My wife and I were both born in January, 10 days apart. Each year we split the difference and take a trip. We drove to Portland yesterday for a night of sushi and friendship, spending time with my former co-workers. Having drinks at a friend's house later in the evening, our conversation turned to our childhoods, and for some reason we all chose to share moments when we caught our parents in the act.
One of my friends related how as he emerged from taking a shower in his parents' bedroom one evening, he realized with some horror that they were deep in the middle of said act. Trapped, he play-imitated a confused pre-teen dealing with the situation by crying and masturbating behind the bathroom door.
We were hysterical, and because most of us could draw upon similar experiences we had no shortage of material. I understand how inappropriate it seems to laugh at ourselves this way.
But reflecting upon my own coming-of-age, I find that love and fear are sisters, driving the same reactions to childhood abuse. Your step-father tells you to get him a beer from the kitchen, and you do so from love, hoping he'll be pleased with your kindness; or you do so from fear, lest he strike you, or worse.
Likewise, laughter and rage are brothers, similarly leading your actions. You laugh at the injustices you bore as a child, helping to heal the scars of conflict; or you strike out at the world, and those you love now, intent upon covering those wounds and going about your day.
Now a few days from 32, I realize I am uncle to all these siblings. Last night, and my good fortune seems evident as I write, I doted exclusively on my favorite nephew and niece.
Thanks, kiddos. You'll never know how much you mean to your crazy uncle.
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