I never used to understand this term. It didn't make sense to me that I would suffer the consequences of the mistakes others made before me. That didn't seem the way of the God of grace I follow.
I didn't understand because I hadn't seen it happen yet.
Today, I regret to say I understand completely.
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Remember your name.
Growing up, we all had adults tell us to remember who we are. Remember where you come from. Remember whose you are. For years, the statement was thrown around as an encouragement: "you're a Vaughan".
It needed no explanation. Growing up, being one of us meant you were strong. It meant you were resilient. It meant you were stubborn as hell and that you would survive. Against all odds.
But as years go by, things have a tendency to fall apart. Fortresses, once strong, tumble. And I feel the effects of residing in a dilapidated structure.
What could be more sad than looking at something that used to be strong and finding it no more?
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She told me to remember my name. And hugged me like I was on the fast track to hell.
I sigh in defeat, wishing they could see. They see the way I've changed, but they don't understand why. They feel the effects of my disassociation and see the fine lines compassion fatigue has drawn on my face. But they blame the wrong source. They pray for me. As if I'm the lost one. As if I'm the one who's lost her way.
But such is the pattern of a people who share the same name and little more.
I love them. Too much estrogen. Creativity oozing from all our veins. Excessive hugs and kisses. Good food and obscure metaphors.
But tradition has crumbled at our feet. Life has hit us hard and often. There is some truth in what we used to say -- in the stubbornness and the resilience. We are a scrappy group of fighters.
And we keep lots of secrets.
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I remember the day I realized I was an adult. Almost five years ago now.
Secrets shared over pasta. Light shed on what had intentionally been kept in the dark so long. A deep, irreparable crack in the foundation.
A few weeks later, I would get a call. She had fallen. On the way to the hospital now. He needed me to go to the house, the only house I really call home, and clean up the blood in the kitchen.
This is what it means to be grown up here. To be let in on the secrets. To be called in to clean up the mess.
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A phone call. A younger one was in the ER. I am the older, though not by much. But my love for her doesn't know that. Her secrets spilled all over the floor, evident through the hospital gown, and I was there to do my job. To mop them up. To quietly absorb and faithfully love. I could have told the doctors that day, don't worry. I know what's wrong here. Let me take her home. She needs coffee and ice cream and to know she's not carrying it by herself anymore.
A phone call. An overnight bag. Truth we'd known, confirmed. Sworn to secrecy. A cycle continues, unhindered because it's what we know. I want to say, I know. Don't worry. I'm carrying this with you. But the toxicity of the secrets is wrapped up in the not telling.
Passport in hand, I'm handed a new one. One that explains it all. Like a bright flash of light in a dark room -- blinding more than revealing. I sigh in the knowing. Nod in the understanding. And not knowing what to do with it, I tuck it away. Aperture opened wide, shutter set slow. Catch the motion.
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So what does it mean to me when I hear someone tell me to remember my name?
That I belong to a patchwork group of people who love each other fiercely, in the best way we know how -- however short that falls.
That we keep each others' secrets.
That I know things you don't know I know. And I love you anyway.
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What does generational sin mean to me?
It means that unintentionally I grew up surrounded by the secrets. Knee deep in the brokenness we learned from each other. That as I get older, I find tendencies in myself. An innate ability to keep those secrets.
To love anyway.
To fall short.
To bend low and fight through the barrage of dysfunction and role confusion.
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I resented the words. I resented that she thought I had forgotten. When in fact, forgetting was the last thing I'd done. Every second she held me, I knew she was praying. And it wasn't the praying that stung. It was that she was praying for the wrong thing.
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There is a term in physics. It refers to the force needed in order for an object to escape the grips of gravity. The speed and energy at which an object must move in order to climb higher.
Escape velocity.
This is how we endure the sins of generations.
You're the first in your family to go to college.
The first to not be a teenage mother.
The first with a clean record.
The first to choose sobriety.
The first to ask for help.
The first to leave.
The first to be faithful.
Each takes a measure of force stronger than what's been holding you down. Requiring you to exert yourself, to aim higher, to fight harder to escape the grips of all you've learned.
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The beautiful thing about broken generations, is that you learn how to love people right where they are. Brokenness teaches you to adapt. To empathize. Dares you to desire more and gives you the grit to go find it.
As I build momentum, I just wish they understood.
I just wish I didn't have my own secrets.
I wish I wasn't so good at keeping them.
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