A Real Election Choice

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From the Last in Line

One of the seldom appreciated aspects of being the last in rhe line of  siblings is that we are spoken of and not spoken to. We are objectified as a thing and not a person. Not in the same way women are objectified, guys will spend all day chatting them up, buying them drinks, and pretending to like everything about her. Not that I would care for anything like that. The idea of waking up next to some hairy backed ogre is as disturbing to me now as it would have been then. However, an orange crush and a paragraph of dialogue from anyone I shared an identicle last name with would have been cool.

As last in liners we are always the thing which decisions are made for and decisions are not made by.  When this becomes too much derision and distain to bear, l WOULD DO WHAT THE FUCK I WANT! 

There wasn't much thought put into the decision because it wasn't a decision. It was a reaction. An impulsive, explosive, do and die reaction. Decisions are things you learn to make by participating with others, not by others, who have more experience. So, after my carpe diem disaster blew up in my face and the dust settled, someone spoke to me, a privilege I was seldom afforded. The dialogue usually took the form of a monologue but their eyes were focused exclusive on me and I was deserving of adult attention on my own (de)merit. As my father compulsively balanced the glass top on the dresser (since the corners were never quite plumb) he would look directly almost piercingly at me and I became for the next few sentences a person worthy of his time.

My mother's correctional methodology was more spiritual in that she would speak (mostly to my father) from an unseen place in the hall (?), kitchen (?), attic (?) offer the occasional comment that I knew had been routed to me by its context. Her voice would  eventually trail off and then stop. An additional five to ten minutes later so would my father's. The hall light would be clicked off and the bedroom door left open. I could hear my parents in the kitchen. They were speaking about me in low hushed tones, but they were still speaking about me.

In a family where there is a decade or so between the last in line and their nearest sibling, I grew up in a world of grown-ups but was always and only a kid. A "semi-bothersome, wanting to participate, actively annoying, look at me, not now we are talking adult stuff, close the bedroom door so he can't hear" kind of kid.

That is me, and it always has been.

Everyone in the family scratched their heads at my libertarian politics and conspiracy theories. Why would he be led to believe so strongly in individual liberty and see conspiracy behind every corner?Who are these shadowy people and mysterious powers that he thinks control his life?

What a weirdo! What bizarre childish fantasies these are!

Oh well, he'll grow out of it, back to the adult stuff.

So, I would talk more with the family dog because she was more peer than pet, or my friends whom my family though I spent entirely too much time with at their expense.

When my family and I were together, they talked about things of which I had no concept. It was all far more important than my simple school work which I was told was important, but just not important enough to be spoken about when there were exciting world travelers, gymnastics coaches, colleges, and weddings to take the headlines. Barring those important event there were aunts with life threatening cancer or grandparents in need of care. I spent much of my childhood wandering around hospitals and nursing homes. One of my closest adult friends who always made time to talk to me was a black man named Charlie who worked in the laundry of the nursing home. He was wirey but strong, balding but young at heart, uneducated but wise (by a twelve-year old's estimation), and he was busy but available to listen and respond in kind.

At home, Coco would listen and raise an eyebrow or wag a tail every so often as an appreciated form acknowledgement of my contributions. Things like finding the homework I had lost three weeks earlier behind the bookshelf, my latest journal entry about the tyranny of snow, how to properly position the blanket over the heater vent to make it snugly, and how to aim an arrow fired by a wrist-rocket to hit the target. Coco focused and wagged as I spoke, then I would scratch her behind the ears in appreciation, and return to the adult world of being yelled at for getting paint on the back of the garage. Someone had noticed that redwood paint from three weeks ago and now they had noticed me too.

I know there are some first, second, third, eleventh, in liners out there that will say, God, what fucking drama! Cry baby! Get over it. Grow up! Be responsible like me! Be as I am not as you are. Run along now I have important adult things to do. Or something along those lines, because that is what I have heard from some of you much of my life.

The conversation was a "nversation" meaning...

n ...the abbreviation for Negative or No, also Nitrogen which suffocates or eviscerates human beings.

verse... a short phrase or passage

a... an utterance to indicate nothing further is immediately forthcoming

ion... I am moving ON in the real world which is how I perceive it and nothing else exists.

As the "last in line" I acknowledge receipt of all you have tendered. Now, allow me to retort,
"Go fuck yourself! Oh, and thanks for playing."

a

Ion

LiL Mikey the Last in Line