People Are People

 

 Note: I don't know who wrote the comment for August, but it didn't make any sense. The comment was about being left-handed, and that somehow being a bad thing. I am proudly left-handed and it hasn't caused me any undue problems. In fact, I feel that it has made me better at problem-solving. However, the August post had nothing to do with handedness.  

 

“People are people, so why should it be you and I should get along so awfully…”

This Depeche Mode song has resonated with me since the first time I heard it in 1984.

I am a contemporary of Ruby Bridges. She is a year older than I. I admire her and her family, and am deeply sorry for the difficulties and outright horrors she experienced in school.

Even though she didn’t entirely believe it or live it, my mother taught me that you shouldn’t judge people based on race, religion, gender, ethnic background or, by my own extension, sexual orientation.

I know she didn’t live it. Every time I pointed out something my parents allowed my older brothers to do that they didn’t let me do, I was told, “That’s different; they’re boys.” It was never that they were older. All you had to do to qualify was to be a boy.

I assume she wanted me to be better. Whether or not she realized she had her own set of prejudices, despite what she tried to teach me, I don’t know. Perhaps she assumed that, just living life, I’d pick up the same prejudices she had somewhere along the line. I didn’t. I took to heart what she taught me. And I hated the “Do as I say, not as I do,” philosophy.

Of course, it’s all very well, coming from a lily-white neighborhood, where everyone on my block attended either the Catholic church or the Methodist one on Sundays to say, “Don’t be prejudiced,” or “I’m not prejudiced.” The idea is never tested; it’s only a theory.

My mother’s first-generation Scotts-Irish mother was Protestant, but since she had married someone who was a first generation but of Irish Catholic descent, part of the marriage agreement was to raise the children Catholic. That particular grandmother (I never knew her; she died the same year my parents married) did an excellent job of keeping her promise, and even had a good friend who was a priest. Granted she was Episcopalian, which some people jokingly refer to as “Catholic lite,” (no offense intended to any faith), which probably made things a little easier, given the similarities of the two faiths. (I’ve been both.)

When my grandmother was on her deathbed, her priest friend asked her if she wanted to convert. She did not, or at least she didn’t think it was honest to do so on one’s deathbed, considering she’d lived her life in a different faith.

I attended the local Catholic school. Two tests of what my mother said she wanted for me happened there.

In the first instance, I became a rebel at six by refusing to believe what the nun who taught our first grade class – impressionable 5 ½ to 7 year olds – told us in Religion class. According to her, only Catholics could go to heaven.

First of all, there were the tales of my Protestant grandmother, whom everyone said was a saintly woman. Even her priest friend said he wished he was as sure of his place in heaven as she was of hers.

Second, I could not believe in a God who created an entire planet of people, most of whom would be relegated to eternal damnation. It simply made no sense.

Fortunately, several years later, when someone in my class asked a question of a visitor to our class about why someone would be another religion when they knew it meant they would spend eternity in hell, the teacher was so upset and embarrassed by the question, especially since the guest in our class was of a different faith, that she told him he was wrong, and where did he ever get such an uninformed idea? The entire class proceeded to tell her that we had been taught that very thing by Sister Attila the Nun in first grade.

The teacher quickly, with all due apology, escorted our guest out of the room. After lunch, one of the parish priests came for a visit to disabuse us of such a notion. He told us that the church never taught that. So, I was back on good terms with God after that.

Two years after that first grade teaching, when the Civil Rights movement was getting into full swing – shortly before the JFK assassination – we had our first black family attend our school. There were three boys. One was in first grade, one in second, and one in my third grade class.

My third grade teacher thought nothing of doing what is now called peer teaching, but which had no name at the time. I was in the first reading group. Until that year, we only had three reading groups. But that year we had a fourth. It consisted of three or four boys, one of whom was our new black student.

Another student and I were assigned to help the fourth group with their English assignment, since the teacher couldn’t quite get through to them.

I had two of the boys, a boy who disliked me as much as I disliked him, and our new student. The first boy stood as far away from me as possible, and at one point said he understood the points of the grammar lesson, and returned to his seat. I continued to work with the new boy, and suddenly I saw his face brighten as he actually finally understood what I’d been trying to teach him. I was glad.

He looked at me and said, “When I grow up, I’m going to marry you!”

My reply was, “Well, I don’t think my parents will let me marry you.”

Stop right there. It isn’t what you think. Yes, it was prejudice – my parents’ – but not because he was black. I couldn’t imagine my parents allowing me to marry anyone from the fourth reading group!

I only learned that my parents expected me to pick up their prejudices several years later. When I was 12 or 13, the movie, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner premiered. The film ratings had only just started, and that film had an R rating, so none of us was old enough to see it. We were also too young to be allowed to date. However, my teacher that year used dating and that film as a pretext to gauge racial prejudice in our class.

She explained the premise of the film, and then asked would we date someone of another race. Most of my classmates who answered the question gave what I considered the lame excuse, “Well, I would, but my parents wouldn’t let me.” They wanted to sound aligned with the times (1967), I suppose. I don’t recall anyone saying they wouldn’t, but I imagine there were at least one or two who felt that way.

I had finally had enough of what I considered bigotry hiding behind adults. I raised my hand and told the teacher my parents wouldn’t have a problem with it, and told her what my mother had taught me.

I was proud of myself when I came home and told my mother. She was horrified. I couldn’t understand why. Her response was, “What will their parents think of us?”

Well, who cares? I thought what my mother had taught me was more aligned with Christian teachings than bigotry. As far as I know, there were no repercussions.

The “Who cares?” attitude came from years of being told, when I was denied the opportunity to do what everyone else was doing, “And if everyone else jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you jump in after them?”

