Weaving my way through the complexity of my family's story has left me story-less. It is as if my story is the story of piecing together their story like a reporter or a witness. Watching Fun Home made me ask myself, "What is my story?"
I am tired of being the narrator. I want to be the protagonist. But I've been overshadowed by the drama of stories much weightier than my own. I've spent years unpacking my family's mythology. I've seen first hand the ravages of repression and the tragedy of denial, silence, secrets, lies, loyalty and love. There is very little I've not thought about, journaled about, analyzed, and processed. Since I was twenty-two, I've been sifting through the rubble, looking for meaning and seeking understanding. My story is not my mother's. It is not my father's. It is not my brother's. My story is not about sexual identity. It is not about AIDS. It is not about running away at fifty. My story so far has been a reaction to those stories. As the author, Deena Metzger says, "We must come to know our own story." For years, I've been telling everyone else's. Fun Home made me see that I must find my own story, and tell it unflinchingly.