What makes a family? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat down and asked myself this question. I’ve heard different theories. Most are traditional – Mom, Dad, kids, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Some are more liberal – “a Village”. The one I think I like the best is that a family is more than just the people you share blood or meals with. It’s the people you love every day. And by “Love”, I don’t mean a “feeling”; more of an “Act”. Love for me, is when my neighbor goes to the store for me after I’ve delivered my 5th child, unsolicited to get me a gallon of milk, eggs and bread. Love is when my husband calls me in the middle of the day just to say “Hi”. Love is me, getting up at 4:30 am every day to make sure that my husband and kids have freshly made cookies for their lunches. To me, that’s love; to me, that’s my family. I have 9 siblings; yes, I said 9. But I don’t consider us a family. Although it hurts me more than I would ever like to admit! It hurts me that I’m closer to my neighbor and my good friends here, than I am to most of my brothers or sisters and even my parents. I have a brother who hasn’t spoken to me in almost 20 years because he literally feels that it’s his obligation to show me that I’m not worth his time or attention. I have nieces and nephews whom I’ve never seen, let alone met. We don’t spend most holidays together or have Sunday dinner as a “Family”. We just don’t. And even though it’s been this way for most of my adult life, I get very sad when I see genuine functional families who do have that support system. I’m determined to make my family one of those “families”.
I often wonder why my parents opted to have all these kids. If you ask my mom, she would say “I was providing bodies for spirits” – as though she is always the victimized, selfless martyr! My dad wouldn’t have an answer. Truth be told, he hates kids. I don’t think he’s held any of mine for more than a minute or two. It’s sad really; my children don’t know their grandparents at all. I’ve often told my mom that it truly makes me sad, because I think she has so much to offer, but she refuses to make herself available – physically or emotionally. She’s so talented and yet, my children don’t know the first thing about her. I often think of my grandparents – my grandfather on my mothers side was a naval officer in WWII. One of the pictures I love most of my grandparents is a picture of them and some friends taken in Malibu when my grandfather was on leave from the Navy. They must have been in their early 20’s. They were so young and looked so happy and carefree. My grandmother was a beauty – I used to love to imagine that I was her, back in the 40’s, falling in love with my grandfather. What it must have been like. I wonder if she had some of the same struggles as I have now. Did she ever question her faith? Did she ever wonder if she was on the right road? Did she ever wish that someone had come along and just told her “look, I don’t have a stake in this one way or the other, but from what I can prove and what I know, this is the road you should follow”. Someone unbiased. Does a person like that even exist?
I should probably start at the beginning. I was born in July of 1972 at San Francisco General Hospital. My parents, David and Ann Coltrin were living in S.F. at the time. My mother was a seamstress for Barbizon and my dad was a dental student at UOP. I had two older brothers at the time. My father, after graduating from dental school in 1973, first worked for another dentist as an associate in Fairfield for 8 months, before purchasing his own practice in Pleasanton in 1974. This is where I was raised for the next 12 years. My mother didn't work again until I was grown and out of the house. My parents went on to have 7 more children after me. Although, only 6 of them were born in Pleasanton. I have 6 brothers (two of them older than me) and 3 sisters; all younger.
People used to ask me all the time when I was younger where I got my name. My usual response back then was “Well, you see, my parents were living in the Ashbury/Haight in San Francisco during the late 60’s early 70’s……..” and I’d let them draw their own conclusion. My mother of course never touched street drugs or drank, but it was as funny spin on a kind of weird story. The truth is, if you ask my mom, she says that when she was in Labor with my oldest brother Brad, that I “whispered my name in her ear”. HUH???? When she first told me this story, my comment was, “I think you must have had too much demurral at the time”. Later, I reminded her that “Sunny” was actually a boys name and perhaps, Brad was supposed to be “Sunny”, not me??? I’ve grown to like my name. People always assume that I have a “Sunny Disposition”, so it makes it easier to act like I have one, even though on the inside I’ve struggled with so many demons.
My parents were devout LDS members and raised us accordingly. Looking at our family from the outside, you would think we were the perfect "Mormon" family. My parents have always been like that – always so worried about “appearances”. No one would have suspected the nightmares that went on within the confines of our family home walls. In truth, my mother loves to play the victim – she loves to complain and complain about just about everything, yet is never willing to be pro-active about her own life. Personally, I think she enjoys the role of the martyr. It gives her a sense of prestige within her Mormon community. As though she is the always sacrificing, dutiful wife, even in the face of blatant immorality and adultery. My father, a previous Elder Quorums President in their church (a very prestigious position) has had an ongoing affair (if not physical, at the very least an emotional one) with his office manager of more than 30 years; he loves to flaunt his imaginary
money, as does my mother. I would often hear her tell people growing up that she gave no thought to marrying my dad as to whether or not he would be a good provider – she just “Lucked Out” that he turned out to be a dentist. Truth be told, my father is about the worst money manager you could find. Between his horrible investments, bad loans and filing bankruptcy 3 times in the last 30 years, I don’t think you could find anyone worse if you tried. My uncle used to tell me stories of how my dad would invest in things like “worm farms” and try to get him to go in on them with him. His old business partner, who happens to live close to me now, told me how my father stole $250,000 from him when he was trying to bail my dad out of a high interest loan on his dental practice. My dad took the $250,000 and made yet another, bad investment and lost the entire sum. The money was supposed to be used to pay off the loan on the practice in order to reduce the interest payments. I don’t think my father has ever finished a project in his life. When we lived in Pleasanton, my dad took the banister off to have it redone – in the 12 years we lived there, It never went back up. His office looks like something out of a bad 70’s commercial; duct tape holds some of the carpet seams together and their house in Oroville, literally has a 1,000 square foot addition that has been sitting half done for the better part of 25 years. It’s almost become the family joke that my dad never finishes what he starts. We never talk about the skeletons in my family, as though they just don’t exist; never about the bad stuff that went on when we were kids. We keep all those secrets locked away inside. The worst secret that we had, was Brad.
For as long as I can remember, I had always been afraid of Brad. My oldest brother. When I was very little and we lived in this little house on Blanc Court in Pleasanton, I can remember Brad getting angry and walking down the hallway and just putting his fist or his foot through the wall. He was about 8""9 years old at the time. During that time, I was the only girl in the family – it was a relative “Boys Club” in our house, with Brad as the leader. My two older brothers, Brad and Mason along with my younger brother Evan, would get together to play. Brad would always make sure I was never allowed, because I was a girl. I remember complaining to my mom one day about how the boys wouldn’t let me play with them. Her advice to me at that time was “Oh, just ignore them”……. “Ignore Them”? What does that even mean? I was 4 years old at the time….. what does “Ignore” mean? Even in my stupor, I recall piously marching back to their room and announcing in the doorway “I’m going to ignore you now!”. A lot of good that did me. When I think back on that, I wonder what my mother was thinking. As a mother now, I’m proud to say that my children truly love each other. Boys, girls, it makes no difference; they love each other because we’re all family. Sometimes, we don’t like each other and that’s o.k., as long as we always know that we love each other. I never let my children exclude each other – and if someone is being mistreated, isn’t it my job to teach them how to treat each other appropriately? Isn’t the lessons they learn now, going to extend to society when their all grown up? Isn’t it my job, as their mom, to make sure they treat people in society with courtesy and generosity and genuine love and don’t these lessons start at home? Why didn’t my mother feel it necessary to teach us how to love each other, unconditionally? Why did they allow us to treat each other with such degradation and cruelty? When I think back on my childhood, I wonder so much of the time why my parents ever became parents.