I was always – and probably still am – considered a dork. I took in the strays, the kids no one else wanted. I didn’t always necessarily want them, either, but I usually stood up for them against what others were saying or doing.

Case in point, in our final year of elementary school, a new set of twins, a boy and a girl, were coming to our class. They moved in next to a girl in our class I didn’t particularly like. The new girl would be in our class, and the boy would be in the other eighth grade.

Well, this mean girl came in one morning filled with venomy gossip about the new girl. She already disliked her. She proceeded to turn everyone against this as yet unmet student: she was fat, she smelled, she had bad breath, she stood too close when talking to people, she wasn’t very smart, etc. This mean girl wasn’t exactly a confection of perfection herself, and it just made me angry that the new girl wasn’t even given a chance.

So, when the new girl arrived and everyone avoided her like the plague, I introduced myself and chatted with her. I think she was so grateful that anyone gave her the time of day that, from that moment, she clung to me as a lifeline. It didn’t matter that what the mean girl had said was mostly true. It was too unkind to turn people against her before they met her.

She wasn’t my favorite person to be around, but she was far better than the petty, self-righteous classmates who lived to make fun of others.

By the time I reached university, I had a whole new set of people to form an alliance with.

University was a seismic shift from what my life had been up to that point. I lived in a dorm that was, at the time, an experiment: a co-ed dorm. When I mentioned to my parents that I’d signed up for a co-ed dorm, their reaction was, “Oh, that’s nice.” The rest of my relatives were somewhat less than enthusiastic about the idea, immediately assuming sex and drugs and rock-n-roll.

“Your parents are letting you live in a co-ed dorm?!” (I was 18.)

“Well, I come from a co-ed family,” was my usual response. (I come from a very sarcastic family.)

Not satisfied with the fact that I wasn’t embarrassed by their questioning, my relatives and others would often try to drive their intention to embarrass me home further.

“I understand there’s a lot of sex going on in the co-ed dorms.”

That got old fast, along with asking if my roommate was a guy. The way the dorms were set up, either one floor was girls and one guys, or in the case of the L-shaped buildings, one wing was girls and one was guys. We had to have separate bathrooms, after all. It wasn’t Amsterdam.

So, I would explain that, no, people generally didn’t even date people from their own dorm, since that seemed almost like incest. That shocked them. I don't think they knew I knew that word.

One woman who wasn’t a relative decided to butt in on the discussion. She said she wouldn’t allow her daughter to live in a co-ed dorm. She lived in a no-visitation dorm, to which I countered, “I understand most of the women in those dorms are lesbians.”

While not very PC at all, I wanted to make a point that she was making unfounded judgements about me, my dorm, and what does or does not go on at college campuses.

I used to tell people I went from an all-girls’ Catholic school to a co-ed dorm. To everyone else, it seemed shocking. To me, it was simply a point of growth. But there was another point to be made. Of the first 10 people I met in college, half of them were gay.

It didn’t bother me. How could it? I grew up with cartoons starring Snagglepuss, the pink, theatrical lion, and Gene London hosting a children’s program.  My parents even watched Liberace on TV. Even though I didn’t understand as a child what the subtext was, I knew they were not like the people I knew at the time. They were different. And they were interesting.

One of the major interests of most college students is drinking. I attended college in Pennsylvania, where the drinking age is 21. At the time the drinking age in New York, New Jersey, Delaware, West Virginia and Ohio, the states adjacent to Pennsylvania, was 18. Penn State, the university I attended was in the center of the state, or as the brochures stated, “Equally inconvenient to all parts of PA.” Going to a nearby state wasn’t a possibility just for a drink since they were all at least 4 hours from the school.

But, there was a gay bar in town.  Except on the weekends, they didn’t card (for the uninitiated, that’s requiring proof of age identification with photo). So, I met several people and made new friends with a population I hadn’t been acquainted with before. And unlike the whispered comments of the ignorant, they didn’t have horns, didn’t try to “convert” me.

I’m sure I asked embarrassing and ignorant questions in my effort to understand who they were and how they were somehow “different.” My new friends were patient and gracious. They answered my questions, referred me to novels I should read to gain a greater understanding. And they weren’t different. They were people just like me. They included me in their plans. They didn’t care what my sexual orientation was, and I didn’t care what theirs was. “People are people.”

One of my roommates got “burned” by trying to date someone from our dorm who was a friend of mine. I tried telling her he wasn’t her type, so she assumed I wanted to date him. I hadn’t been given permission to out him, so I simply tried to steer her in another direction. When she found out he was gay, she not only shunned him, she immediately asked any guy I introduced her to if he was gay. Totally rude. Needless to say, I had more problems with roommates than with anyone else I encountered in college.

I defended a gay couple in my dorm who roomed together and minded their own business. I didn’t know them well, but I believed they had a place at the table. A bigot, who must have been very insecure in his own sexuality came around with a petition to have them thrown out of the dorm simply for being who they were.

He made the mistake of knocking on my door, and he got an earful of what I thought of bigots. I also told him if he ever bothered me again, I’d report him.

Naturally, he tried to spread it about that my roommate and I (the aforementioned burned girl) were lesbians. Anyone in the dorm who actually knew either of us or cared had a good laugh about that one.

I have continued to take people as they are throughout my life. I like them or not based on who they are as people. I’ve met many people of different faiths, races, genders ethnic backgrounds, socioeconomic statuses and political viewpoints who are simply lovely people, and just as many who aren’t. No one group holds the golden ring. People are people.

I may not have turned out quite the way my parents expected, but then, I never really did the things they expected me to do. And I didn't jump off the Brooklyn Bridge after my friends.

