I always imagined an ideal African-American family as one like the Cosby—a mother and father under one roof raising their children to work hard to achieve their goals, to give endless love, and most importantly and somehow magically to discover a way to laugh in the midst of their challenges.

In my eyes, that was picture perfect. It was a bond that couldn’t be broken.  And if you were to glance at my family, you would imagine that we had a similar story.

But what if, I told you we didn’t and ain’t shit picture perfect about us.

What if, and only if, I told you our bond was broken and we have grown apart?

What if momma tears were a result of inflicted pain rather than afflicted suffering?

What if daddy was hardly around?

What if the laughs became lost and misery called for company?

What if a demon lived inside of one of us that was causing self-destruction?

Would you believe me? Or would you think I was lying?

You see some of this could be true. Or it could just be me speaking hypothetically. This isn’t a war between cliché and reality. This is reality. We ain’t perfect and could never fit in a square frame. We could never be The Cosby or ever keep up with The Joneses. Our relationship is dysfunctional and we’re too unique with expressing our love. But since blood made us family we have to fight to see the end. Because in the end…We all we got.

We are family.

xO