My mother is one of eight children, she is the third of my grandmothers kids. In the last two years whenever I’ve gone home to visit my mother and I see her siblings, I cannot help but look at them through the lens of an unspoken sibling hierarchy. It’s as if they’re frozen in time, somewhere in their one bedroom home in the Dominican Republic, between the ages of 10 and 20, when my youngest uncle would fling the money my mother gave him to buy a few platanos for dinner to the top of their roof because he “did not feel like running that errand” on that day (mind you, they were poor! money was not to be played with!). I see power dynamics play out over, and over, and over again depending on the combination of siblings that are involved in the latest misunderstanding or straight up fight.

In my twenties I distanced myself from them. From all my family actually. I mean, I would come around for major gatherings, but removed myself from daily interactions. I did not have the language yet to express how seeing them enmeshed in each others business and the consequences of said enmeshment made me want to runaway as far away as possible. You have to understand that I grew up in the chaos of the following two scenarios:

Scenario A: You did something to me, so I am going to ignore you for the next six months until one day I feel that’s enough silent punishment and ask you to pass me the juice and you can infer from this interaction that we are now on talking terms. No, we will not discuss why I stopped talking to you, instead we will act as if nothing happened.

Scenario B: I will be lashing out both verbally, sometimes physically, and cruelly because it’s much easier to do that than to tell you something you said hurt my feelings, and or, I don’t know how to ask what something meant so my anger/rage is justified in this moment.

I didn’t know then what I know now, which is that I am not the only person who has seen this happen in perpetuity within their families (gather here for a unifying exhale). And, that I am not alone in wanting to change the way we manage stress and deal with conflict with our loved ones. In thinking about all of this, I wanted to write about two of my aunts and how they’ve taught me about communication, conflict, repair and relational dynamics in very different ways. One consciously the other unconsciously.

I’m going to change their names to protect their privacy.

Let’s call aunt number one Dottie and the other Kit (yes, like the sisters from a League of Their Own). My aunt Dottie is the oldest of the eight kids, she is now in her 70s. She’s a virgo, about 5’2 in stature and has a very strong personality. My aunt Kit is the youngest, she’s in her late 50s. She’s also a virgo (although vastly different than Aunt Dottie), and has a sweet but takes no bs demeanor. Because I was born in Santo Domingo, and lived there until the age of three, all my aunts and uncles have a plethora of stories and memories of me as a toddler.

I am told that I was very protective of Aunt Kit, and that if anyone would “borrow” something of hers while she was at school or at work, I would wait by the front entrance ready to sing like a whistle. It is also said, that while I would ask every aunt and uncle “what treat/candy they had brought me” when they came home, the only one that would be let off the hook was Aunt Kit as she replied with “I didn’t bring anything… I’m poor”. My response? A tender hug and kiss. Because that was my gurl! Aunt Kit would religiously do cosquillas (sort of like soft tickles) on my back every night so I could fall asleep. She would sing to me, and simply put, spoiled me with love. So yes, I was going to protect her things like they were my own.

Aunt Dottie showed her love in other ways. Like when she went toe to toe with another sister to plan my first birthday. Aunt number three wanted me in a short sleeve dress (practical), but Aunt Dottie insisted on a long sleeve number that was more elegant. It did not matter that it was boiling hot, she was getting those photos. In the end both outfits were worn, and birthday numero uno was a success. She’s often lauded my intuition, saying that as a kid I would tell her things that made her stop in her tracks. And always remembers how I saved my cousins life (her son), when as a baby he swallowed a coin and I somehow knew how to get it out. Crises adverted.

After leaving the island at age three I never lived in close proximity to Aunt Kit, but I have lived with Aunt Dottie. Remember I mentioned she has a strong personality?

Well, as a kid I saw her anger would escalate from 0 to 500 in a matter of seconds, often lashing out on my mother or her son. I was scared of her anger. And seeing how she spoke to my mother, and sometimes got physical, always stuck with me. When I entered my 20s I became bolder with my words. Often leaving her shocked by my responses when she would say something out of pocket. Her siblings operated under the “that’s just the way she is” rule, and I refused to fall in line. I even had a fallout with my mother for a few months (the only time we’ve been distant) after my Aunt Dottie made a big deal out of me not greeting her fast enough when she came for a visit. She declared I had disrespected her.

