I’m the oldest of 8, and yet I’m an only child by Pamela Francis

It was Thanksgiving again and even though we are supposed to be staying put and not super-spreading Corona all over the country, invitations to Thanksgiving dinner were still being bandied about. Popular gal that I am, by Thanksgiving Eve Eve, I had gotten 1 invite. People know that I move around a lot and they probably aren’t sure where in the country I currently am, or so I tell myself to dull the pain of rejection and exclusion I always feel when I look up and realize no one’s begging me to come see them for the holidays. But my 1 invite was from one of my seven brothers and sisters. The youngest one, as a matter of fact. Imagine that. I have three adult sisters (45, 40, and 34), and four adult brothers (49, whatever age Dorian is, whatever age Derek is, and 34). Notice the double 34-yr-olds. They are twins.

So my 34-yr-old brother is the one who told me where Thanksgiving was being held this year. It was at his twin’s new house. Hmph.  :-/

She hadn’t even mentioned she was BUYING a new house.

I can’t trip. I’d been in South Carolina for a year and still hadn’t made the trip to go see them.  I had been invited to come out for the Memorial Day weekend festivities this past spring, but even then I’d clutched a handful of good excuses, not the least of which was “we’re in a pandemic; Households are not supposed to mix.”

Now I love me some Kardashian-Jenners and — embarrassingly enough — I model a lot of my behaviors after them, but mixing households this year was not one I was willing to go out on a covid limb and do. So for Memorial Day I got on DUO — that’s FaceTime for Android users. Don’t hate, ok? That rose gold Samsung flip-phone is looking preeeetty tasty in those “I see you lookin’ / watch what I do” commercials that have my head snapping to every time I hear it on E! or Nick or wherever they keeping playing it — I got on DUO and toasted a mimosa from my mom’s gazebo, 3 hours’ drive from Bamberg, where Operation Memorial Day Cookout was going down.

I can’t come, I demurred. I have asthma…, I have 2 kids…, my mom’s immuno-compromised…, we are staying with her for the duration of the pandemic…, I was still driving around in South Carolina on California license plates and April 2020 tags… while cops of every racial hue were kneeling on the necks of anything Black they could find. I could not go. But that didn’t mean I didn’t really really waaant to. I did. I love my siblings. All 7 of them.

I am the oldest. And yet, by virtue of the fact that none of them share both the same Mom AND Dad with me, I am an only child.

Let’s go over that again. I share the same mom with 2 of them, and the same dad with 5 of them, but none of us share the same mom AND dad, so therefore, I am, technically, an only child. And it’s a lonely, tricky place to be at times. I try to be the big sis, the oldest… the trail blazer. But then I get the distinct feeling that “those days are gone, lady. Nobody cares.” Everyone is deeply entrenched in their own identities and those identities aren’t dosie-do’ing their partners. Even my use of the phrase “do si do your partners” makes it clear to me why I feel so alone. It’s because I am. By most African-American standards, I skew towards the corny side. I was an English Lit major in the 80’s so I use a lot of archaic words and phrases. I am literally my own brand, and my siblings don’t shop at the Pam store.

Unless I send out a text that has a query in it, {let’s try it out: text to Dana: “How old are Derek and Dorian?”} it’s crickets.

How did this happen?

Paragraph 1, line 3: “people know that I move around a lot”.

My brothers and sisters can all say they’ve lived where they’re living for the last decade straight. Not me. I’ve had roughly 13 mailing addresses in 10 years. I am holding in self-laughter just typing this. I have had THIRTEEN mailing addresses in 10 years’ time. I can’t even go on.

I’m sorry, I thought you could be a wandering spirit and still get some love in these days and times of “the digital nomad…”, “the lifestyle entrepreneur…”, the globe-trotting passive-income aficionado… but I can truly say that the main reason I probably don’t have as close of a relationship with my siblings as I’d like is because I don’t stay put.  I mean I had a brother nearby when I lived in New York, but I moved to Los Angeles.  I had a brother nearby when I lived in California, but I moved to South Carolina.  I had a whole family nearby when I lived in South Carolina, but I moved to Georgia.  I had a sister nearby when I lived in Georgia, but I hated Georgia and I moved back to California.  One day my sister decided she hated Georgia, too, and moved to California.  We had just gotten a little family rhythm going where she’d fly down to L.A. from S.F. and we’d eat grilled octopus in Malibu, but then I plopped down in South Carolina and JetBlue stopped flying into Long Beach, and…

Even now…  On the tail end of a pandemic… on the eve of 2021, I’m over here dusting off my passport with intent to slip off to the Bahamas if they’ll let me in.

No, I don’t “live close”, I don’t stay put, and honestly…, I guess I don’t really intend to. :-/

This just in: Derek is 39. Dorian is 42.

Tags: #Covid Christmas, #family blues, #holiday hangups, #pandemic blues, #restless later mom syndrome, #sibling stories, #wanderlust