My nephews, this past Sunday, case in point, were running neck-and-neck, outside, racing each other from one side of the yard to the other, simply for the bragging rights of saying, “I beat you. I got here first.”

Wynn Chandler, the baby who just turned three, couldn’t handle this. However, instead of pitching his typical, 100-decibel fit, he lumbered off and hid behind the tulip tree. I watched him, in case he decided to split for the road and chance a blind run across it.  He didn’t. He just stood behind the tulip tree with droopy eyes, casually casting a glance my way every now and then to see if I noticed.

He was the first child to ever do this: to worry about parental responsibility. And for what it’s worth, he was the first to hide behind a tulip tree, which doesn’t offer much in the way of concealment. The rest, especially Conn, choose to face conflict and disagreements head-on with a fist in each hand, and have shown no particular preference for any kind of foliage.

I mentioned what Wynn Chandler was doing, to Marsha who was outside with me, fearful it might be indicative a much more deeply-seeded issue like autism, or juvenile diabetes, or you know, whatever it is kids get these days.

Marsha said, “Hm. That’s new. Though he did have pink-eye earlier this week. Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

I assumed she meant his hiding behind the tulip tree, as it felt more in favor with the question I’d asked. (Oddly enough, I’ve never had pink-eye).

Her response, however uninformative it may have been to the question I’d asked, jogged my mind, nonetheless: What would these four boys do in this family that would be worthy of a Number One Ranking?

I secretly crush on all things First. I drive people crazy about my expansive knowledge of usesless trivia, especially where Mississippi is concerned. I am very pro-Mississippi (when it reflects on us a positive light).  I admit it; I like to be first. Even now. I like to know people who are first in their fields.

Did you know that Mississippi was the first in the world to conduct lung and heart transplants, respectively; the first to bottle Coca-Cola; the first to create a public university for women? We built the first nuclear submarine, had the first planned system of community colleges, and get this—we were the first state to sell shoes in pairs. (So, rubbish to the barefoot and pregnant rumors; sadly, I can only eliminate the former part of that combo-criticism because we are also first in the nation for teen pregnancy).

And then, there’s me. I did a lot of things first in my family, too, you know.

I was the first to out-twirl my sister, a drum majorette, one evening during one of her slumber parties. We went into the yard, the sun was setting, and in an attempt to “psych me out,” she threw me the broom. I’d preferred the baton, but of course, I was not the drum majorette. I believe the anger of having to use the stupid broom did nothing but focus my raw instinct. I twirled that broom with the precision of who/whatever it is that would twirl brooms for a living, and nearly hit the power lines. But, more importantly, I caught that sucker on its descent with one hand, all the while it stayed in constant motion.

(Tell me I can’t twirl a blame broom…)

I was also the first (and to date, the only) one in my family to get first chair in flute. I played in the band all of one year, fifth grade, and within a matter of days had mastered the tricky, repetitive fingering of “The Mexican Hat Dance,” which I’m not sure you’re allowed to say legally anymore for fear of a lawsuit, and thus was awarded first chair. The fact that no one else, not even the girls, had attempted to play the flute merely narrowed the competition down.  Was it that sissy of an instrument, or was it simply too difficult for their fat, fifth-grade fingers to master?

I think we know the answer to that.

I stood a long while looking at my nephews, trying to figure out their future firsts.

Wynn Chandler, no doubt, will be the first on anti-depressants, in this little group of cousins. I’m thinking of stocking up on my prescriptions, as an incentive. Conn, despite being the smallest of the four, has already flexed his wings in the area of “bullying.” Within the family, that’s understandable. I suppose like any pack animals, a pecking order will have to be established. Unfortunately, they spend most of their time under the care of Marsha, a sweet, gentle soul who recently retired from teaching third grade; she was one of the New Wavers in education—the kind who worry about grading tests in red ink.

But, outside of the family, as the news has currently reported, bullying isn’t an answer.  It shouldn’t even be an option. So, lines will have to be drawn, and soon, before his behavior becomes habitual. If it hasn’t already.

