Last week I experienced an embarrassing awakening. I’m currently enrolled in a Family Relations class here at Marquette and the first project was a Genogram project. It’s essentially a family tree project, but way more confusing and requires drawing a bunch of symbols, names, dates, and all of that history stuff.
I gave my dad a phone call with the intention of getting some information about my three uncles. Three. Keep that in mind. “Hey, so, out of you and your three brothers, who are the oldest?” I asked.
This is where it gets embarrassing.
“That’s easy. Me and then Matt,” Dad replied. “I only have one brother.” I was horrified. “Wait, but what about Mike and Paul?”
“They’re not my brothers. They’re my second cousins.” This sentence physically made my jaw drop. Seventeen years of living. My whole life. I lived thinking I had three uncles. I have one. Just one. That’s it.
Later that night, I ask my mom, “When were Jennie and Jill born?” Jennie and Jill are my cousins. I’m surprised I even knew that at this point. “Well, Jill was born first with Gene.” Gene? Gene? I asked her to repeat herself. “Yeah, Gene. My sister’s first ex-husband.” FIRST? Am I seriously that oblivious? “Alan is Jennie’s dad. Laurie’s second ex-husband.” At this point I was angry.
That day is when I found out I really, truly am a disgrace to my family.
You Don't Know Schmitz 