Paul, 56, Santa Rosa: Twins
by Paul—Age 56—Santa Rosa Beach, Florida
My brother’s face is almost mine, a mirror image really though I’d argue that his head is squarer. Look at the pictures closely, you’ll see. Mine is a tall rectangle. That’s me on the right. I think? I can’t say the same about our personalities. While I lean toward sports and art, my brother is interested in science and the natural world. We’re not identical twins but you would have thought so just by looking at the way they dressed us as kids. Same blue blazer and gray flannels. Same brown socks and shoes. Same potato peeled head.
We were observed. Like animals in a laboratory, strange faces would loom in and out, squinting into ours. Stupid questions were a given. “Do you pretend you’re each other?” Or “If he’s sad, are you?”
This attention was disconcerting. What was the mystery here? What did they expect to see, Mr. Potato Head dolls with interchangeable attributes? Unfinished puzzles with extra pieces that completed each other? I think the term ‘twin’ was the problem. It suggested, ‘Get one, get another just like it, for free! Such a deal!’ Not for me.
I was shy and introverted. I don’t think my father ever understood the pain of my shyness or my need to break away from my brother. He rationalized the shyness could be overcome by more exposure. He plunked us in a school play. He mistakenly saw the play as a social remedy. We played a couple of hillbillies in a small scene that featured a few cliché hillbilly lines.
“Work on those Southern accents,” our father told us. “Ennunciate your words. Project!!! Project!!!”
How had he reasoned that this would be a good thing? I should have been playing hockey, not a hillbilly. I longed for aching ankles and a toothless grin.
Frozen on the stage, needing to shit, I saw my father skulking in the back of the auditorium. Retreating ever deeper, I zeroed in on him. My whispering Southern drawl, now almost Swedish, repeated louder and louder:
“Stop him! Thot thars’ the varmint!!! ’Stop him! Thot thars’ the varmint!!! ’Stop him! Thot thars’ the varmint!!!”
I don’t pursue the limelight. I wouldn’t think to ever speak at a public function or lead a sing-a-long. I’m a ghost at dinner parties.
Happily, invisibly, me.
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