy from a life where he had no family, no name and no birth date. I had given my seal of approval to the name because I had just read about Jason and the golden fleece in Greek mythology. This time it was Sharon and I who had to rush to defend Leighton from Darlene as she reacted to the loss of attention to her unending personal drama. Sadly, the pattern of stealing and lying without feelings of guilt or remorse continued with Leighton. This time I was older, still embarrassed, but not as shocked by the behavior.  

My parents meant well and deserve a medal to open their hearts and home to so many. However, I deserve one of those survivor Tee shirts. One of those that say, “I Survived My Family.” I have no idea how the money managed to stretch to support all of us children. I have however accepted that my mother was slightly insane. She was constantly overwhelmed and frustrated because she did not know how to handle the special needs of Leighton, Darlene, Milton and Sharon.  Each child had one thing in common: each had been left behind at our house by a parent or an authority figure in Leighton’s case. Each child responded differently to his or her dilemma. My father just went along calm and quiet for the ride. However, I did see several cracks in his calm demeanor during the period that Leighton lived with us.  

Only people who have experienced living in a blended family could possibly understand the conflicts and frustrations that we all endured in our attempts to merge into a family. I survived the noise and confusion by learning to enjoy my own company, by laughing at myself and by being a storyteller. I acquired a repertoire of life stories with which to entertain friends and coworkers.

Author's Biography

I am a Jamaican living in rural Southeast Georgia.  

I have been a teacher of Spanish, English and Reading Development. 

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