 

 

 

About Books: The Invisible Twin

 

This book was the one that took me the longest to write. It was two years or so in the making. I don’t know why it took so long. Maybe I simply wanted to make sure everything was accurate. I had a vague idea what happens and much of the information is gleaned from diaries. That meant that I had to make diary entries as well as writing a novel. The novel is in two parts.

My motivation for writing this one was exploring the relationship between identical twins. What happens when one dies? How does the other learn to cope?

As the child of an identical twin, I had a unique glimpse into that world. There are things about twins that singles don’t generally encounter. I noticed things about my mother and my aunt as I grew up, and heard some of the silly questions they were asked.

People frequently asked me, once they found out my mother was a twin, how I could tell them apart. That was easy. I never thought they looked all that much alike. I never mistook one for the other when our families were together, although occasionally a couple of my cousins did.

My mother and her sister were frequently asked what it was like to be a twin. I found that to be a strange question. How would a twin know what it’s like not to be a twin?

Some twins experience something where one is considered the sympathetic twin. This is the phenomenon in which one twin feels pain or some other sensation when something happens to the other twin. My mother felt labor pains every time my aunt had a baby. And my aunt’s varicose veins often gave her – and my mother – trouble. My mother’s legs would ache, and it had nothing to do with anything she was doing. She’d call my aunt and tell her to sit down and put her feet up. My family always found it funny. And my mother always knew when something happened to my aunt.

In fact, I used to worry about what would happen if my aunt died first. That could have dire consequences. My mother died about six years before my aunt, so we never found out if death had an effect.

Only when my aunt was in her 70s or 80s did I discover that she sometimes experienced pain when my mother was hurt. Once, when my mother smashed her knee cap, my aunt responded to being told with, “So that’s why my knee was bothering me.” But it seemed, from what she told me, the sensation wasn’t as great as it was for my mother.

Twins also, as babies, tend to develop their own special language. They understand each other when they speak what seems to others like gibberish. Most outgrow this in their first few years, and while it may delay regular speech a little, they learn to talk like everyone else.

Twins have their own individual personalities. For however identical they may be, there are differences, even in looks. I always thought my aunt looked slightly more like her father’s side of the family, while my mother looked more like their mother’s side, yet they were, indeed, identical. Even looking at their baby pictures, I could tell which one was which.

My mother was somewhat of an introvert. My aunt was an extrovert. They had different friends, although some were the same. And even after not seeing each other for a time, they could pick up the conversation as if only minutes had passed. They had certain looks they gave each other as a kind of unspoken code.

While some identical twins are what people sometimes call “mirror image” twins, where one is left-handed and the other is right handed, my mother and her sister were not. My aunt did say once that she thought she should’ve been left-handed. Of course, they grew up in an era where that wasn’t tolerated.

Armed with this information, I knew how characters who were twins would behave.

My twins are teenage boys who live in Wales, Kit (Christopher) and Bryn. At the start of the story they’re just shy of 18, and on their way to a party, a rare one where friends of both of them will be in attendance. Just before they reach the house where the party is, they’re in an accident. Kit is hurt; Bryn doesn’t survive.

Through a series of flashbacks to when they were between 15 and 17, as well as parts of Bryn’s journal, Bryn is revealed, and we learn the relationship between the boys, their hopes, dreams, similarities and differences.

The boys have a way of identifying people who only hang around them because they’re twins: twin groupies. Most are harmless, if annoying, but a few are less than friendly, and use one or both of the boys for their own purposes.

Many people are devastated by Bryn’s death, none more so than Kit. The entire family has difficulty for a while, barely managing to cope. They put up a front for Kit’s benefit. But Kit isn’t about to wallow in self-pity. He has to learn to cope in the world without Bryn, and seeks out help on his own.

Kit acts in the school plays, and always planned to become a professional actor. Bryn wanted to be a footballer, possibly for Manchester United if he was good enough.

The story is set in the 1980s, with all of the hair, makeup and music of the time. Each chapter is titled with a song from the British top 40 charts from the week in the 1980s in which that chapter takes place.

Kit’s first challenge after losing Bryn is to finish his final year in sixth form. He takes his A Levels (Something like SATs) over the objections of his parents, who think he’s been through too much to pass. They encourage him to wait. Typical of a 17-year-old, he’s not about to listen.

While most are supportive of him, he has a few people who end up playing games with him. He discovers his own resilience, and that many of Bryn’s sports friends actually like him.

The second part of the story revolves around his life in university and beyond and the many starts and stops in his healing process. He believes it’s important for him to succeed, not just for himself, but for his brother, too.

He tries to keep the fact that he had a brother who died a secret, with some disastrous results. He doesn’t want the pity. He discovers that’s only a momentary experience compared to backlash from people who believe he’d lied to them.

While he studies to become an actor, his instructors, while trying to hone his acting skills,  inadvertently give him suggestions that, at times, wreak havoc with his real life.

Through the roles he eventually gets, he manages to move forward with his life, and, he hopes, make Bryn proud.

The Invisible Twin: Chapter 1

                                                                1983

            Kit opened the thick journal. He remembered getting one the same year; the cover color was the only difference. At the time he couldn’t imagine having enough to say, even in a whole year, to fill the book. Flipping through Brynn’s 1974 book, he noticed it was completely full. Of course, the large, sprawling handwriting of the writer explained some of the fullness of it. This was the first journal Brynn had ever done.

            January, 1974: My name is Brynn Michael Evans. I am 8 ½ years old. When I grow up, I would like to play football for Manchester United. I don’t think my family will like that, since we’re Welsh, and my dad prefers the London team over Manchester. Maybe I’ll play for Cardiff.

