For my 23rd birthday my mother gave me a plush beach towel with the image of six sheep woven into the fabric. Of the six, all were white, except for one, a lone black sheep. Like the black sheep on that towel, I never felt like I quite fit in, anywhere, and especially with my family. There were many times I prayed that I was adopted, hoping to explain in some way, why I felt so different. But, alas there is a birth certificate and stretch-marks that document the blood line.
I love my family, with all my heart, I love my family. My parents and each of my four siblings are smart, talented, and creative. Spirited and strong-willed, each is interesting, personable, and humorous. If you line all of us up, we look enough alike to prove we are indeed related. However, if you lined up our stories and how we relate to our family dynamic, and our perspectives on the world in general, you would be pressed to find the common thread which strings us together.
The fourth of five children—with eight, nine, and ten years between myself and the older three; and a year-and-a-half between myself and the youngest—I found I had a combination of older, middle, and younger child characteristics—a virtual gumbo of personality traits. Growing up, I navigated a continuous balancing act, attempting to establish myself as an individual and secure a position in the family tribe. But for anyone with a large family this is a normal part of the process, really.
By the time I was conceived and began to make my appearance as a bud-bump on the branch of the family tree, the older three had created, with all of the normal prose and cons, a tight-knit, well-oiled sibling machine. Born at 11 month intervals, they were close enough in age for the middle one to be the same age as the first, and the same as the third, for distinct and equal portions of the year; and far enough apart to qualify as full-term natural human births. So, for eight years my parents and older siblings had established their “traditional” 1950’s family unit. And then … I arrived.
The older I got, the more curious I became about why I had made my appearance onto the Hughes family stage eight years after the original cast was assembled. When I was in my early twenties, I asked my mother if I had been a, “…mistake.” Taking a beat to reflect on how to best present her case, while at the same time assembling the words which would keep me from diving into years of therapy, she responded. “Honey, when you were born, there was no such thing as family planning.” And she left it at that. Being one who likes completions, an older child characteristic, I announced, “Well I think I was a mistake, and you guys liked me so much, you decided to keep me and have another one (my younger sister). That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.” After another pregnant pause, my mother punctuated the conversation with a solid, “That works for me,” … and, scene.
Later, this information, along with the gift of the black sheep towel, confirmed my deep seated suspicion that I had been miscast (or maybe perfectly cast) in the “oops” role in the portrait of our familial constellation. There was never any question that I was beloved, each in their own way, by my family members. I have seen black-and-white photos of my older siblings as pre-teens, holding the infant me; the expressions on their faces a mixture of endearment and … something else. My entrance was a game-changer for the entire family, however, I imagine even more so for my older siblings. The full spectrum of emotions triggered must have ranged from heart-warming at best, and confusing and deeply confronting in the darker moments. I suspect that navigating being on the receiving end of all of these emotions is what would eventually lead to triggering the fixer-pleaser-character aspects of my personality; I wanted to please the people who loved me and, at the same time, I needed to dodge the emotional bullets fired during offseason.
I believe we are each cast appropriately in our family role assignments; with soul agreements to be honored and soul lessons to be learned, our family tribe consists of the characters necessary to carry out our life storyline; hitting all the plot points and scaling each character’s arc. We’re in this together, for better and for worse. As William Shakespeare put it, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely Players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time will play many parts.”
