The faces of family members appear in all my early memories. When I was three and got the chicken pox, it was my tía Mimi who drew me a warm oatmeal bath and gently rubbed Pepto-Bismol-pink calamine lotion over my itchy arms and legs. At eight, I froze in the middle of a bike jump, crashing hard onto the dusty path, and it was my tío Alex who brushed the dirt off my knees. My tío Alex was also the adult who picked me up from afterschool care the day my mother went into labor with my baby brother. As I climbed in the backseat of his black Jeep, for a second I missed my mom. But as my tío turned the keys in the ignition, and the bass-y intro of the Beastie Boys’ Brass Monkey bumped on the stereo, my fears evaporated. I knew I was with one of the safest people in my life.
The reason why all my childhood stories and big and small moments feature a guest appearance of different tías, tíos, grandparents — plus first and second cousins — is because, growing up, we lived in the same city and saw each other all. the. time. For holidays, birthdays, graduations and random family barbecues. For New Years Eve, when we cleared out the living room so we had enough space for all 40 of us to dance to Maná. And when one of us kids had a soccer game, we expected to see the whole fam take over half the lawn with their camping chairs and homemade signs.
As I got older and thought about college and building my own life, I didn’t plan on staying near my family. Yes, I experienced the pros, but also the cons. Like everybody always knowing my business, and feeling like they have the authority to talk to me about it. And as an adult, I’ve also become more aware of my relatives’ faults and struggles. It’s always jarring, and sometimes a hurtful revelation.
For college, I moved to San Francisco. It was only an hour drive away, but still far enough for me to figure out who I was outside of “Jannelley,” the shy but sassy girl that my tías, tíos and cousins doted on. After graduating, I ended up moving back in with my parents so I could pay off my student loans, even though a part of me was curious about exploring new cities and new versions of myself outside of California. Every time I saw a Instagram photo of a childhood friend creating a home in a new state, I felt a strange rush of envy and pride.
The idea of moving far from home felt more real once I became pregnant with my daughter Ella. After months of looking at Zillow listings and seeing what made the most sense with both my husband’s and my careers and finances, we had two options. Try to build a life in a Midwestern state, where we knew absolutely no one. Or settle down in a small, agricultural town that’s an hour drive from our hometown.
Leading up to that moment, I always thought I’d choose the option with the most uncertainty and adventure, which obviously meant out of state. But when it came down to the wire, our decision grew very clear. So, here I am, three years later, typing away from that small, agricultural home, hearing my mother-in-law cooing to my baby, Emiliano, and watching my father-in-law playing with Ella in the backyard. My parents ended up moving here a year after we did, and now live a five-minute drive away. One of my favorite things is bumping into them at our neighborhood coffee shop, and I always look forward to Fridays because that’s our standing dinner date.
This Thanksgiving, we plan on driving the hour to our hometown and attending a Thanksgiving lunch at my grandma’s house, and then Thanksgiving dinner at my husband’s nana’s house. And while I’m excited to eat a thick slice of my favorite pumpkin pie, and watch A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, I’m really looking forward to seeing all my tías smother both my kids’ cheeks in kisses, and seeing my boisterous tío Nick toss Ella up in the air. These are the people I feel safest with, and I love how living close to them has woven them into the fabric of my everyday life.
What about you? Do you live near your family? Or would you if you could?
P.S. An easy way to bond with family and where did you grow up?