            I am a twin. That’s the first thing that anyone ever knows about me, so I didn’t put it first. Sometimes I wish I weren’t a twin. People assume Kit and I are exactly alike in everything. We’re not. I wish he liked playing football.

Sometimes it makes me mad that other people assume they only have to ask one of us something to know about both of us. If Kit says something that other people don’t agree with, they get mad at me. It’s so unfair! I like Kit, but I wish sometimes he was just my brother and not my twin.

Kit smiled sadly. He understood about wishing they weren’t twins sometimes.

Kit thought he knew what had happened the day Brynn started the journal. The two of them had had one of their rare fights. Kit hadn’t known about the other kids blaming Brynn for something Kit had said, but it made sense. He remembered Brynn shouting at him, “Why can’t you just shut up sometimes!” It hadn’t made sense to Kit at the time, but it had affected his interactions with their friends, making him less communicative, Brynn’s words ringing in memory every time he thought of answering a question or making a comment. It had probably been about that time that Kit started having friends of his own separate from Brynn’s.

Kit put the journal on the desk and picked up another at random. It was from when they were 15.

Brynn’s Journal 1980:  We won the match today. Some of us went to the chippy afterwards. I felt bad. Kit would like to have gone, I’m sure, but since he wasn’t at the game, I couldn’t invite him. I guess we’ll go another time.

            There was a girl from our class there. She’s been following me around lately, or at least showing up where I do. I don’t think she can tell us apart, but it’s not any of the other blokes she’s interested in. In any case, she’s everything I’m not looking for in a girlfriend. It’s possibly only the fact that I’m a twin and that makes me relatively interesting to her. I’ve met people like that before. Twin-groupies. Then, once they find out you’re not that interesting, out you go.

 

            A twin groupie. Yes, Kit well knew the type. He and Bryn would shrug when someone disappeared from their circle.

            “A twin groupie,” they’d say, knowing the fascination with the twins had worn off.

            Some people treated them like a science project. It was annoying, but by the time they were teens, they could spot the type almost immediately.

 

1980

            Tessa Langford surreptitiously watched the two boys who reclined on lounge chairs on the other side of the pool. She appeared to be reading the novel in her hand, and the oversized sunglasses and floppy straw hat helped to hide the fact that her eyes were elsewhere.

            She thought they were twins, and hoped they were wearing sun cream on that pale skin, or they’d look like lobsters by sunset. Both wore sunglasses and swim trunks, but each had his own style and color. They couldn’t have been more than about 16, she thought, feeling a little predatory because of her admiration of their bodies.

            They were gorgeous, she thought, tall, but not yet to their full adult height, slim, compact bodies, although one looked just a touch heavier than the other. She was surprised, when one of them stretched and crossed his arms behind his head, that the hair under his arms was light brown, while the thick hair on his head was several shades darker.

            The other twin, lightly running the fingers of his left hand up and down his right arm as one might do to comfort an anxious child, said something she couldn’t hear to his brother. The brother laughed, a rich chuckle that was a little deeper than she expected. He made a comment back, but they were too far away for their words to carry, and combined with the noise from the people actually using the pool between them and her, she heard nothing.

            She wondered about their names. Simon and Sam. No. Simon might fit the one, but neither was a Sam. Giles and Gerry. Yes, that would fit. The one with the laugh was Giles. Gerry was the shy one, possibly with a stammer. Giles would put him up to whatever challenges he took on.

            There was no self-consciousness about either boy. She almost wished she had a reason to meet them. Still, at 19, Tessa had too much of a gap in age with the boys.

           

            “Do you see that woman on the other side of the pool?” Kit asked.

            “The one with the floppy hat? Yeah. I was admiring the view.”

            “Really?”

            “Not your type?” Brynn asked.

            “Well, she’s too old. She must be in her 20s, so she wouldn’t be interested in either of us. Besides, she’s a bit too –” he hesitated, not wanting to make any overt gesture – “chesty.”

            Brynn laughed. “You’ve been listening to Gran too long! Really, do you think?”

            “Well, the bikini doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it?”

            “That’s rather the point. I think she’s nice to look at,” Brynn replied.

            In a smooth, sinuous movement, Brynn stood up.

            “Going to chat her up?” Kit asked, grinning.

            “No, I was going to get something to drink. Do you want something?”

            “The fizzy orange in the round bottle.”

            “Orangina?”

            “Yes.” Kit was always forgetting the names of things.

            As Brynn started around the edge of the pool, Tessa’s hat blew off. Brynn took a couple of quick steps and retrieved it. He held it out to her as she stood.

            “Thank you –?” her thanks came out as a question, mainly because she almost called him Giles.

            “Brynn.”

            “Oh, hello, Brynn. I’m Tessa. Is that other boy your brother?” she asked, putting her hat back on.

            Brynn gave her an amused look. “Yes. Kit.”

            “Kit?”

            Short for Christopher. When we were learning to talk, apparently, he pronounced Chris as Kiss, and my parents decided a different nickname was in order. So he’s named in honor of Marlowe.”

            “A shame you weren’t named Will in honor of Shakespeare, then,” she said. He laughed and the chuckle seemed to resonate inside her.

            “I think my parents would probably have gone for Dylan Thomas instead,” he said.

            That was it! The accent she couldn’t quite place.

            “Oh, you’re Welsh!”

            “Yes,” he said, waiting for some odd comment, but it didn’t come.

            “I just couldn’t quite place your accent.”

            “Mmm,” he replied in teenage fashion, running his hands through his hair to push back what the breeze had blown in his eyes.

            The breeze blew his hair again, and Tessa put her hand on the crown of her hat to keep it from flying off.

            “Well, I won’t keep you,” she said, backing away.

            “Ah, well, my brother’s likely parched by now, so I’d best go get our drinks.”

