My Blood, Your Blood, Our Blood
I didn’t realize my youngest two brothers are technically my “half” brothers until I was 16 years old. Learning this technicality is one of the strongest yet also one of the fuzziest memories that I have. My friend’s mom was driving me home from a hangout; it was still light outside so it must have been a weekend day, not a school night; I wore basketball shorts and a red v neck and beat up off-brand converse. Something was said about how I lived so far from the school and how “interesting” my neighborhood was. I was already desperately aware of my “otherness” compared to my friends, but this seemed to highlight it even more.
My friend’s mom had been asking me about my family and background as she navigated down my street. I told her about my mom, stepdad, sister, and 3 brothers. I remember the first follow-up question was about which of my siblings came from which man, since I had a stepdad – or were there more men than just the two? My head drained of all thoughts and my stomach gave a queasy churn. Why wasn’t the first question about my siblings’ names, what my parents do for work, or if my brothers played any sports? I knew I was different in some very key ways compared to the religious community I grew up around but was never in. So in that moment I felt exposed; dissected, quartered, and ready to be sorted. Nobody had ever asked me this kind of question, but I’d also never offered this information up before because it was different in a way that was unsafe. I felt trapped, but I persisted. I delineated what I knew of my family tree.
“Oh, so two of them are your half-brothers.” My throat caught a few times before I asked for clarification on what she meant by half-sibling before piecing together what the foreign concept could mean. I honestly don’t think I’d even heard the term half-sibling before that conversation: to me, a brother was a brother, a sister was a sister, a sibling was a sibling. Why did it have to be more than that?
Although I knew what my own heart felt on the matter, a small part of me winced at the time, because the phrase I heard most from friends and their families growing up was “family is forever.” It was literally nailed into the walls in many of their homes. It always felt like there was something more underneath that saccharine phrase: pious families are forever, pure families are forever, worthy families are forever. In that moment, I was acutely aware of which side I landed on that line of separation; I felt so different from all the other “normal” families and “full” siblings surrounding me. But I had to move forward in a way that honored what my heart said and left other people’s thoughts for themselves: all my siblings were just that, with none being more important than another.
This simple statement still leaves me feeling icky years later (clearly). I realized that day my bond can’t be cheapened by adjectives meant to differentiate rather than unify. Thankfully, I think that day was the first and last time I heard the term “half-sibling”. Because the phrase still upsets me. And now I’m glad to be in a place where I am safe to be just me. To be surrounded by my choice of people who celebrate my unique life tapestry.
Luckily, I think in many ways our world is moving towards a future where families are defined not by a birth certificate but by the shared love harbored and nurtured. Families are made and families are found. Life is fleeting, and true familial love is rare and brilliant: it’s not something to be dissected for worthiness. It is inherently worthy. When someone chooses their family, it deserves respect, no matter the form. This experience helped me realize how fiercely I love my family, identical blood running through our veins or not.