After leaving my mothers house, my mom began an argument with me and said she felt embarrassed by me. That cut deep. I said she should feel embarrassed that she’d never stood up to her sister and had allowed her to put her hands on her in front of her young daughter. I told her that her embarrassment was misplaced.

It was not my kindest or proudest moment.

But I was sick and tire of their relationship. Just because we are family does not mean you get to treat me like shit. I don’t care how old you are, or what your place is within the made up family hierarchy.

My mother and I made up a few months later, without ever properly discussing what had occurred. I was too early into my therapy sessions, and too green on learning to work through conflict to lead such a discussion. So I let it be.

In 2023, a few siblings gathered at my mothers apartment and it coincided with Aunt Dottie’s 70th birthday. As I said hello and looked at the wrinkles in her face, and how she had shrunk a little more, I became emotional. Our people are getting older y’all. While I hugged her, flashbacks of our many exchanges and interactions flooded my mind. I secretly wondered if she had soften, and course corrected some of her anger issues. She seemed lighter, warmer. Perhaps people could change. Perhaps aging strips away all the harshness, and fills it with wisdom.

So imagine my disillusionment when two years later, Aunt Dottie is acting exactly as she was when I was 10 years of age. Except this time, I understood what I was watching differently. As I saw her spaz out, I did not see an adult lose their shit over something insignificant. Instead I saw a kid having a tantrum. And I felt deep sadness for everyone who was witnessing it.

We were in Aunt Dottie’s studio apartment having dinner. I was sitting on the bamboo high chairs next to her son. Him and I were catching up on life, love, and business as we had not physically seen each other in two years. My mom was on the sofa to our right, sitting next to her friend who lives in the 5th floor. Out of no where my aunt starts to scream at my mother. I’m talking ready to throw hands. And my mom? Quietly and calmly sitting on that sofa, watching it unfold. My cousin got up and removed his mom to the side. It took him three tries to get her to calm down and lower her voice. And truthfully, the only thing that got her to stop was that an additional two friends walked into the apartment. That couple had no idea what the fuck had just happened (neither did we!), but their faces told me they knew they were walking into some mess, because the tension was thicker than molasses.

That night as I sat in bed next to my mom, I asked what had happened. As she shared the details, I saw a younger sister who has been dealing with a very imprudent and critical older sister her entire life. I felt exhausted for her. I asked her some tough questions about their dynamic, things I’m sure she’s not thought of. And told her that boundaries are not for others to uphold, but for us to keep. And that it’s not a matter of saying something once, it’s a matter of consistently enacting that thing you say matters to you. I told her that Aunt Dottie has never dealt with any consequence to her actions and mistreatment. She’s never been properly checked by my mom. And I get it, they are decades into this way of being. But I would rather change course while there is still life to be lived, than to keep experiencing the same nasty interaction. My mom has six other siblings, Aunt Dottie can be put on ice for a bit.

Later that week, once I was no longer in the crossfire (or of my own moments with Aunt Dottie, of which there were many), I spoke to my bestie Yuvi. I’ve mentioned her before, she’s a therapist. We talked about our Dominican families and the dynamics we experience through fresh eyes as adults. She told me not to be disappointed if my mother didn’t change anything moving forward. After all, I’m asking her to abandon a format that she has become accustomed to. A dance that is easier to do than rock the family boat. That even if painful, feels safe. I agreed, knowing I not so secretly hoped my mom would rise to the occasion and that I would take any chance I got to gently nudge her towards breaking away from her most toxic relationship.

Now back to Aunt Kit.

Just because we have not lived in the same city since I was a toddler does not mean we haven’t had our run-ins. This story involves a pair of sneakers, a stranger from DR I have never met, and too many text messages with a teen cousin.

Aunt Kit only had one child, a daughter. I remember when she was born. She had the biggest brown eyes, and all the little rolls a baby arm could hold. She was a little muñeca and I adored her. Seeing my aunt so happy, made me happy. At one point in my cousins tween years, my mother decided to move to Texas where they lived for a change of pace (a story for another stack), and I came to visit. It was really wonderful to spend time together with them. All this to say, there’s never been beef.

Years later, my cousin would move to NYC and stay with my mother. She was taking a leap year after high school and figuring out what she wanted to do for college. I no longer lived in Brooklyn full time, but kept a few things in my mothers home. Enter the Nike Air Max Correlate’s I wore when I first interviewed Jennifer Lopez. They were, among a few other things, left in a sealed box in a closet. Upon my return home in the summer, I went searching for those items. Including those Barney themed pair. See, I don’t want to fill up my suitcase with shoes when I can just store them at mami’s crib. NYC requires a certain amount of looks, you feel me?