            She smiled, and he went into the small shop inside the hotel.

            When he returned to Kit a few minutes later, he handed the round bottle to him, and sat down on the lounge chair.

            “Are you engaged yet?” Kit asked, grinning, opening the bottle and taking a drink.

“She asked if we were brothers.”

            Kit laughed. “And you told her she needed glasses because there’s only one of us?” He drank half the bottle in one long drink, and then wrinkled his nose at the fizz.

            Brynn laughed. “I’ve never understood people needing to ask if we’re twins. I guess she didn’t want to sound cliché.” He sipped his drink, but he’d started on the way out, so they were both nearly finished.

            “It’s like asking about the weather. It’s an easy conversation starter. But are we brothers? That’s new.”

            They both drank their drinks and watched the people in the pool.

            “Are you finished?” Brynn asked.

            Kit nodded.

            “Then let’s not waste this pool.” They put their sunglasses with their towels, dropped the bottles into the bin and sauntered to the pool.

            Brynn approached the side, and dove in. Kit sat on the edge for a moment, his feet dangling in the water, and then pitched forward in a sort of half dive.

            Ah, so he was the cautious one, Tessa thought, watching them again for a moment before resuming her reading.

            Kit was the stronger swimmer, but he’d never managed to learn how to dive decently. Brynn made it all look so graceful. He used the forward propulsion of the dive to keep from needing to work so hard at the swim itself.

            They raced, of course. Kit won. But Brynn wasn’t above the hijinks of a teenage boy. He tried to dunk Kit’s head under the water, but Kit out-maneuvered him.

            They had the pool to themselves for a while. Just as they decided to get out, their sister, Amelia, came out of the hotel. She looked around and saw them drying off by the lounge chairs. Kit was busy drying his hair, and didn’t see her at first. Brynn had just draped his towel around his neck, and waved to her.

            Amelia – Amy – had strawberry blonde hair, and green eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses. Her trim figure was in a more modest bikini than what Tessa wore.

            Kit put his sunglasses back on and used his fingers to try to calm the hair that stuck out in all directions. Brynn, who had just finished using a comb on his own hair, handed it to Kit.

            “Oh, I was hoping to get to swim with you,” Amy said.

            “We’ll stay and watch, if you want,” Brynn offered.

            “I was just going to go to the beach,” Kit said. “I want to go into the channel.”

            “Oh, that sounds fun,” she said. “Let’s all go.”

            The boys put on T-shirts and slipped their sandals on. Amy had a shoulder bag that held her towel and whatever amenities she might need. She pulled out a button-front shirt and put it on over the bathing suit, leaving it unbuttoned. Once they were attired, they left the hotel, and went down to the beach.

            Two years older than the boys, the 17-year-old girl didn’t mind being in their company. They were finally taller than she was, so she didn’t feel like she was minding children when she was with them.

            The three had always got on well. When they were all together, both boys enjoyed clowning around and telling her stories. At home they might stop to climb a tree. They could be very silly, but they were never mean.

            By himself, Kit tended to be quiet, living in his own thoughts unless someone engaged him in conversation. Brynn was outgoing whether Kit was with him or not. He’d always been more gregarious than Kit, and Amy teased him by calling him Prince Charming.

            “And who am I, please?” Kit had asked her once.

            “You are the sorcerer,” she replied.

            Brynn had called him Emrys, saying Merlin was too obvious.

            “And Charming isn’t?” Kit asked.

            “I didn’t name me.”

            “I’d rather be Taliesin,” Kit replied.

            “You have to write something first,” Amy said.

            “And who are you, then?” Brynn asked her.

            “The Lady of Shallot, of course.”

            The siblings spent the afternoon searching the beach for sea glass and romping in the waves. Once the tide started coming in, they dried off and returned to the hotel.

            When they returned from the beach, the three of them showered and dressed for dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Evans always made one evening a dress-up dinner evening. The children thought it was silly that they did this, since most people weren’t as formal these days, but they went along with it.

            Amy wore a pale yellow dress with a flowing skirt, petal-shaped capped sleeves, and only the slightest shoulder pads. Her feathered shoulder-length hair was held in place with hairspray. Completing her outfit were beige ankle-strap sandals with a two-inch heel. She insisted she couldn’t walk in higher heeled shoes.

            Brynn wore black linen trousers, black dress shoes, and a white dress shirt without a tie, and a light blue linen suit jacket with a white silk scarf hanging loose under the jacket lapels. His hair was a shorter version of his sister’s cut, more hair sprayed, and looking like a member of one of the newer pop bands.

            Kit wore white linen trousers, tan oxfords, and a loose white linen shirt under a tan sports coat. He wore his hair much like Brynn’s but without the hair spray, and wearing a tan fedora on the back of his head.

            Their father looked at the three of them. He was pleased that they didn’t balk at dressing up, but thought the boys overdid it a bit.

            “Kit, are you wearing makeup?” he asked.

            “Just a bit of guy liner,” he replied.

            “Guy liner?”

            “It’s a thing, Dad. Lots of guys use a bit of eyeliner. And Brynn’s wearing it, too. It was his idea, by the way.”

            “They do, Dad,” Amy said.     

            Mr. Evans shook his head with a grin.

            Mr. Evans wore a traditional business suit in light grey, with a blue shirt and dark blue tie. His wife wore a dress similar to, but not quite as modern as Amy’s. Her light brown hair was neatly combed in a usual above-the-shoulders “mum cut” as Amy called it. She wore flat slip-ons. At 42, she had no sign of grey in her hair. Her husband’s dark hair, still thick, showed a bit of grey.

