My second aunt’s family has lived in the U.S. for as long as I can remember, a very distinguished and accomplished family that includes two scientists (one of whom worked in the U.S. space program), more musicians than I can count and an internationally acclaimed playwright. Marshall was in town as conductor of a youth choir that performed in various churches in Manila, and stayed on after the concert tour to meet long lost relatives. His wife came prepared with two sheets of paper listing relations–who was whose daughter, and to which grandparent that uncle belonged, and so forth. At the end of the evening though there were so many scribbles and corrections and arrows and lines crossing lines that perhaps a map of Yamashita’s treasure might have been easier to read. But nevermind–I think the relations were pretty well established, and we were all the richer for having met–many for the first time–members of the family.
In my younger and more vulnerable years–to use a Scott Fitzgerald line that I particularly like–I was totally overwhelmed by such a big family: my father had five brothers and seven sisters, my mother had six brothers and two sisters, and my paternal grandfather had ten brothers and three (I think) sisters–and I had three grandmothers! Cousins were nothing short of a corporation, and if you throw in the "adopted" and misua relations, it was a global conglomerate.
In my old age I am appreciating family more and more, basking in the wisdom and eccentricities of old aunts and uncles, embracing the rambunctious antics of apos, glorying in being called lola–even "Lola Duck" by my dear grand-nephew Andy who is my regular date for Peking duck. Through them all I am appreciating heritage and tradition, and beginning to figure out who I am and why I am.