constantly. It was endless. I could draw a diagram of all the family members on a piece of paper and map the conflicts until the page resembled a spiderweb. It is not just one war that is responsible for the one that we will all remember. Like a house of cards, if you remove one piece, the structure topples.
Part Two
The Spellman Wars
THE SUGAR WAR
T he wave of familial discord, precipitated by Rae’s camp ordeal, soon settled into an eerie calm. A few weeks later, Rae was still feeling the gratitude of having been sprung and strived to be on her best behavior. I, however, was still feeling the sting from her shady tactics and needed a modicum of revenge. Since Rae is usually aboveboard in her activities, I had a single offense: to take away her one and only vice—junk food. I began noticing that her Pop-Tart breakfasts bled into Frito and Twinkie lunches. At family dinners, she picked at the main course, ate her vegetables under extreme duress, and then devoured dessert like a wild animal. I was irked by the fact that I was the only one who noticed this. But it was my fault, wasn’t it? I raised the bar on acceptable behavior in that house and Rae always managed to stay well under it.
However, just because her habits went unnoticed did not mean that I couldn’t persuade my parents to attend to them. I brought home articles on the effects of large sugar consumption on adolescents and its relationship with low scores on aptitude tests in school. I showed documentation on the correlation between old-age diabetes and sugar consumption in youth. I suggested that precautionary measures be enforced. My mother suspiciously agreed: Sugar on the weekends only. No exceptions.
Rae ran upstairs and banged on my apartment door when she heard the news. “How could you?” she asked, almost teary-eyed.
“I’m concerned for your health.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You want to call a truce?”
“Fine.”
Rae reluctantly held out her hand and we shook on it. However, a truce with me would eventually seem trivial, as Rae was about to begin a battle I didn’t know she had in her.
THE RA(E/Y) WARS
I locked my apartment door and tiptoed down the staircase, hoping to avoid chitchat with any family member. In particular, I was trying to avoid my mother, who had found another lawyer she wanted me to drink coffee with. I tried explaining to her that I was capable of drinking coffee without legal help, but she did not follow my logic.
Instead of running into my mother, I found Rae (with binoculars) peering out the window on the second landing. I checked the view and saw that Uncle Ray was moving in. Instead of a large orange-and-white truck outside, his moving vehicle was a Yellow Cab. It was a heartbreaking sight, and I turned to Rae, hoping that she might have seen the same thing.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied sharply, and I knew she didn’t see a tragic old man. She saw her archenemy.
“Don’t you think it’s time to let this thing go?”
I could tell from the look on Rae’s face that she didn’t.
Let me explain: My sister Rae and my uncle Ray had been at odds for about six years. It began when Rae was eight and discovered that her uncle had dipped into her well-catalogued Halloween stash. The tension mounted when she turned ten and Uncle Ray bought her a pink dress for her birthday and not the walkie-talkies she had so pointedly demanded. And then it escalated into a full-grown battle when my uncle fell asleep on a surveillance job they were working together and could not be woken with even the most violent kicking. Between all the aforementioned events, their strife was peppered with TV hogging, appropriations of favorite cereals, and the constant sharp tongue of my grudge-holding sibling.
Still, I repeated my question: “Don’t you think it’s time to let this thing go?”
“No, I don’t,” Rae replied. So I left her alone on the staircase to spy on her uncle.
I met Uncle Ray
Part Two
The Spellman Wars
THE SUGAR WAR
T he wave of familial discord, precipitated by Rae’s camp ordeal, soon settled into an eerie calm. A few weeks later, Rae was still feeling the gratitude of having been sprung and strived to be on her best behavior. I, however, was still feeling the sting from her shady tactics and needed a modicum of revenge. Since Rae is usually aboveboard in her activities, I had a single offense: to take away her one and only vice—junk food. I began noticing that her Pop-Tart breakfasts bled into Frito and Twinkie lunches. At family dinners, she picked at the main course, ate her vegetables under extreme duress, and then devoured dessert like a wild animal. I was irked by the fact that I was the only one who noticed this. But it was my fault, wasn’t it? I raised the bar on acceptable behavior in that house and Rae always managed to stay well under it.
However, just because her habits went unnoticed did not mean that I couldn’t persuade my parents to attend to them. I brought home articles on the effects of large sugar consumption on adolescents and its relationship with low scores on aptitude tests in school. I showed documentation on the correlation between old-age diabetes and sugar consumption in youth. I suggested that precautionary measures be enforced. My mother suspiciously agreed: Sugar on the weekends only. No exceptions.
Rae ran upstairs and banged on my apartment door when she heard the news. “How could you?” she asked, almost teary-eyed.
“I’m concerned for your health.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You want to call a truce?”
“Fine.”
Rae reluctantly held out her hand and we shook on it. However, a truce with me would eventually seem trivial, as Rae was about to begin a battle I didn’t know she had in her.
THE RA(E/Y) WARS
I locked my apartment door and tiptoed down the staircase, hoping to avoid chitchat with any family member. In particular, I was trying to avoid my mother, who had found another lawyer she wanted me to drink coffee with. I tried explaining to her that I was capable of drinking coffee without legal help, but she did not follow my logic.
Instead of running into my mother, I found Rae (with binoculars) peering out the window on the second landing. I checked the view and saw that Uncle Ray was moving in. Instead of a large orange-and-white truck outside, his moving vehicle was a Yellow Cab. It was a heartbreaking sight, and I turned to Rae, hoping that she might have seen the same thing.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied sharply, and I knew she didn’t see a tragic old man. She saw her archenemy.
“Don’t you think it’s time to let this thing go?”
I could tell from the look on Rae’s face that she didn’t.
Let me explain: My sister Rae and my uncle Ray had been at odds for about six years. It began when Rae was eight and discovered that her uncle had dipped into her well-catalogued Halloween stash. The tension mounted when she turned ten and Uncle Ray bought her a pink dress for her birthday and not the walkie-talkies she had so pointedly demanded. And then it escalated into a full-grown battle when my uncle fell asleep on a surveillance job they were working together and could not be woken with even the most violent kicking. Between all the aforementioned events, their strife was peppered with TV hogging, appropriations of favorite cereals, and the constant sharp tongue of my grudge-holding sibling.
Still, I repeated my question: “Don’t you think it’s time to let this thing go?”
“No, I don’t,” Rae replied. So I left her alone on the staircase to spy on her uncle.
I met Uncle Ray
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