And as you probably already guessed, the kicks had disappeared. VANISHED. I kept my cool, and went into full Harriet the Spy mode. Turns out little cousin had gifted them to a “friend in Santo Domingo” after my mom told her I “wasn’t coming back” for my things. I immediately knew this was a lie, as my mother is my personal archivist (self-appointed) and has kept things of lesser value without my request. I’m talking a random note from a crush in high school that is half way ripped.

I was getting pulled into my least favorite genre of things: family drama.

Text messages escalated (as phone calls were not picked up). Attitudes peaked. And eventually my Aunt Kit stepped in. I want to be clear that the issue was not the sneakers themselves (although yes, they were memorabilia to me), it was the entitlement and the lack of respect for me and my things. My cousin had no remorse and doubled down on what my mother had said. This of course made my mother get involved because now she was being lied on. Lights, camera, action. Una novela.

My aunt and I went back and forth. She of course was protecting her daughter, which from a primal level I understood, she’s her mom. But as a logical person who values accountability, I did not. My cousin was not in any danger. She stole, and she got caught. And calling her a thief was where my aunt drew the line, and my ass had Harlem shaked my way across it. It was unfortunate for all parties involved.

I received payment for the sneakers (again, not the point), and a very sour apology. But I was heartbroken. I wondered if my aunt and I would ever recover from that sword fight (my Shaylaaaa), and the exchange also brought up past hurts from other moments with family members where I felt infringed upon.

Once again I thought what I often felt as a child: Where is my protection?

A short while after my aunt reached out to talk about what had happened. I felt wary but challenged myself to have an open mind. The fact that she was attempting a conversation was a big deal. Not because of her character, but rather because it is not a family norm. We spoke about what had transpired, and what caused us both hurt. She asked what I needed from her, and I said an apology and accountability. To my surprise she did just that, saying she did not want this to create a divide between us. In return, and without her asking, I apologized too. I knew my words cut straight to the heart of the matter, and that I had abandoned all forms of diplomacy by the time she had entered the chat.

I cried then, and feel emotional sharing this story with you now. I think of the sacred medicine those three words bring to the soul, “I am sorry”. I think of the many friendships, lovers, cousins, creative partners, and children that have been lost to not being able to utter them, genuinely and with humility. I know my aunt and I changed a piece of our families root system that night.

Repair is a beautiful thing.

So why am I telling you my families business?! Because our family is where we first learn about love, and communication, and conflict, and all the beautiful and challenging aspects that come from interacting with other humans. I think it is critical for us to understand who we come from, what drives them to be who they are, and how we may be continuing to carry out those behaviors or not.

My Aunt Dottie has shown me what anger can do to you and those around you when not properly channeled. You are beholden to it, stuck in a cell of fury. It can become so loud and potent that you can’t even see when your loved ones are gently trying to get you to put the pin back in the grenade. She is also a reminder of how our childhood trauma can keep us in a perpetual state of emotional dysregulation. In a matter of minutes I’ve witnessed her deal with overly intense emotions, unable to manage whatever is coming up for her. There is zero emotional awareness, and it straight up sucks. When I was a kid I saw her as a tornado, and now as an adult I just see a kid swept up by one unable to stay grounded.

My Aunt Kit as the youngest has shown me that you can choose different even if your entire life you’ve seen your oldest sibling move in one specific way. They all grew up in the same household, but I know they all got a different version of my grandmother and grandfather. (Some didn’t even get to experience abuelo Lolo. Which was probably for the best.) Our resolution also taught me that I am equipped to have difficult conversations with people I love, and that it is never too late to apologize. There is room to hold all feelings, to acknowledge all hurts, and to mend any heartbreak… but only if there is truth and a willingness to listen.

Everyone gets held to this standard now.

And yes, maybe that makes it feel a little stricter over in the Yari corner, but at least you know with me you’ll get what bell hooks talks about in All About Love. Love is not just a feeling, but a conscious action. She emphasizes that true love involves a blend of care, affection, recognition, respect, commitment, trust, and honest communication. She defines love as "the will to extend one's self for the purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth." And if you’re in my inner circle, I am ten toes down on that.

Until next time,

Your Substack bestie

Yari B

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