            The family went downstairs to the restaurant. They were seated at a table near a window. The view of the sea and a few sailboats returning late made Kit want to wander along the beach in the evening sun. He could tell there was a light breeze blowing. But hunger won out – as if he had the choice.

            Over dinner, the children recounted their adventures of the day.

            “Oh, and Brynn was chatting up a woman by the pool,” Kit said.

            “I was not chatting her up!” Brynn protested. “Her hat blew off. I simply returned it for her on my way to get something to drink.”

            “Yes, I supposed you could do better than someone who actually asked if we were brothers,” Kit replied.

            Their parents and sister chuckled.

            “I’m sure she was trying to tactfully make conversation,” Mrs. Evans said.

            “Isn’t that what talking about the weather is for?” Amy asked.

            “You boys look a bit pink. Did you get too much sun?” Mrs. Evans asked.

            “Perhaps,” Brynn replied.

            “I feel fine,” Kit responded.

 

            There was a dance scheduled at the hotel that evening. The teens wanted to go, and their parents went along to watch. People of various ages were there, but as yet no one was dancing.    

            Kit swayed in time to the music.

            “Isn’t anyone going to dance?” he asked.

            “Usually people wait a few songs to see who’s there and who’s dancing,” Mr. Evans said.

            “Maybe they just need someone to show them how.”

            “Really?” Amy asked sarcastically. “And who’s going to show them?”

            “We are. Come on,” he said, grabbing his sister’s hand.

            “Are you kidding?”

            “No. Come on. You can’t let your dance lessons go to waste,” Kit replied.

            The two of them started to dance to a pop song that was playing. Kit was quite good, his parents discovered. They knew Amy could dance, but no one had ever seen Kit dancing before. Their normally quiet, somewhat shy son became quite the performance artist on the dance floor.

            “Did you know he could dance like that?” Mrs. Evans asked Brynn.

            “No. I just thought he could sing and play guitar.”

            Kit was completely unselfconscious as his body moved.

            Halfway through the song other people joined Amy and Kit on the dance floor. This wasn’t the kind of dancing Amy did in class, but she was able to follow Kit’s lead.

            Kit and Amy danced to a few more fast songs, then a slow dance started, and they left the dance floor.

            “You aren’t going to slow dance?” a girl who had been watching them asked.

            “Not with my sister,” Kit replied. “But if you would be interested, I’ll dance the next slow one with you.”

            She blushed and nodded.

            “Wow, what did you do with my brother, Christopher?” Amy asked. “That was rather cheeky of you.”

            Kit laughed, and wiped some sweat from his forehead. His shirt felt damp against his skin.

            “Do you think?” he asked. “You’re always telling me to be more daring.”

            “I think the three of us should go out when they play some faster stuff,” she said as they reached the table.

            “I don’t think I could do as well as you,” Brynn said.

            “I do.” Kit sounded certain.

            Once they had returned to the table with their family, Kit took off his sports jacket, and hung it on the back of his chair. His parents remarked on his skill at dancing. This was a side of him they’d never seen.

            “I’ve had years of watching Amy, not to mention Top of the Pops.”

            When the DJ played a faster song, both Kit and Brynn went to the dance floor with Amy. Brynn watched Kit, and imitated his moves. Before long, he seemed as comfortable as Kit. Kit took his hat and put it on Brynn’s head. The girl who had spoken to Kit earlier approached and, not knowing which boy she’d spoken to, looked at the three and asked if she could join them.

            “Here, take your hat back. You’re confusing people,” Brynn said with a grin. He put Kit’s hat on him dipped in the front like a 1940s private eye from an American film.

            “I’m Liz,” she said.

            The others introduced themselves.

            When the song ended, a slower one started.

            “Can I take you up on my offer?” Kit asked. Liz smiled, and they started to slow dance while Brynn and Amy returned to the table.

            Liz was petite with layered brown hair. She wore quite a bit more makeup than Amy. She was shy. Kit’s remark only went as far as asking her to dance, so theirs was a quiet dance.

            When Kit started back toward the table, the woman from the afternoon was passing by.

            “Brynn, isn’t it?” she asked, thinking it couldn’t be the quiet one.

            “Kit,” he said. “And you are?”

            “Tessa Langford. Sorry. I was talking with your brother this afternoon.”

            “Yes, the lady with the hat,” he said.

            “Oh, you make me sound so old! I’m only nineteen.”

            “I shall be that, too, one day,” he replied with a grin.

            “You dance very well.”

            “Thank you.”

            He started back toward the table.

            “Oh, who’s chatting up the ladies now?” Brynn asked, laughing.

            “She’s nineteen, and told me that calling her a lady made her sound too old. But she did call me Brynn. I guess she assumed you were the dancing twin.”

            “So, are you engaged yet?” Brynn asked, echoing Kit’s earlier comment. The two of them laughed.

“I gave it my best shot. At least she knows you’re not the dancing twin.”

            They saw Tessa dancing with a man more her own age several times during the evening. Neither of the boys attempted a conversation with her, since they assumed she had satisfied her curiosity about the twins.

            Liz joined them dancing several more times. Kit wished she lived near them at home, but Birmingham was too far away to consider her more than an interesting holiday friend.

            Amy found herself the object of interest for a few young university boys, so she didn’t lack for dance partners or someone to chat her up.

            “I wonder if Lancelot over there realizes Amy’s with her family.” Brynn said.

            “Lancelot?” Kit replied, looking at the blond with the clean-cut hair and the body of someone pursuing weight training who was currently talking with his sister across the room.

            “Well, I’m Prince Charming, and isn’t that the name of all of the fairy tale princes?”

            “I’d have said Arnold Schwarzenegger, not Lancelot,” Kit said.

            “Not quite that built up, but I see your point.”

