March 18, 2006--Saturday Story: "Number One Son"
Number One Son
It was very much not a politically correct era. Amos and Andy reigned on the radio. No one raised questioned about the Lone Ranger and Tonto. And even fewer thought much about who played the Chinese detective Charlie Chan in the movies or how his sons were represented. All I knew about this was that Charlie Chan had two sons, and one was decidedly “Number One Son.”
I knew and understood this because, to my father, I was then and always Number One Son. This was both my delight, to be considered Number One by him; and my burden, to have my relationship with my younger brother (inevitably Number Two Son) then and always defined this way. By nothing more than birth order. Or so it seemed.
By the time he arrived, my parents went to the hospital “to pick him up,” I was nearly six and had gotten used to being an only son, assuming this was a permanent condition. And since all my male cousins were only sons, I also thought this might even be the human condition. At least in my family.
So I was quite surprised by his appearance, and also by my mother’s seemingly miraculous loss of weight—she went to the hospital looking swollen and distorted and returned more as I had remembered her. Hospitals, I thought, must be remarkable places. Even more so than the fire house on Snyder Avenue.
At first I didn’t think of him as a brother. He seemed more like a squirmy toy who spent all of his time sleeping and sucking on various things. Including I thought, since I caught a couple of furtive glimpses of this, my mother’s chest.
My father didn’t appear to pay any attention whatsoever to him. This suited me because by absenting himself from any seeming interest much less shared responsibility, he found more time for me. Especially on weekends when, because my mother appeared to want to draw him into some version of parental participation, he used being involved with me as both important to my wellbeing, now that I needed to share my parents and even my room, and as a form of escape.
And escape we both eagerly did, roller skating together down all the length of Kings Highway to his mother’s house. Annie’s. He was the most graceful of skaters and I was thrilled to be seen with him as he glided from side to side, swinging his arms in a seamless rhythm, while I awkwardly attempted to keep up, stumbling hopelessly on every crack in the asphalt. Best was his accepting my ineptitude and effort to do as well as I could and thus make him proud of my aspiring athleticism.
When he sensed my frustration, after yet another stumble, he would turn to me and say, “It’s all about the trying. Not everyone can succeed, but everyone can try.”
This is where we began—linked in common physical effort that was leavened by his sensitivity and helpful understanding. Things, however, would change and before too long take very different turns.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
It was very much not a politically correct era. Amos and Andy reigned on the radio. No one raised questioned about the Lone Ranger and Tonto. And even fewer thought much about who played the Chinese detective Charlie Chan in the movies or how his sons were represented. All I knew about this was that Charlie Chan had two sons, and one was decidedly “Number One Son.”
I knew and understood this because, to my father, I was then and always Number One Son. This was both my delight, to be considered Number One by him; and my burden, to have my relationship with my younger brother (inevitably Number Two Son) then and always defined this way. By nothing more than birth order. Or so it seemed.
By the time he arrived, my parents went to the hospital “to pick him up,” I was nearly six and had gotten used to being an only son, assuming this was a permanent condition. And since all my male cousins were only sons, I also thought this might even be the human condition. At least in my family.
So I was quite surprised by his appearance, and also by my mother’s seemingly miraculous loss of weight—she went to the hospital looking swollen and distorted and returned more as I had remembered her. Hospitals, I thought, must be remarkable places. Even more so than the fire house on Snyder Avenue.
At first I didn’t think of him as a brother. He seemed more like a squirmy toy who spent all of his time sleeping and sucking on various things. Including I thought, since I caught a couple of furtive glimpses of this, my mother’s chest.
My father didn’t appear to pay any attention whatsoever to him. This suited me because by absenting himself from any seeming interest much less shared responsibility, he found more time for me. Especially on weekends when, because my mother appeared to want to draw him into some version of parental participation, he used being involved with me as both important to my wellbeing, now that I needed to share my parents and even my room, and as a form of escape.
And escape we both eagerly did, roller skating together down all the length of Kings Highway to his mother’s house. Annie’s. He was the most graceful of skaters and I was thrilled to be seen with him as he glided from side to side, swinging his arms in a seamless rhythm, while I awkwardly attempted to keep up, stumbling hopelessly on every crack in the asphalt. Best was his accepting my ineptitude and effort to do as well as I could and thus make him proud of my aspiring athleticism.
When he sensed my frustration, after yet another stumble, he would turn to me and say, “It’s all about the trying. Not everyone can succeed, but everyone can try.”
This is where we began—linked in common physical effort that was leavened by his sensitivity and helpful understanding. Things, however, would change and before too long take very different turns.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
posted by Steven Zwerling at
11:21 AM
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