Middle Child

 

The new novel by Jonathan Franzen—Crossroads—arrived the other day, and I’ve dived into it. (I generally love his work.) 

So far—I’ve read only about 100 of its nearly 600–it deals with things so familiar to me: the 1960s and the related anxieties (Vietnam, civil rights, assassinations, etc.), high school and college popularity dramas, life in a minister’s family—a life that includes three children.

Of the middle son, Franzen writes, that “by his own rational assessment, he was the one child in the family with no rightful claim to a room of his own, being neither the oldest nor the youngest ...” (20).

I was the middle child in our family with three boys: One is older by three years; the other, younger by four.

I guess I displayed in boyhood some evident symptoms of “the middle-child syndrome” (maybe I still do?), but I don’t recall feeling a lot of resentment. We were/are so different from one another, you see.

My older brother was a reader, a lover of classical music, a winner of scholarships and academic honors. (He and my younger brother were both high school valedictorians; I was not.) He played the piano with great talent.

I was more interested in sports and spent my days playing games, specializing in basketball and baseball—doing very well in both in our tiny Hiram High School. I also liked music and played principal parts in our school musicals. I had nowhere near the musical knowledge of my older brother—or his musical talent—but I got by. I don’t recall being jealous of him—but proud at his piano recitals, where he had the honor of performing last.

My younger brother loved sports, too—but also reading and doing well at school. (His musical talent was, well, not impressive.) He ended up going to Harvard, where he also earned his Ph.D. in history. With some friends he later formed a company that writes and publishes business histories.

My older brother went to Hiram College (as I did), but while I was coasting along, he was working hard and earned his way into Harvard, too, for grad school. He worked for a while toward his doctorate, too—got very close—then got the opportunity to be the classical music critic for the Boston Globe—and that’s how he spent the rest of his career.

And I? I got into a grad school program, got no scholarship money, and ended up teaching in a middle school—a career I loved. I earned a doctorate at Kent State, where I met Joyce (also a grad student), and, fifty-two years later, we are still married, and there has never been a more fortunate man than I.

And so, yes, I am the middle child, but I mostly admired rather than resented my brothers. How could I not?

Now, as life is winding down, I am grateful for my family (I was so fortunate—wonderful parents and other relatives), so spectacularly grateful for Joyce and her wonderful family, so humbled by it all.

I won the SuperLotto, it seems—not the one that delivers millions of dollars but the one that delivers a lifetime of happiness—and gratitude.