I’ve got all the Bravermans with me.
‘Family’ is relative, and relatives are family. Be it a big brood or a tiny tribe, for better, worse and otherwise, we’re bound by the ties that bind as we stand together strong as a forceful unit—with the meaning behind that concept taking as unique a shape as there are as many of us. The patriarchs, the matriarchs, the siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins—all of them together making up the fabric of our history and future: who we are, where we’ve been and providing an inner compass for where we’re going.
Pop culture has aimed to capture fictitious family portraits that reflect the realities of this incredible, sometimes frustrating, but always ever-present life-long love since the dawning of the age of entertainment, and many have succeeded to great effect. But there’s one modern-day godfather in the religion of TV family drama, and his name is Jason Katims—the utterly emotionally intelligent mind behind one of my all-time favorite shows rooted in the family tree, Parenthood.
Nearly a week after the series finale that wrapped up six seasons, I’m still in mourning over the loss of this old school-style, pitch-perfect ensemble drama exploring the story of one of those larger family units in particular, the Bravermans, whose long and winding tale was brought to (what I thought to be) a very satisfying close. As with his other landmark TV creation (and another of my personal favorites), Friday Night Lights, Katims was able to take the characters and canvas of an established popular film and use it as a flashpoint to delve deeper into important, sometimes never-before-seen narratives (Max growing up with Asperger’s Syndrome, for instance). Showing his sense of humor, too, he even gave a sly wink to fans of both shows in the finale, where Scott Porter and Matt Lauria, the actors who played Jason Street and Luke Cafferty on Friday Night Lights, appeared together ever so briefly in the dialogue-free closing flash-forward montage.
As I watched the final batch of episodes of Parenthood with a tear in my eye (ok, five or six) each week, I started to wonder how such a quiet, naturalistic show could pack such an emotional wallop. And then it hit me: I saw my own family in the Bravermans.
I explored the idea behind this concept in my last post—how great art reflects the human condition, making it accessible and allowing a way in for everyone. This, however, isn’t to say that the show’s point-of-view was utterly general. Rather, it was so specific and honest in its portrayal of what one family is and the tapestry of what it’s comprised of—the blend of individual personalities that create a unique whole, the quietly intimate emotional moments, the frenzy-filled celebrations, the milestone events both photo-worthy and devastating—that it was real to me.
When Kristina was stricken with breast cancer, I wasn’t just moved because the actors and writers delivered in spades on a potentially risky story; it touched me because I remember how my family rallied around one of our own when the disease hit home, taking turns checking in, making meals, spending time and giving care as a unified front, because everyone was right there in the trenches with the lone solider when the war against disease was waged.
When Julia and Joel introduced Victor into the family through adoption, I didn’t need to stretch my imagination to know what it was like to be one of the relatives who welcomed in a new individual from outside the bloodline to create a lovely and different kind of branch on our tree, simply because they were ushered in by one of our own.
As the family danced together at Sarah and Hank’s wedding, the older generation of kids spinning the younger ones around, the long-married couples embracing like it was their first time on the floor, I was back at my own cousin’s wedding where we laughed, loosened our ties and occasionally welled up as we naturally gathered in an impermeable cluster.
When a teenage Amber got in a serious car accident, I was immediately back at my family’s annual Third of July celebration where, independent and newly licensed, I confidently pulled out of the driveway of my grandparents’ house where my father and five aunts and uncles had grown up, accelerating up a hill still in eyeline of the celebration happening on the back patio. As I entered the intersection on Main Street, I was immediately struck in a hardcore collision. Within seconds and without hesitation, every family member scaled that steep hill, hands waving and stomachs in throat, to get to the scene to make sure I was ok.
But it was Zeke falling ill with a heart condition in this final season that really had me feeling the impact of the show. The proverbial heart in my family is stronger than any other I will ever know, but the literal organ has a history of failing the beautiful people they inhabit. This was the unfortunate case with my grandmother—my Grammy. As her eldest grandchild, we shared an incredibly special bond from birth; she was my biggest fan, and me hers. In fact, I attribute so much of who I am today to her—what she stood for, how she treated people and her refusal to ever be a victim of circumstance. Unfortunately, as it will all of us someday in that round and radiant circle of life, she finally faced the one thing she wasn’t able to overcome.
I flew to Boston to see her one Friday afternoon when she was still somewhat herself, as the medication meant to ease the pain of the ones we love simultaneously strips away the nuances of who they are—one of the singular, saddest realities of illness. She was having a ‘bad day,’ I was told before I arrived, but when I walked in and we looked at each other, it all faded away; we were there together—us—just as we had always been nearly every other day for, at that point, the previous 30 years.
We caught up, we joked, we made sassy commentary about the state of the world around us and we held hands. When it was time for me to leave to catch my flight back to NYC—I was only on the ground for a few precious hours—I squeezed her hand tight and said goodbye as she started to fade back into the ‘bad day’ I was warned about. I hugged the rest of my family members—a full house, because work day be damned when one of us was in need—and, without looking in, said ‘I love you’ loudly from the other room, and she returned the sentiment.
Grammy passed a few weeks later, but that was the last time I spoke to her. Our final moments together were too perfectly ‘us’; I didn’t want my last memory to be of her struggling to find her words, or not being lucid enough to even know who I was on the other end of the phone. I wanted to remember her being as sharp, vibrant and connected as I always had. And in a way, I did get a chance to say that truly final farewell, as I delivered the eulogy at her funeral—one of the most difficult and cherished things I’ve done in my life.
If you watch Parenthood, you’ll see where I made the real-life connection: Grammy and I were Zeke and Amber. It was there in their long, respectful conversations as equals, their unconditional support of one another and their understanding of who each other was, as seen through so many scenes throughout the series’ run. I imagine that if the show had continued in real time, even if for another half hour, we would have seen Amber eulogizing her beloved grandfather, too, because that’s who they were to each other.
That’s a deep, unexplainable and powerful bond; that, in fact, is family.
These are just a few of the moments that come to mind for me. So many more resonated from week-to-week, season-to-season, as the truth of what love is shined through the flicker of my TV screen. That’s what kept me tuned in, and it’s why, as silly as it may sound, I was so sad to see the show go.
I’ll miss Parenthood as I do Katims’ great Friday Night Lights, but in a different way. Because though I can’t directly relate to the world of football in the heart of Texas, I can relate to the heart of what it means to be a part of something bigger than myself, something richer in history, love and support than I’m able to put into words. I experience it at every holiday, on every birthday and even with every text, phone call and email just to check-in to see how I’m doing. Those are the unbreakable bonds in action. That’s my family.
Seasons 1-5 of Parenthood are currently live streaming on Netflix, and hopefully your family, like mine, is always there whenever you need them (and even when you don’t).