            “Besides,” Kit added, “wasn’t Lancelot pure of heart before his entanglement with Guinevere?”

            “Unless Amy’s Guinevere, he doesn’t exactly pass the purity of heart test, judging by his look,” Brynn said, and Kit burst out laughing.

            “Think she needs rescuing?” Kit asked.

            “Not yet.”

            Liz approached with another girl a bit taller than herself, with long, light brown hair and brown eyes.    

            “You two look serious,” Liz said.

            “No, just making sure that bloke chatting up our sister doesn’t have less than honorable intentions,” Brynn said.

            “That’s nice that you look out for her,” Liz replied, glancing at Amy and the young man.

            “We’re not just pesky little brothers, you see,” Kit said, and the girls giggled.

            “This is my friend, Heather,” Liz said.

            The boys introduced each other, as they sometimes did, and within a short time the foursome were on the dance floor.

            Brynn had a feeling about Lancelot. Other young men approached Amy, danced with her and chatted, but they seemed harmless. He could relax and enjoy himself when she was with them. But when Lancelot returned, something in his manner put Brynn on alert.

            When one of the songs they’d been dancing to ended, Brynn asked the girls if they’d excuse Kit and himself for a moment.

            “What’s up?” Kit asked.

            “I think a rescue mission is in order.”

            “You don’t think she can take care of herself?”

            “Does she look happy?” Brynn countered.

            Kit had to admit she didn’t.

            The boys strolled to where their sister stood looking flustered. The serious-looking Lance seemed to be lecturing her. They came up on either side of her.

            “Sorry to interrupt,” Brynn started.

            “You little boys go bother someone else,” Lance cut in.

            “Sorry, mate,” Brynn continued, “but our sister has been summoned by our dad. And you don’t want to go contradicting him.”

            Amy’s smile looked like one of relief.

            “Sorry, Dan, if my dad wants to see me –”

            “You’ll come back, though?”

            Only then did Kit notice Dan was American.

            “I don’t think so,” she said with a placid smile. “Nice meeting you, though.”

            She and the boys wasted no time moving away from Dan.

            “Dad doesn’t want to see me, does he?” she said once they were far enough away from him not to be overheard.”

            “Of course not. You just didn’t look happy.”

            “I owe you! He acted like he owned me just because I danced with him. He was lecturing me because I danced with a few other blokes! The complete nerve!”

            “I didn’t like the look of him,” Brynn said.

            “Well, thanks for noticing. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get away from him without causing a scene.”

            The threesome returned to the girls the twins had been with, and the boys introduced their sister to Heather. They all chatted for a bit.

            “We were watching the three of you,” Heather said, “and that bloke did not look happy when you left.”

            “An American boy,” Amy said. “If he’s typical of the breed, they assume ownership after one dance.”

            “You should have told him to sod off,” Heather replied, and the others looked momentarily shocked. Brynn laughed.

            “Sorry,” she said, ducking her head.

            “I was just trying to picture Amy saying that,” Brynn said. “And the American probably wouldn’t understand the expression.”

            “I’ll let you lot go dance,” Amy said. She returned to the table with her parents and the others headed for the dance floor.

            They danced to fast and slow songs, and finally the girls begged off, needing refreshments.

            The girls started toward the drinks bar. They noticed the boys didn’t follow, but stood conferring.

            “Aren’t you coming?” Liz asked.

            “We didn’t want to appear to assume ownership,” Brynn said with a smile.

            “We’ve already decided you’re not like that. You can come if you’d like,” She blushed as she spoke, Kit noticed.

            Once they each had a glass in hand, they looked for an empty table. Some of the adults had decided they’d had enough of the younger generation’s music, and had gone, so there were available tables. Mr. And Mrs. Evans enjoyed the music, and when the DJ played their generation’s music, they even got up to dance. But they let their teenaged children decide whether or not to sit with them.

            Liz had just pointed out a table with a good view when someone bumped Brynn’s shoulder, nearly spilling his Coke. Brynn turned to see Dan standing menacingly at his side.

            “You ought to learn to mind your own business,” Dan said.

            “I believe the response you’re looking for is, ‘Oh, sorry, mate, I didn’t mean to bump into you,’” Brynn replied, brazening out Dan’s attempt to play the tough. They were roughly the same height, and Brynn assumed he was faster than the bulky American.

            “Don’t play stupid, boy. Your sister doesn’t need you running interference for her.”

            “Indeed, she doesn’t, bachgen. She also doesn’t like being hovered over by wankers. So, why don’t you just lick your wounds and bother some other girl? Or stick with American birds. Perhaps they like that behavior.”

            “You stay out of my business,” Dan said.

            “Sod off!” Brynn said, only half under his breath, and led the others toward the table.

            “Apologies for the language,” he said to the girls.

            “Oh, he deserved it,” Heather said. “What was that word you called him? Was it something bad?”

            Kit chuckled. “Bachgen. It means ‘boy’ in Welsh. It was meant as an insult, and the fact that he almost certainly doesn’t speak Welsh, I’m sure he thought Brynn swore at him.”

            They all laughed.

            Anywhere but a family-friendly hotel, Brynn might have come to blows with the American. But here, he was relatively certain Dan wouldn’t risk being thrown out of the hotel over words with a 15-year-old.

            A little while later, Mr. Evans appeared at their table.

            “We’re going up. Do you have your key?”

            “I do,” Kit replied. “Is Amy going up as well?”

            “She is. Don’t be too late.”

            That was Mr. Evans’ way of letting the boys decide to take their leave or stay a bit longer. The boys both knew their parents expected them back shortly after the dance ended, at the latest.

            “We should  probably go up as well,” Kit said once his father had gone. “We have to leave in the morning.”

