BIRTH STORIES

I often ask audience members, “What is your birth story? Any interesting tidbits about your arrival?” Initially, there’s silence as people think. Soon, the first brave soul shares their story. Some responses are expected: “My mom said I was a difficult birth.” “My parents said it was the best day of their lives.” Others are more layered: “I almost died because the umbilical cord was around my neck.” “My mom gave birth to me during a snowstorm in our car.” My favorite moments are when people share narratives they’ve never revealed before. The most memorable was from an 8th grader who stunned us all.

“My dad had a family tradition. After my mom gave birth to me, my dad left the delivery room, went to a news stand, bought one copy of every newspaper and magazine on the shelf, and put them in a locked box. When I turn 18, I get to open the box and read what was happening in the world on the day I was born.”

We all gasped! What a cool idea. I was jealous that neither my parents nor I had thought of such a tradition. I used this story as a teachable moment. “How many of you are friends with this student?” Five or six hands went up. “How many of you have heard this story before?” All hands went down. “Why haven’t you shared this remarkable story with your friends?” I inquired. Embarrassed, she mumbled, “I didn’t think it was important enough.”

Our stories are important, even the ones we don’t remember. When I first started asking for birth stories, I was performing in a juvenile detention center. A common birth story theme emerged. Too many of them were told that they were mistakes. My heart breaks every time I hear that description. I try to always remind them, “You are not a mistake. You may have been unplanned, but you are not, and never will be, a mistake.” But seriously, how can any of us be alarmed by the destructive decisions of individuals who have as their initial narratives that they are an error of life itself.

My story? I was born on March 7th, 1971, at St. John’s Hospital in Queens, NY. I was the only baby born that night and the only baby boy born there in five months. The nurses were so thrilled they pooled money to buy my mother a gold cross for me. I still have it. They told my mother, “Joyce, we don’t know what your son will do or be, but it will be different.” I’ve heard that story since I was six.

Can you imagine how that made me feel growing up? Special? Proud? Nope! I felt like a freak. We’re taught to value differences, but I hated my story. Different meant playing alone at recess, eating lunch by myself, and never being invited to parties. I blamed my birth story. It took me decades to transform my story into something positive.

Here’s what I’ve come to understand: There are two parts to all our stories—the ones told to us and the ones we tell ourselves. We often feel trapped by others’ perspectives, but we must transition the given story into a new meaning for ourselves. For years, I struggled with being different, feeling like a cipher, a nobody. But I eventually unearthed the true meaning of my birth narrative. I am here to walk this lonely path so others can feel less alone. The nurses were right: No matter what I do or become, it will be different.