Birthright

Ed lays soundly asleep beneath a drapery of mosquito netting, his head at the foot of a brilliant stained glass pictorial of a Polynesian fishing village. The wind is warm and forgiving.

For some reason a pull quote on the front page of a Sunday Magazine section of an old San Francisco Chronicle keeps popping into my head. I did bad things for love. That was Vietnam. I did bad things because of love. That was Kate. I could be misquoting it a little, it was something like that. The words, when I read them, felt so clean, simple, easy, liberating and full of redemption. They didn’t ask for anything. They didn’t take anything back. They felt infinitely enough. Of course words alone are not enough. There had to have been a huge, painful and creative process that proceeded those words, like the perfect sentence finally and yet never arrived upon in Camus’ The Plague. And there had to be an equally huge, though infinitely less painful and extremely patient process that followed those words. But to arrive even there, at those few short sentences – that seemed to me to be the dancer’s toes.

I have never been the smart one. When I was a kid I was merely the youngest one or the last one. Somehow I knew I was incredibly average and with that came to believe that average had it’s advantages – there are tremendously few expectations.

I was, in fact, a grand last mistake. I don’t know how I know this. It doesn’t really seem like the kind of information that my mother would divulge to me, but maybe she did. Or maybe I’ve constructed it all - made it up. Maybe this wasn’t the way it was at all. My mother, discovering she was pregnant with me, was livid, not prepared for or feeling that she had the capacity to deal with another baby – having already had two too close together. An argument ensued between her and my father, “how could you do this to me!?!?” He too knew he couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. It was a painful and tragic moment for both of them. I picture him going out drinking with his buddies or maybe pondering the levity of what was happening in conflicted solitude – coming to his conclusions with great unease. He approaches her, shaky and lacking confidence, he’s learned of a doctor who deals with these sorts of problems. She wells with tears, fear and resolve, “you’re not going to kill my baby!!!” And my birth was the catalyst to the final deflowering of his manhood and her final stand on the subject. Either I was given a few objective facts and embellished them in my imagination, but I feel this history like I was actually there, observing the events unfold, watching it like a little movie.

Strangely I feel an incredibly deep understanding of the emotions motivating each of them. I feel like it wasn’t actually them speaking to each other, but that it was me speaking through them, using them as catalysts for my own debate about coming into being. I have this sense that more than once during their discussions they felt like they didn’t know who they were or where their words were coming from – but that they’d shake off some uneasy feeling and proceed.

Being someone’s grand last mistake is very liberating. What could I possibly do that could be more disappointing than being conceived and born? Most people spend their entire lifetimes in fear of disappointing their parents - books, poems and empires have been built on this fear, a constant struggle for approval. The way I look at it, I got that out of the way early and found that it was not only bearable, it wasn’t really that big of deal – the cost just wasn’t that high, ultimately. And I’m left with the distinct impression that my life was extremely deliberate despite it all. Certainly there was and will be many more grand last mistakes to come for both of them – I’m just talking about their grand last mistake that lead to me.

So I digress. I was never the smart one. I never have been nor will I ever be the smart one. My sister was the smart one. Thus she carried the responsibility of using her intelligence and demonstrating to everyone what kind of success is gleaned by mental acuity. My oldest sister, she was the pretty one and the first born, which bestows upon her a special magic and responsibility of fulfilling all the destinies and dreams of my parents. My brother, he was the only boy, which carries with it its own set of mythical charms and responsibilities. I was the youngest one or the last one which merely carries with it the responsibility of writing the last chapter, or maybe simply the last two words.

I too cling to my birthright and stand ready and poised with pen in hand.