            “Yes, we should probably go, too,” Heather said. “What a shame you’re not here longer.”

            They walked the girls to the lobby. Heather kissed Brynn on the cheek.

            “I was hoping for a proper kiss,” he said. She smiled and he gave her said kiss.

            Kit looked at Liz, a questioning expression on his face. She nodded.

            Once he kissed her, the girls walked toward the corridor of ground floor rooms, and the boys went to the lifts. Just as the door to the lift was about to close, a couple dashed in. It was Tessa and her date.

            “Oh, hello again,” she said to the boys, and smiled.

            “Hello,” they said in unison.

            “This is Derek. Derek, this is Kit and Brynn, the boys I was telling you about.

            “You mentioned us?” Brynn asked, grinning.

            Tessa laughed. “Yes, after I saw your run-in with that dreadful man.”

            “The American?” Kit asked.

            “Yes. I thought you handled yourselves quite well. I was afraid you’d come to blows when he intentionally walked into you. Derek was prepared to sort him out if he got too aggressive.”

            “Thanks, awfully,” Brynn said. “I was just brazening it out, hoping he didn’t punch me. He was rather uncivil to my sister.”

            “You did the right thing,” Derek said.

            The lift stopped, and the door opened. “This is our floor,” Kit said.

            “Good night then.”

            “Good night,” the boys said.

            “And thank you,” Brynn added.

Pandemics and Other Disappointments

 A friend of mine was waxing nostalgic in a letter she wrote me in my birthday card. I suppose she was trying to put a hopeful spin on shelter-in-place.

She mentioned the fact that, because of the pandemic, high school seniors would miss the last events of their senior year, like sports awards ceremonies, dances, the prom and graduation. Her point was, that in the grand scheme of things, how important are those things to your future? Would it matter that you didn’t have a prom?

To her, what is really important is the friendships you form, the memories you have with those friends outside the formalities of school functions, over a lifetime.

I see her point.

But I also feel for those high school students. This is their lifetime, so far.

In my own life, my elementary school graduation was marred by my parents not attending. You might laugh. Elementary school? Who cares?

But it was the first graduation I’d ever had, and as I saw it, I wasn’t important enough for anyone in my family to come.

True, a couple of neighbors who wouldn’t ordinarily have come filled in for my missing parents. The point, to me, was that my parents didn’t attend.

A little perspective here.

Normally, the Catholic elementary school I attended had their graduation on a weekday morning, attended by everyone’s mothers. But the year I graduated, they decided to have an evening graduation.

And the evening they chose? The exact one that the local public high school was having their graduation, the high school my older brother was graduating from that same year.

I have always thought the Catholic school did this intentionally, knowing many of the eighth graders had siblings graduating from the high school. Many of us asked for our graduation ceremony to be moved, to no avail. I have always believed they did it to punish the parents who “weren’t doing their Catholic duty” of sending their children to the Catholic high school.

Still, it never occurred to either of my parents that one of them should probably attend my graduation. No, they were both going to see my brother graduate, without the slightest guilt over leaving me high and dry. They were going to see their son graduate from high school. Mine was only elementary school. Besides, I was only a girl.

I was left asking how I was going to even get to my graduation – skipping it was unthinkable, although a couple of my classmates did so they could attend their siblings’ graduation.

In the end, one of my neighbors took me. Grateful as I was for their kindness, it hurt that my parents didn’t think I was important enough.

And I never let them forget it.

When it was time for my high school graduation, I asked my parents if they were going to bother coming, or did I have to get a neighbor to bring me to that one, too? They did come, but I felt it had more to do with my brother graduating from college a semester early. Besides, he didn’t even bother going to his university graduation.

So, I understand the disappointments, and how huge they feel to the class of 2020.

What you do in high school affects your start in college. If you’re in sports, university scouts determine whether or not you get a scholarship. And there are the trophies that will eventually end up in the attic. But the celebration with your teammates is important.

For those not attending college, high school graduation is your farewell to years of education.

And prom is one of the important events of senior year. Although it became fashionable I the late ’70s to shun the prom, for most people, it’s the first formal event they’ll attend. It’s a time to shine, a time to show off the boyfriend or girlfriend.

As one of the nerds who had no boyfriend, I had to beg, plead, and scramble to get a date, just as I had for the junior prom. Both times (with different boys) I was disappointed that I had a date who didn’t want to dance, and spent most of his time talking to the other guys at the table.

But I wouldn’t consider not going. Not going would have been social failure. As a nerd, I wasn’t familiar with failure.

So, I understand.

It may not have been as momentous to my friend who, 40+ years later is still married to the guy she took to the prom. She also went to his prom, so another prom wasn’t that big of a deal to her.

Looking back over the years, my friend has children and a grandchild whose milestones are more important to her than her own. So many events have overshadowed the things she did as a teenager that she often doesn’t remember the details.

Maybe she’s more pragmatic, and better at putting things into perspective than I am.

I also find my university years have overshadowed high school. That was a time I came into my own and proved to people that I could accomplish at least some of the things that were important to me.

But high school mattered to me.

I get it.

Some of the friendships that were important to me in high school didn’t stand the test of time and distance. Others did. My friend, plus two or three others are still friends and we have at least weekly email communication. Her house or mine are available to those who come to our area to visit as theirs are to us.

We get together two or three times a year for what have become fixed gatherings, and try to find other times to reunite. We’ve been friends at least since the beginning of high school. Some of us have been friends far longer than that.

We can reminisce about high school or more recent events. But we have those memories.

The class of 2020 will have the memory of what didn’t happen. They’re not the first to be disappointed because of world events, and no doubt won’t be the last. And that’s not the end of the world that it seems now.

Still, it’s a shame.

And I get it.