There is a certain natural combativeness between close siblings. My brother and I are 13 months apart, which often caused our parents to treat us as if we were a pair of fraternal twins. The family scrapbook, for example, is filled with photos of us at the New York World's Fair, where, in the summer of '64, my brother and I traveled in matching gingham checked outfits. His was a button down shirt and mine was a simple dress with a ruched yolk, but the glaring red and white pattern identified us as a bonded pair. I often had teachers who had previously taught my brother, and we frequently moved in the same circle of friends. But as the younger sister, our relationship was not built on equality. I was smaller, I was second best, and I was a girl.
Thus began my life as an also-ran. All my childhood milestones were tempered by the fact that they were not family milestones. By the time I learned to read, or to ride a bike, or to memorize the times tables, someone else had already planted the flag. My first tooth to fall out was not the first tooth to fall out. My first day at school was not the first day at school. There were always three people reminding me that I was the only one in the house who could not remember what became of 8 and 7 when you multiplied them. Every step of growth for the average kid was an act of catch-up for me.
It does not take a genius to understand how this shaped my life choices. In a science-driven family I chose to study the arts and health policy. In a family rooted to the ground and inbred in its thinking, I risked being shunned by not attending the same college where the last six members of my family had gone, selecting instead a college far away. I asserted my independence, making my own choices and funding them, too--all for the privilege of walking an unpaved road to some destination of my own choosing. Over the years, I learned to benchmark my life against my own goals and interests, never once looking over my shoulder at what someone else may have done before or since. No excuses needed, no explanations given. Take it or leave it.
Looking back, I can recall a moment of clarity from my childhood, a time when I first determined that I would live a life to obviate comparison. All families have bric-a-brac that accumulates in the household. In our family, we had a pair of small unmatched plastic tumblers that for many years served as the principal drinking vessels for the two kids. I have no idea where they originated; perhaps they were "acquired" from restaurants here and there. One was taller, etched vertically with a diamond pattern. The other was shorter, a smooth band at the top and fluted down the sides. My brother declared the taller cup to be his permanently, as he was older and, therefore, entitled to the better glass. I was relegated to the shorter baby-sister glass. Forever, the table would be set with the appropriate cups and the appropriate places.
Every chance I got, I used the taller glass. If it was sitting rinsed in the dish drain and I needed a glass of water, I would use it, rinse it, and put it back. There did not seem to me to be a logical reason why anyone could not use the closest available cup to drink at any time. Ownership and control of a plastic cup was absurd, and using it to oppress a little sister was just as silly. Still, I was powerless in this household to assert any logic; I merely exercised my civil disobedience in a stealth manner.
One night, my college-aged uncle was baby-sitting for us. In my parents' absence, I tested the limits by asking to drink from the taller cup. This idea was immediately struck down by my brother, who would not be denied his birthright or his superior cup. My uncle, who always had a devious streak, filled the shorter cup ("my" cup) to the rim. Directing me to watch closely, he set the taller cup beside it on the counter. He then poured the contents from the short cup into the taller cup. The tall cup filled quickly and then overflowed onto the counter! While the taller cup appeared to be the larger of the two, the shorter cup was stout and therefore had a greater capacity. Thus, my cup became "the one that holds more."
You cannot imagine the joy this brought to a kid who never won a game of chess or checkers, was the butt of every joke, and was stuck in the corner with no hope of a liberating Patrick Swayze. My brother hated the status that this turn of events conferred upon his own cup--the one he fought so hard to secure. He lobbied and plotted until one day he made me ante up the one that holds more in a bet that he was destined to win. I did not care; the cup had lived its purpose. The joy would forever be in the moment and not in the cup. He could have it, as I would happily drink from the tall cup for all time.
Tomorrow's blog: If A Tree Falls And My Mother Doesn't Hear It, Am I Still Wrong?
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