I remember reading once that baby zebras “imprint” their mother’s stripes at birth in order to recognize her among the herd, and that other baby animals also imprint, or take on, behavioral characteristics of their parents in order to form a bond with them.
I spent the majority of my life feeling like I never really imprinted with anyone. I was different from my mother and my siblings in every possible way. My mother was of German decent, with light hair, even lighter blue eyes, and pale skin. Every one of her eight children except for me, was born with blonde, wavy hair. Mine was dark and straight from the moment I came into this world. All three of my sisters had blue eyes and light skin like my mother; I was born with ruddy skin and dark brown eyes. My sisters were tiny and delicate and graceful. I was sturdy and big boned and hardy. I spent every waking minute I could outside, without shoes, always wanting to feel the cool grass, hot pavement and rain soaked ground underfoot. My sisters were much more lady like and wouldn’t be caught dead running around in the rain or climbing trees.
My sisters were conservative and moderate in their dress; I wanted bright colors and shiny bracelets. They wore their hair in short cute styles; I wore mine long and straight or wound up in braids that trailed down my back. In the summer my skin turned a dark brown, and the soles of my feet were stained and tough as hide, quite a contrast to my sisters, with the perfect nails and smartly coiffed hair.
People always confused Janet for Carol or Elanor for Janet, but no one ever confused me for anyone else.
I remember the Sesame Street characters singing a little ditty to help teach kids how to group similar items together... “Two of these things belong together, one of these things is not the same ...” That was me; I was the odd piece that didn’t fit. I didn’t look like my sisters; I didn’t act like my sisters. I didn’t look like anyone I knew. From time to time someone would comment that I must take after my Dad’s side of the family, but he had died when I was two months old, his mother had died long before that and his one sister lived far away, so that reference held no meaning for me. I began to see being different as somehow being wrong. I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. I wanted so much to be “like” someone, I wanted to feel like I belonged, but I was always that one piece of the puzzle that never quite fit.
I soon learned that I could take the sting out of remarks people made if I made them first, so I would make jokes about my size or about my differences. It hurt, but I laughed as loud as anyone because, it gave me a sense of control even if it was a false control that came with a very high price.
Over the years I learned to accept and even appreciate some of the differences. I liked the way my skinned turned so brown in the summer. I liked that I was strong and that my feet were tough and that I could stand up for myself. I out grew the feeling that different equaled lesser, but I never out grew the desire to look into the face of someone and see a piece of me reflected back. I never out grew that longing to feel a part of someone outside myself. When I was in my forties I moved to Florida for a brief period and as it happened I moved to the same city where my father’s only sister lived. She had moved away before I was born and although she had returned to visit a few times when I was very young I had no memory of her.
