My Family Debates My Honor Killing

Photo of the author (right) and her sister, taken a few months before this gathering in her grandmother’s kitchen.

My raucous family was gathered in the matriarch’s large kitchen, everyone talking at once. Most Sundays when the weather was warm, we would all congregate at my grandparents’ house. We lived in Southern Arizona, and they were the only ones with a house large enough for everyone (plus they had a pool).

My uncles are in the corner by the sliding glass door arguing over something I can’t hear. My mother, grandmother, sister, and a trio of aunts are standing to my left in front of the appliances. Their conversation seems calmer but that can change in a flash. I’m unique in my family in that I have a near-infinite amount of patience. Most tempers in this kitchen turn on a dime and can run hot as a solar flare.

The table itself is the longest one I’d seen as a child. It seats twelve comfortably and has a leaf extension for the holidays that expands that to sixteen. This is where I sit, to my grandfather’s right. I’m eleven but could often be found with the adults. Grandpa’s at the head of the table, and we’re ignoring the maddening crowd, heads turned to the Sunday paper we’re sharing.

“She’s a witch,” my mother declared.

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. I keep the paper in front of my face but turn my attention to the women’s conversation.