A.K., bless his heart, is struggling to find his own identity.  It’s in there, somewhere, I can see it. But, he’s gone from the baby to the oldest in such a quick amount of time, that I’m not sure where his first will fall. I hesitate to say it, but he’ll probably be the first to be arrested. (Oh, wait, no he won’t).  Maybe, then he’ll be the first sent to rehab, and then…(No, scratch that).

He’ll be a doctor, then. He’ll be the first doctor in the family. Isaac’s came with the territory; he’s the first stepchild.  A.K., I suppose, will be the first to buckle down and put his nose to the grindstone. He’s obviously concerned about his place in the pecking order, but I think, now that he’s turned six, he’s begun to wise up: let the “children” rough-house; he’s got cursive handwriting homework to do.

Of course, there’s a chance he’ll grow up to be a writer.

But, if he does, I’ll pull him aside and show him this blog. I may not be a child, anymore, but I’d put good money on the fact that I was first to hold a grudge.  I’m sure he’ll understand; he’s got a pure heart, but if he doesn’t, he’ll just have to set aside any ill-will he might have towards Wynn Chandler and ask for a handout of Prozac.

Because, there can be no doubt, I was the first to write, in my family. It’s all I’ve got left.

There can be no doubt, about that. No doubt, at all.

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And I don’t just mean having to look it up in a dictionary. Since, I come before the mandatory use of home computers.

I had a personal encounter with the word.

It’s surprising, though, what one’s personal history of fads says about oneself. For me, in retrospect, my string of passing fancies was equivalent to that annoying solid beep of an emergency broadcast—“ in the event of an actual emergency, contact information will be provided.”

That second part there, that never happened.

Some of my “interests” were rather unique to me and me alone. Aside from the veritable sexual deviant scream of my addiction to jelly bracelets, in third grade, and the cheerleader-look of a Scrunchie bunched up on the top of my hip, right or left, holding a wad of a paint-splattered or tie-died T-shirt, I also went through a phase of wearing bells knotted at the end of various widths of ribbon necklaces.

Just because, I guess…

God, the praying my family must have done behind my Bugle Boy button-up back.

It got worse, though.

I wanted charms for my bracelets; I rarely left any day of the school week during the early 90s without a tight-roll to my blue jeans; and I believed with my whole heart in color coordinating my swatch watch with my slouch socks or, on fun days, with any of my enviable collection of Hypercolor shirts.

My fads were cries for help. Loud, in-your-face, gossip-creating cries. I see that now.

Granted, I never did fall for the love-you-and-leave-you lure of a fanny pack, but really, is that any consolation, considering the above-mentioned atrocities?

I suppose, looking back, one could argue that I was merely trying to bridge the brokenness in the wake of having no parental influence from either of the two people who, having come together after some football game, “worked together” in giving me life.

I think I was just secretly a greedy child. I liked attention.

Even if it came at the expense of name calling, as it did that confusing afternoon in which a young boy said something along the lines of “You’re a blah blah blah, and a something else yadda, yadda, yadda, fad.” Or, so, that’s what I thought he was referencing.

It turns out that it wasn’t.

What’s the point, here, you ask?

Last night, while channel surfing, I came across a National Geographic special on intersexed children. It’s much more of a biological occurrence than you might at first think.

I found it both difficult to watch and too engaging not to.

I think I found this to be the case because it’s such a grossly misunderstood occurrence, and not just for intersexed children—for any that are different, be it from Nature or Nurture. My heart bleeds a lot for the infirm, unfortunate, and overlooked. It doesn’t take much to get me “on your side.”

Keeping me there, though, usually involves a free meal, and/or a bottle of Marco Negri.

What disturbed me the most, though, and thus has led me to this discussion of fads, was the story I saw last night of a young seven-year-old boy who told his parents that he was supposed to be a “girl.”

