Note: I originally wrote this essay for a freshman-level university course when I was 19 years old back in 1982. I decided to share it here in its original form with commentary at the end as to whether my perspectives have changed at all during the last 40+ years.
In looking back over my life, I found that the one factor exerting the greatest influence would seem to be my birth position. I am a middle child; the second of three daughters. One sister is eight years my senior and the other is almost three years my junior. I have always taken a special interest in the opinions of experts regarding the “plight of middles.”
I find both advantages and disadvantages in being forever “sandwiched between” the faults and virtues of my siblings. I have probably suffered less than many, however, as the vast age difference between my older sister and myself has spared me the endless comparisons that so many other younger children face. Also, the fact that I appear younger than sixteen-year-old Michele renders my “middle” status less noticeable now than it was a decade ago.
Earlier in my life, however, I found my middle child state extremely difficult. Many of the problems I encountered were probably due more to my painful shyness and lack of self-confidence than to birth order. I carried the feel of not “fitting,” of being a square block wedged uncomfortably between two round ones with me wherever I went. My cautious nature, which favored adventures found in books and secure familiarity, directly contrasted with my siblings and their search for excitement.
The differences among us seem less significant now that when we were forced to share a single bedroom for nearly four years. My inability to defend myself often accentuated my sense of being in the “middle” of every mess, although many times I would never have uttered a single word. Although every school morning, with three girls sharing one bathroom, was hectic, one particular morning stands out in my mind. My older sister enjoyed sleeping until the last possible moment, while I was an earlier riser. So, I decided to disregard the bathroom privilege hierarchy, reasoning that if Caryn were sleeping, I was next in line for the bathroom and should take advantage of the opportunity. This act of boldness, however, resulted in my being subjected to an angry tirade once my sleepy older sister finally did decide to wake up as well as my being literally “thrown” from the room. I answered only with tears; yet my “take no prisoners” younger sibling was prompted to take the matter of my defense into her own tiny hands. The angry exchange between the two finally required the intervention of our mother, leaving me extremely embarrassed that the whole altercation had occurred on my behalf.
In relation to my parents, I feel that my behavior is more closely related to that of my mother; yet I seemed to grow up as more of a “Daddy’s girl” or his “second step,” as he often referred to me. I suppose my sisters were so like my father that the sameness occasionally resulted in friction. I believe that it was my dissimilarity which allowed us to achieve such closeness, forever comparing and contrasting ideas and feelings.
I suppose the greatest disadvantage was becoming satisfied with mediumness, settling for a medium degree of happiness, fun, and adventure. I regarded the middle as a safe place, fearing a fall from the top or being stepped on at the bottom. I robbed myself of much satisfaction by refusing to take a risk. For example, I have always avoided acquiring a “best” friend because of a disappointing experience with an elementary school “best” friend. At one time my early childhood pal and I were inseparable. She taught me how to draw a cup of tea properly, adding white Crayola for cream and sketching steam rising from the top, while I often invited her over for Barbie doll fashion shows, Glamour Girl hairdressing sessions, as fierce tournaments of “Battling Tops.” But we grew older, (and I, chubbier) and she and the other girls in our class became devoted students at Florence Cizek’s Academy of Dance. She became a graceful ballerina, and later, a cheerleader and Homecoming Queen, while I was the nerdy bookworm, who played the viola in orchestra, and never even entertained thoughts of cheerleading, or Homecoming Court, as that would have required more than the medium level popularity that I possessed. Because of this social divide, my former best friend and I became little more than polite strangers. As a result, I tend to guard my heart even now, even though loneliness sometimes threatens to get the best of me.
I think that the most prominent danger I have faced due to my tendency to shun commitments would involve my early doubts regarding my religious beliefs. The last of my family to come into the church, I was terrified of putting all of my trust in a God that might not actually exist. I struggled continually with this dilemma and only recently have I completely conquered this fear. For many years I remained in what I thought was the safety of the middle road. I believed that I was protecting myself from disappointment but was actually cheating myself of a joyful life.
Attending college is helping me tremendously in learning to sacrifice a little bit of security for a more complete existence. While I may still be considered cautious, I realize that I must take some risk in order to gain experiences since experiences are what help us to grow.
It is somewhat surreal, now, at age 63, to look back at both the naivete as well as the flashes of wisdom exhibited by my 19-year-old self. Some of the quotes make me smile. The opening line, “In looking back over my life,” (all 19 years of it!) is, quite frankly, hilarious to me now. At 19, I couldn’t have imagined life at 63. I had calculated that I would be 37 years old in the year 2000 and somehow my imagination of the future never advanced beyond that point.
It was also interesting to note the spelling and punctuation errors that both I and my professor, the wildly terrifying (to me at least), Dr. Warren Vanderhill missed in my typewritten text. I’ve corrected those errors in this draft (mainly because I hate going to battle with the spellcheck feature in Microsoft word), but I had forgotten what a challenge it was to write in a coherent fashion with none of the technological help we have at our fingertips today.
While many of my insights and observations from this earlier time still resonate with me, there are a few that I believe I got wrong at the time. I wrote, “In relation to my parents, I feel that my behavior is more closely related to that of my mother,” and “I believe that it was my dissimilarity (to my father) which allowed us to achieve such closeness, forever comparing and contrasting ideas and feelings.” While I perceived those statements to be true at the time that I originally wrote them, now I think that they illustrate what a limited understanding I had of each of my parents. While it was true that I shared my mother’s studious nature and love of books, I came to realize that my mother was not a timid or cautious person by nature but was simply responding to the expectations which society placed upon women during that time. My father, although more gregarious on the surface, actually possessed a shyer nature more closely aligned with mine, but bowing to the conventions of that a man was to serve as a strong and protective provider, kept this softer side hidden. It was only years later, when Parkinson’s Disease drained the physical strength from his body, did the softer side come to the fore. While I grieved for him in the sense that I could see the frustration that the loss of mobility and physical strength caused him, I actually loved the gentle, quiet version of him even more since it was a reflection of my own more sensitive nature.
In other ways, I think the essay was exactly on point regarding the way in which I moved through the world at the time. However, it is gratifying that over the years I have managed to grow and change, to take calculated risks which have led to a fuller and richer life. At 49, some 30 years after drafting this essay, I took a major risk, returned to school, and obtained a master’s degree that enabled me to leave a lucrative but unsatisfying career and seek a profession that filled my soul more than my bank account.
In matters of faith, I no longer fear depending on a God that doesn’t exist, but I also have come to the conclusion that the Bible stories I learned as a child are most likely tainted with the fears and prejudices of the humans who wrote them. There are too many contradictions and too many ways in which the God of the Bible, supposedly all-knowing and all-powerful succumbs to petty human emotions like anger and jealousy.
Finally, my 19-year-old self would be shocked, but also, I hope, a little bit proud, that I took the ultimate risk to move to Mexico as the United States descended into chaos following the re-election of Donald Trump. As I sit typing this second look from my 13th floor balcony with a glorious view of the Pacific Ocean on an 80F/27C day in February, I have finally found the joyful life that I was always longing for.
Author, age 62
quietlyradical 