palm springs

I arrived in Palm Springs from Loma Linda and felt an immediately full-body release, which I later realized came from a) exiting Christian environments and b) knowing I would see my beloved aunt, who knows I'm queer, and who I trust and feel safe being myself around.

Normally, I would cringe at the combination of American flags, guns, and cowboy paraphernalia that is my grandfather's Rancho Mirage rancher house. But after the claustrophobia of my grandmother and great-aunt's quiet, vegetarian, carpeted Christian homes, I was brought to life by the sinfulness of red wine, meat, and haughty masculinity. There is something raunchy about the ranch, and I delight in it. And hey, as a wood and leather enthusiast myself, I can't help but appreciate some style.

Before the trip down to Palm Springs, I dutifully did my assigned reading, by which I mean poring over my grandfather's self-published autobiography. The book is amusing and disturbing in equal measure, and I also respect the sincerity of his storytelling, which is not for the faint of heart.

I deeply and longingly covet the leather vest on the cover of this book, and already feel competitive with Greyson, my aunt's male baby, over perhaps becoming its keeper one day.

This whole family lineage journey of mine in Southern California started, in the late summer, because of my interest in my Jewish heritage. I had had an extremely challenging year in practically every area of my life, and after hitting a bit of a rock bottom, I was searching for some meaning. At the same time, I had begun a lovely friendship with some Jewish pals in my community, who welcomed me into their kitchen and traditions, and reminded me how, throughout my life, I have always enjoyed Jewish ritual in the company of friends and partners. After being told by a friend that "for supposedly not being Jewish, I was one of the most Jewish people he had ever met," I wanted to learn more about my Jewish ancestry.

So, I reached out to my grandfather, who I had not seen or spoken to in at least ten years, probably more, to ask him about our Jewish ancestors. He responded right away with all kinds of information, most excitingly with this wild photo of my great-great-great-grandfather Itzak Rogowitch from Minsk, Belarus.

After getting a taste of our Jewish past, the floodgates opened, and suddenly I was contacting every relative I could think of and turning my week in California into a quest into my origins. I had embarked on a similar quest back in 2017-2018, when I was again questioning the meaning of my existence due to some hard shit. In those years, I journeyed to the Caribbean and England to understand the histories of my Raizal and British ancestry, and read every relevant history book I could get my hands on. It helped! And, I think it's helping again, knowing where I come from, and who.

My Jewish ancestors moved to Canada and Anglicized our name to Roger in light of the persecution of Jews, to better their chances of immigration and finding work.

I think Rogachev is a much cooler name than Roger, but oh well. We can't all have the juicy names of literary heroes.

Funnily enough, my great-grandparents on my father's paternal side lived in Canada, just like my great-grandparents on my mother's paternal side - at one point, they all lived just a town or two away from each other in Ontario! And, apparently, I still have a bunch of Jewish relatives in Ontario - hopefully I will meet them one day. For so often feeling like I don't belong in Canada, there is something comforting about knowing I have relatives with history there, that my grandfather was born in Canada, even.

My grandfather's parents met through some very cute Jewish courtship, and eventually settled in California.

My grandfather is very proud to be a Vietnam war veteran and a cardiologist. In addition to being a cowboy, these seem to be the key aspects of his identity. There is some interesting masculinity going on there. Curiously, in his autobiography, he mentions several times that he was mistaken for a girl as a child because of his flowy hair and penchant for fashion. I can't help but see that the man loves a good costume.

I was touched by my grandfather's account of his long-standing friendships in Palm Springs, and of his relationship to the land and community across decades. Although he and I have significant differences in values and politics (diametrically opposed, one might say), I respect a life lived in service to and celebration of friendship. Once again, against my will, I find myself searching for myself in my relatives and ancestors-- and I have more in common with this land-loving, Spanish-speaking, cowboy-styled, theatrical, friendship-oriented, and (to be honest) slutty man than I could have expected.

I mean, really, 10 points for a well-styled butch.

As with all butches, the sweetest part about getting to know my grandfather was seeing him turn to complete mush around the new baby. Apparently, he ~discovered Shutterfly shortly after Greyson was born, and his home is now covered in household objects with Greyson's face printed on them. It's adorable.

My father and his brothers didn't grow up in my grandfather's household, but my aunt Megan did, and it's touching to see my grandfather's fatherly devotion to his daughter's baby.

Greyson is very, very cute.

The biggest surprise of my visit was having coffee with my uncle's partner, who I had met only a handful of times in childhood. To put it simply, this uncle and my father are the most estranged of all of the estranged people in my family, and it had never occurred to me that I would see that uncle or his partner again in my lifetime. It's not my story to tell, but spending time with Nicole, my uncle's partner, shook up everything I thought I knew, not just about my family but about people and relationships in general, and about truth, and ~god, and justice, and forgiveness, and all of the other big questions in life and loving.

My aunt's wonderful partner took these photos before we left, after I finally mustered up the courage to hold Greyson.

I am in love with him. And I want to be part of a better future of love and family for and with him. I'm grateful for the chance to change our family's stories.

After I left, my aunt told me that I seemed taller, bigger, louder, and more than I was 10 years ago, like a completely different person. Hearing that broke my heart and made it sing all at the same time. This is not the first time I have heard something like that from relatives who met me in childhood or my teenage years - who remember me small, quiet, sad, timid, or, every so often, angry. I am so glad to be who I am today and not the person I was 10 years ago, or 20 years ago. And also, I love that broken, fucked-up teenager with all my heart, and I carry that confused, lonely, fucked-up little kid with me everywhere, saying "hey! look how great our life turned out!"

It rained the whole time I was in Southern California, both on the coast and in the desert, where it never rains. The rain arrived when I did and left when I did! There was something comforting about wading through history in the rain, like a warm wet hug from British Columbia, reminding me I'm not too far from home.