Instead of arguing with him, they said, Fine, OK, you’re a girl. And, living in Japan—they’re an American  military family, no less—they have allowed their son to become their daughter. The child is happy, thoughtful, mannered, and despite the unbearable amount of verbal abuse this child has put himself through at school, seemingly well-rounded.

Perhaps that last comment has you perplexed.

I speak, though, from a place that knows. Because for many, many years of my life my whole purpose of being, my every prayer, was predicated on the off-chance I might go to sleep one night and wake up the next morning, a girl. It reached such a pinnacle of anxiety and self-hatred that two things emerged: a very, very uncomfortable confrontation involving U.L., Salathiel, the late Uncle Jerry, a young Hispanic man named Gabriel, and Uncle Jerry’s unsuspecting next-door neighbors in Pocatello, Idaho; and, an admission to myself of a real truth: I was unhappy in my own skin…and felt very alone.

I used to also pray at night for cancer, instead, because at least that could be removed. Or treated.

Nothing floats with quite the same consistency as truth. It, more than almost anything else in the world, will always rise to the surface, and when it does, it’s about as heavy as a paper plate.

The internal struggle of identity is beyond description, whether it involves the pressure to play sports when you’d rather read, or the precarious balance of being a boy when you really, truly think you’re not one.

I imagine puberty will be a living nightmare for this child.

And I know that psychiatry would argue against such parental white-flagging to what may appear as the misled whim of an adolescent. But, deeper still, is the fact that I believe we’re drawn, as early an age as two or three, perhaps, to the things that shape us. No matter what we do to hide them, pretend they’re Nothings, overlook them as valid, they are there as signposts, warnings, or words of encouragement.

How much easier it would be for all children, who struggle with identity and social placement, if we (as the proverbial outsiders, since it “always happens to someone else,” right?) just took that knowledge in stride. Fads are important barometers, but barometers aren’t meant to be alarming. They’re meant to gauge pressure.

I’m not saying fads force us into being the shape we appear to be born into. Rather, they let us know  what we’re capable of becoming; they’re indicators, decisions, options. And the only thing that has to pass…is the moment, if needed, or the awkwardness of realizing something’s not quite right, even when it doesn’t feel wrong.

Fads are an invitation to the party. They’re gifts of permission. Saying, OK, so you’re a boy who likes dolls. Well, go for it. Ride it out.  

And, though, it’s usually best done in the privacy of your own home; sometimes, you gotta go to Idaho.

I know this is just a theory, but it works…on me.  I just have to recall the things that I found myself most drawn to throughout my childhood to see that the picture I’ve painted for myself was an extremely colorful one, albeit with some really heavy lines and a little too Olan Mills.

It was a piece of art, all the same.

Fads are totems of Identity, our growth as a person.

For my cousin Mikey, in fifth grade, it was a bolo tie or bust.  While I snuck a cameo out of Tigi’s jewelry case and wore it over my breast pocket.  He had the entire Ewok Village; I had an Easy Bake. He collected Garbage Pail Kids cards; I framed the adoption papers of my two Cabbage Patch Kids. He preferred Aerosmith and Poison; I bought every single Amy Grant ever released, as a crossover pop-artist, as well as the one-hit wonder and brief tastemaker that was Karen White. He played in the mud and looked for worms to go fishing. I made mud pies and served them to the ants.

And my family, they had to know. One Christmas, Aunt Ruth gave him an envelope with money in it. To me, she gave a doll that she’d crocheted.

I guess they just assumed it was a phase.

As if.

But, now, it’s not like I didn’t do boy-things. I did. I loved to go fishing; I grew my own vegetables (still do), and on more than once occasion, I’ve aimed and shot a BB gun.

It’s just that as I got older, I was more inclined to buy acid-wash jeans that had BB bullets sewn down the leg in a swoop design. Remember those? That didn’t last for long.

I was an unavoidable totem, too tall and obvious, until the windbreaker made its debut. And everyone had one.

Thank god for the windbreaker, though.

Otherwise, I’d never know how much I didn’t want to fit in.

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