----- 3 stars ----- My Cousin Was My Hero. Until the Day He Tried to Kill Me. / New York Times Wonderfully written while being surprisingly compelling and thought-provoking: Three years ago, my cousin tried to kill me. When people ask why, I don’t know what to say. Usually I mumble that he didn’t have a reason. I say that he didn’t even think he had a reason. We had no argument that day or any other in 40 years. I say that we didn’t think of each other merely as cousins. We were best friends. We spoke for hours every week, often late at night, squinting through the portal of a video chat to exchange complaints about our lives and show off household projects. I say that we had been planning for months to get together that weekend. We organized a family reunion at his house. My son and I were staying in his guest room, while a swarm of aunts and uncles and cousins spilled into a nearby hotel. I had spent the day with them, watching our kids play in the hotel pool, and everyone was planning to gather at my cousin’s house for a party that evening. I say that none of our relatives knew there was conflict between my cousin and me. Neither did I, and neither did he. There was no sign of anything wrong until he tried to kill me. When I say this, I know it doesn’t make sense. I know it sounds incomplete. It sounds like a story I tell myself to avoid responsibility, and maybe it is. “Boys,” he said, “can I talk with Liam’s daddy?” That was how it began. He was standing in the doorway of the guest room with an easy smile. My son and I had just returned from the pool to get ready for the party. We brought along my sister’s son and another cousin’s daughter. The kids dried off and flopped on the bed to play video games while I straightened the room. I remember the careless way they glanced up when my cousin appeared at the door. His giant frame blocking the exit gave them no concern. I can still hear the humor in his voice as he asked their permission to speak with me. I remember that he called them “boys,” even though one was not. Should that detail have alarmed me? I wonder now.
Links
Links
Links
----- 3 stars ----- My Cousin Was My Hero. Until the Day He Tried to Kill Me. / New York Times Wonderfully written while being surprisingly compelling and thought-provoking: Three years ago, my cousin tried to kill me. When people ask why, I don’t know what to say. Usually I mumble that he didn’t have a reason. I say that he didn’t even think he had a reason. We had no argument that day or any other in 40 years. I say that we didn’t think of each other merely as cousins. We were best friends. We spoke for hours every week, often late at night, squinting through the portal of a video chat to exchange complaints about our lives and show off household projects. I say that we had been planning for months to get together that weekend. We organized a family reunion at his house. My son and I were staying in his guest room, while a swarm of aunts and uncles and cousins spilled into a nearby hotel. I had spent the day with them, watching our kids play in the hotel pool, and everyone was planning to gather at my cousin’s house for a party that evening. I say that none of our relatives knew there was conflict between my cousin and me. Neither did I, and neither did he. There was no sign of anything wrong until he tried to kill me. When I say this, I know it doesn’t make sense. I know it sounds incomplete. It sounds like a story I tell myself to avoid responsibility, and maybe it is. “Boys,” he said, “can I talk with Liam’s daddy?” That was how it began. He was standing in the doorway of the guest room with an easy smile. My son and I had just returned from the pool to get ready for the party. We brought along my sister’s son and another cousin’s daughter. The kids dried off and flopped on the bed to play video games while I straightened the room. I remember the careless way they glanced up when my cousin appeared at the door. His giant frame blocking the exit gave them no concern. I can still hear the humor in his voice as he asked their permission to speak with me. I remember that he called them “boys,” even though one was not. Should that detail have alarmed me? I wonder now.