Hello again!
We’re just going to blatantly ignore the lengthy passage of time between my last post and now. I will not feign an exhausting sense of busyness, because in my opinion one of the cruelest lies is that there is never time to write—be it a novel, a short story, a journal entry, a love letter, a simple reminder of the fact that at this moment in time you are living and breathing and capable in some manner of conscious thought. There is always time for the written word, for without it where would we be? On the whole, as a race, and on a much smaller scale, as an individual? Do we not glean a fair amount of our self-identities from the written word and all it has brought about? But, I transgress; these are topics for another time, perhaps tomorrow?)
Today I bid adieu to my sister as she departed for Barcelona, Spain. She’s accepted a teaching job there, you see, at an international school, a position which has brought a great sense of excitement and pride to her, as this is a job she has secured through only her own skills and drive. It was only yesterday that her departure was solidified; her attempts at securing a visa have resulted in extensive aggravation and uncertainty. For now, she will leave on a tourist visa, and complete her full working visa at a later point.
I won’t attempt to elaborate on her emotions during the process, as I could comprehend but a fraction of the feelings which must have dominated her waking hours: excitement, anxiety, a certain terror at the future which now loomed before her, undoubtedly daunting to some degree. Leaving the nest is an essential experience of life, true—this fact, however, does not abate the nerves which accompany such a transition.
For weeks now we have known that she would leave, without the privilege of a set date. The simple fact of knowing that she would be moving to Spain for a year (with a small break in December to return home and grace the family with her enigmatic presence) spawned a question which I was continuously bombarded with: “So, are you going to miss your sister?”
I’m a twin, which in the eyes of what seems like a ridiculously large majority of the world, makes my relationship with my sister very special. It’s as if the moment it’s discovered that we shared the womb for nine months, my interesting factor skyrockets in the eyes of the public. “Oh! You’re a twin! That must be so cool!” “I always wanted a twin!” “Is it awesome? It must be awesome.” “So you guys are like, best friends right?” The only surface that could keep a tally of the number of times I have been subject to these statements is probably the Great Wall of China. Anyone who has ever made these statements to me has never been a twin themselves (as goes without saying for the second one), and so to them the idea—more accurately stated, the ideal—seems a carefully crafted fantasy of sibling intimacy and friendship. And as much as I hate to shatter that ideal, here goes: it’s not that amazing.
To me, being a twin has never proved to be an extraordinary experience. In reality, or in my reality at least, the fact of my twinship (it’s not a word, but for all intents and purposes of this blog post, I shall utilize it as one, with the loosely given definition of “the friendship and sibling relationship which extends from being a twin”) has simply been that I have grown up with a sibling my age. There seems to have grown this idea that twins share not only the womb for nine months, but a wide range of similar interests, aspirations, tendencies, and mannerisms. This has never been the case for my sister and I. When I recently had the privilege of Skyping with one of my favorite artists, who I also knew to be a twin, I was again reminded—from the opposite side of the gender fence—that not all twins need to be close or similar in any way shape or form, as he recounted to me the divide which exists in their self-identities and the effect it has played on their relationship.
The fact that most people’s first introductions to twins, at least for my generation, were the Olsen twins and Tia and Timera Mowry only helped to ingrain such fallacies. Truth be told, Liz and I have never been best friends—elementary school found us friendly, but separate, while middle school only deepened the divide which had always existed between us. High school, needless to say, was not much kinder in bringing us together, and college brought about a physical distance as well as the psychological one which already existed, as she studied in upstate New York and I studied in southwestern Virginia. While Liz’s interests spanned dancing and pop culture, mine dwelled in the literary realms with a spark for theater. We did not grow up hating each other; cat fights with hair pulling were never the norm with us. We simply never meshed in the sense that most people (who are not twins themselves, be they fraternal or identical) expected twins to do. I’m sure the fact that we are fraternal, and, as I like to so frequently stress when enlightening people to the existence of my twin, “as fraternal as fraternal gets”, served as a great basis for the exacerbation of our differences in the later years. Physically, we have always looked different, to such a degree as many people often mistook my cousin for my sister more quickly than they guessed Liz to be her. In the past year, however, many have asked us if we are related—sisters is the first thing they say, although a kind cashier at Dunkin Donuts the other day left us momentarily speechless when she asked if we were twins.
I have always thought of Liz as a sister first, and a twin second—she the same, I think it is fair to say, as she frequently refers to her best friend as being closer to a twin to her than I am. I take no offense to this—M, as her friend likes to be called, fills a gap which I wholeheartedly recognize I will never be able to fill. The two of them have a relationship based solidly on shared musical interests, a healthy affinity for bars, and a wealth of shared experiences accumulated over the years as they studied in college together. Yet I recognize that at the same time I cannot fill M’s place, she cannot fill mine. I have found that there is a certain relationship which can only grow to fruition between siblings living under the same roof—and as a subset of that, there is a certain relationship only sisters can have, if they so choose to nurture it. And, finally, there is a special relationship which only twins can have—in our case, two girls, destined to experience many of life’s trials and tribulations at the same time—but not all; it must be worked at. It is the accumulation of these experienced which are shared at the same time, formulating a comradery which cannot be simulated, and those experienced at different intervals, which allow the imparting of wisdom between twins, which mold such a relationship.
So when asked if I will miss my sister, I said no. To me, the distance which exists between us proves meaningless—our relationship will not dwindle with the passing of weeks and months. Many may think this cold and distant, not to miss someone with whom I have shared so much. My only reply is that “not missing her” means in no way that my love for her is lessened in any degree than it would be should I say that I do miss her. The important thing to me is not whether or not I miss my sister—but whether I wish her all the best in this new endeavor, and all the faith that I have in her ability to work towards the future that she wants. And both of these are boundless.
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