Hirp Thoughts

If I had to, or if I could, weight what percentage of the following question comes from actual external sources, my guess is it would come out to be about 22%. But that 22% has influenced me about 100%, with a +/- of .02%. Sorry, I’ve seen about 108% of my poll threshold, and I think it’s starting to take it’s toll. The thing is, I could probably only count a hand full, maybe two, times in my life where an apparently harmless question, left a ripple effect that lead to me questioning most aspects of my life.

I don’t know if those questions came first, or my own drive to be true to myself came first. It’s the proverbial chicken and the egg. But it’s come in one of the following six ways (in no particular order): true fan, real New Yorker, real Jew, brother, Uncle, and now parent. Those are the subject of the same question, and the answers have been what I often used to define myself. The question being, “am I a real ____” and fill in the blank with the six previous subjects.

It’s been in good fun and the harassing nature of some of my longest, and best, friendships. We love to give each other shit, and we’re good at it. When I first met them, I was the die hard sports fan. ESPN was the only channel that mattered 22 hours of the day, and I didn’t have Cinemax enough to make up for one of the remaining two hours, so ESPN and NBC were all I needed access to.

It could be that I grew up, or that my tastes and priorites changed. And there’s probably some truth to that. Also, there’s some truth to the fact that I became more disenchanted with sports, after running into a few athletes as a near adult, and seeing what dicks they are. I believe I’ve posted about this a little in the past. But because I was at one time, the diehard fan my wife is glad I’m no longer, I still identify, at least somewhat, as part of who I am. And to be honest, even though I don’t know everyone in Triple-A, let alone everyone on the KU roster, I still know more than the average fan. But I’m not where, or who, I once was. So when I get that, “you’re not a true fan,” I both agree with it, deny it, regret it, and feel proud of it.

The most common question posed to me by others, relates to me being a “real New Yorker.” And in some way, this offends me and screws me up the most. I was born in New York to parents who were born and raised in Cleveland, with a brother and sister who were born in Detroit. I left New York, by the choice of others, when I was eight. And when I was a kid, I was terrorifed of the city. But of the places I lived as a kid, my best memories are from New York. It’s influenced my taste in music, movies, food and sports. Probably even how I speak. But no, I didn’t grow up running around Manhattan, and I don’t have family residing out there now. But everything about what I do now was influenced and is still influenced by New York.

There’s no way I’m just another tourist who loves the city, because they didn’t hit Jones Beach as a kid. They didn’t take a trip to the Catskills, and they didn’t ride their bike to Artie’s to get baseball cards. They didn’t grow up watching the Mets, and there’s no way they have fond memories of going to their first ball game at Shea. A tourist didn’t camp out by the sound, even if they know all of Billy Joel’s songs by heart. They may know how to get around the city better, and they may get out there more often than I do, and I may have lived most of my life between the Rockies and the Mississippi, but I never forget where I came from.

I understand why it’s questioned, I really do. I’ve lived away from New York for 75% of my life, and that number will do nothing except grow. And I’ve kind of turned my nose up at Kansas and Missouri as if I think I’m too good for the area or something. For the record, I am not. My home is here, and I don’t want to live, or be, anywhere else, other than with my family in Lee’s Summit. But as a kid who moved around a little, and I know there are tons of kids who moved around a lot more than I did, it was the only way to keep myself grounded. Some move around, and they’re chameleons, and blend in with their new surroundings nice and easy. I didn’t have the social skills for that, and I didn’t have the drive to do that. So I held on to where I was happiest as tight as I could, and I don’t regret it for a second. That’s the loyalty in me that I happen to believe is my best quality. Even if it’s just being loyal to a zip code to most, to me, it’s being loyal to the 7 year old Hirp.

Maybe all Jews are such neurotic messes. But then again, I’m the Jew that doesn’t believe in God, hasn’t been to Temple for anything other than a wedding in the past 17 years, and knows less about our traditions than Rush Limbaugh. But I am a Jew. My parents, raised me Jewish, my bloodline is made up of nothing but Jews. But I never heard stories about aunts and uncles who survived Auschwitz, I’ve never even watched a Woody Allen movie and I read Italian about as well as I read Hebrew. Oh, and I’m pretty much in opposition of any and all organized religions. Never mind that I don’t believe in God. So am I a real Jew? Oy, I just don’t know. I’ve been to West Palm Beach, Boca, the upper west side and I’ve worn a Yamaka.

This one hasn’t come up often, and it’s probably just me when I get into my over-analyzing mode coupled with my defensive mode. See, my brother and sister were both adopted by my parents, but make no mistake; they are my brother and sister. Maybe two times in my life, I have heard, “well they aren’t your real brother and sister,” in response to the fact they were born with different DNA. Bullshit, and double bullshit because it opens up the thought that my nieces and nephews aren’t my “real” nieces and nephews. They couldn’t be more “real” and I couldn’t be more of an uncle to them. Maybe it’s just a pitty defense others come up with when they hear some of the stories, and think, that maybe it’d be easiser for me to separate myself from some drama. Only that couldn’t be more untrue. And sadly, I think someone has planted that seed with my sister and her kids. That we aren’t their “real family.” That’s some dangerous thinking there. Real family, there’s no such thing. There’s just family. Blood or genetics are questions for science to concern itself with, you can get that at a sperm bank or after a few too many drinks at a bar one random night.

It’s those infrequent situations that caused my semi-frequent visits to inside my head. See, if anyone would ask that, then I know they’d use the same reasoning when it comes to their judgement of me as a parent. Not that they should matter, or really do, but importance aside, that’s the shit that screws us all up on some level. But it matters not, that the Kyd share my DNA, not having been there when she woke in the night or that I wasn’t there for her first words or steps, and the fact that I am not “daddy” is of little significance. I lose sleep thinking about her, worried for her health, happiness, education and future. I dread when she begins dating, driving, and the first time someone offers her a beer or a hit. I hope she finds the right guy, or girl, and that her mom, father and I don’t screw her up too much. Will I walk her down the aisle, no. But I’ll be sitting up front with a giant grin, maybe a tear, and perhaps a loaded weapon just incase he gets any bad ideas.

It probably sounds bad, but it’s honest, this seed was planted by the Kyd’s friends. There have been a few times where I picked her up from school, and a classmate asked if I was her “real dad.” She says I am her “G” but I can see she’s uncomfortable with the question, and I understand. It makes me uncomfortable when I pick her up and someone at the daycare asks if I’m her dad, or if we’re out at Blockbuster and the person checking us out speaks to her and calls me her dad. Part of me wants to explain, well, I’m her step-dad. Why the hell do I do that? Because I don’t want to mislead anyone, especially her, I’m afraid whenever I don’t correct someone, that subconsciously, or consciously, she’ll think I’m trying to be her dad.

For all the things I am you can call me Sybil if you want. I’m a Jewish New Yorker, a real fan, a brother, uncle and a parent.