Saturday, September 24, 2005

ON NARCISSISAM

As much I had liked to find all sorts of justifications to prove that the day of my birth and I are not ordinary, but miraculous in a sort of “God’s gift to mankind” way (for instance, that eight is a lucky number in Chinese feng shui - and I have quite a lot of it on my birthday, being born on the eighth of the eighth month of the 1st year of the eighth decade of the twentieth century; and being a Lion in Pagan astrology and a Rooster in Chinese astrology at the same time made me think I not only may be lucky, but I also have the license to be cocky as well).

Add to this that is something greater - my name is my Daddy’s ultimate choice – he wanted his eldest to be called Salma (it didn’t work out because Mommy decided on something else – Rowaida - and quite a lovely name too), the next girl ought to be Salma then (but didn’t work out again, because poor Mommy didn’t know Arabic very well then and gave her own Muslim name – Fatima – when the nurse asked), and so I came and I was also a girl, and I became the long-awaited Salma. Therefore I am the correction, the culmination, for the past two “mistakes”.

BUT, the truth of the matter is –

(1) That it really is just a matter of fact that I was born that day and time. That some other people got more feng shui or astrologically favorable birthdates than I did. For instance, someone had definitely been born on the eighth of the eighth month of the eighth year of the eighth decade of the eighth century. Eighty more centuries later, someone will get a cosmically better birth date. Consider the possibility of being born the eighth child on the eighth second of the eighth minute of the eighth hour of the eight month of the eighth year of the eighth decade of the eightieth century at the eighth house of the eighth street... well this must stop somehow, and I know you get the picture. It is still just a matter of fact that this person was born under these circumstances. As I was born in my own circumstances, and as everybody was born in their own.


(2) That sometime ago when Daddy first looked at his first-born and saw his genetic composition written all over the face of that little girl, he had had his life’s worth of joy. The first eye-contact dawned in him a reality - that he would protect that little girl from anything and anyone in this world. The name didn’t matter.

(3) That sometime ago Daddy was yet to have another girl, and so he recalls that this would carry the name that he has chosen for her, but when he looked at this huge, adorable, pinkish, almost watermelon-like baby whose namesake is his one true love, he decided that there’s an endless supply of daughter-love, and he could get another one, but maybe he’d like to try it out on son-loving.

(4) That when I came, unlike I imagined it to be, I was not good news. I was supposed to be a baby brother, a toy that my sisters would play with and discover. I was actually rejected for what I was worth. My sisters cried when I was born, and they pleaded and negotiated for a trade-in at the nursery for a boy. They were pointing to a wonderful baby boy in the nursery and they wanted to get him. They didn’t want me. But I got the name. The long-awaited name. They didn’t get it, I and only I did. All girls that would potentially come after me won’t get it, I and only I did. It turned out that I would be the last of the kids, so this gives me more reason to believe that finally, these parents of mine have found satisfaction – through me and only through me. They didn’t stop at my sisters. They stopped at me and only me. They even paid to have an operation just so that nothing, not anything would come by and jeopardize the perfect culmination that is me.

If you come to think of it, my birth was a win-win thing. If I were a girl, finally, there’d be Salma. If I were a boy, well, finally there’d be a boy. If you look at it even more closely, reality has it that gender has a more formative effect on a person than a name. My birth was a win, but not as much as if I were a boy.

Later on, things turned out quite alright. It was just a funny story to tell how we all came into this world. Cliché has it that the first child is borne out of love, the second out of habit, and the last? Tsk, tsk, tsk…a mistake. Maybe that’s also why most of the youngests are treated babies the rest of their lives. Well, I’m all grown up now and I think differently on the matter of our births. In the end, despite all kinds of feelings we triggered by coming out of this world, Mommy and Daddy raised us pretty well. They treated us equally, gave more trust than what is due a mere “child” as we were growing up, some tender loving care here, there and everywhere, and some spanks and scolding here and there (but not everywhere). Today, we all have a strong bond to each other that distance can’t break.

(5) That actually, it didn’t matter who came out, if it’s a girl, it’s Salma. I could have well been Rowaida or Fatima or something else (such as Sausan, and I thank God for the nominal error Mommy made), and it wouldn’t have mattered to Mommy and Daddy. Animal history has proven over and over that parents love their offsprings no matter what and vise versa. Period. (What animal theories haven’t quite explained well is why siblings love each other very much too.)

Post-note: I am special after all, but certainly no one has the license nor the excuse to be cocky – because above all, every one is special in his own right.

Posted by xam :: Saturday, September 24, 2005 :: 1 Comments:

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