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Growing up as the youngest of seven siblings in a bustling household was both a blessing and a challenge. By the time we moved from Plattsburg, NY, to Northern California in 1964, I was barely old enough to understand the implications of such a significant relocation. My father had retired from the military, and this move marked the last chapter of our family’s constant shifts.
With a considerable age gap between myself and my oldest brothers—21 and 22 years older—I had always felt a unique position in our family. My two oldest brothers had already started their own families, and while they were formally my step-brothers, I never regarded them that way. Their children became my cherished nieces and nephews. The oldest brother had four children, with the two boys being older than me by three and one year, and his daughters were four and five years younger. As for my second brother’s daughters, they, too, were just a few years younger than me. Upon their arrival in California, the dynamics of our household changed drastically.
At the time, my sister, 14 years my senior, was finishing her last year of high school, while my next brother, who was 10 years older, was a freshman. I also carried the weight of knowing that before 1960, tragedy had struck our family with the loss of a sister, who passed away just after birth. Thus, my mother had finished having children by the time I came along at the end of 1959.
The 1960s were a tumultuous period in American history, characterized by profound societal changes. Families began exerting more pressure on their children as they navigated these shifts, and I felt the weight of that pressure in my own household. My sister, while given the freedom to date, could hardly have imagined forging her own path; it was an era where the trajectory seemed to lead directly from a parent’s home to a husband’s house.
During this tumultuous time, my second oldest brother faced unimaginable heartache when his wife passed away without warning. My mother immediately flew to Houston to support him, hiring housekeepers and babysitters so he could return to work, believing he would manage his life and care for the girls. However, he struggled. Slowly, he succumbed to alcoholism, prompting my parents and grandmother to decide to have his daughters—ages almost three and not quite two—move to Northern California to live with us.
This change dramatically transformed my life as a nearly seven-year-old. Suddenly, our household’s focus shifted entirely to my nieces, and I felt an overwhelming sense of invisibility. While I received the basics—food, clothing, and care—I began to sense a disconnection from my family, especially from my grandmother, whose attention had diverted towards the two girls. I felt like an unwelcome guest in my own home.
My grandmother, Jennie B. Braden, born in 1899, was an extraordinary woman who possessed remarkable talents in cooking, sewing, and homemaking. Having faced her share of tragedy—losing her husband to lightning when she was pregnant with my father—she had an indomitable spirit. After her remarriage in the 1930s, she became a beloved figure in our family, but her focus became increasingly centered around my nieces. I often felt overlooked and unwanted.
As I navigated my teenage years, I found solace in music. I loved being part of the A cappella ensemble in high school, performing at contests and events. I wanted a dress that would reflect my individuality for performances, but I quickly learned that my requests often went unheeded. When I asked my grandmother, she politely declined, saying she was too busy making clothes for the girls. It was frustrating, to say the least. In my youthful determination, I told my father how I felt, insisting that I deserved the same attention and care as my sisters who were technically my nieces.
To my surprise, my father intervened, and just a few days later, my grandmother called to say she was ready to help with the dress. The process began, and within two weeks, it was completed. Those fittings became cherished moments—gathering with my father at her home after church or on Saturdays.
However, underlying these moments was a family joke that stung: I was often referred to as the “accident.” My mother’s devastation and sorrow over losing my sister Naomi, who passed away at just over a year old, shaped the way my arrival was perceived. It seemed that I was always seen as an afterthought—the continuously crying baby, diagnosed with colic due to a cyst that would hopefully resolve with time.
Through these experiences, I grappled with feelings of neglect and the desire for recognition. Yet, I learned to carve out my own space within the dynamics of a complex family, seeking moments of joy in music and simple connections. My story is one of resilience, a journey through the trials of family life that has shaped who I am today, even when I sometimes felt invisible.
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