Oldest Daughter Syndrome
I’m an oldest daughter,
and I have oldest daughter syndrome.
I grew up too fast and don’t know how to grow back down.
I was a princess.
I had my castle and my dress,
but since then I’ve merely become a teen.
A teen that finds comfort in the music she listens to,
and the piano she plays until her fingers ache.
A teen that found comfort in being a caregiver to her family and friends.
but oldest daughter's syndrome is hard.
Even as I write I have to remind myself to write about me,
not the people that I love more than myself.
But I think that’s just who I am.
I wonder if being the oldest played a part in shaping me as a person?
Does birth order have to do with who I am?
Would I still be a caregiver?
Would I still be an overachiever?
Would I still yearn for validation?
I guess I won’t ever know,
but is that another thing?
Breaking down if I don’t have the answer?
Not being ok unless I know what will happen?
I think that’s just who I am. I’m scared to say anything about myself.
I’m scared to say I’m kind, they might think I’m boastful.
I’m scared to say I’m smart, they might think I’m an idiot.
I’m scared to be too loud, they might think I’m annoying.
But I guess that’s just a few symptoms of oldest daughter syndrome.
I Won't
I can’t decide on simple things.
I can’t say things about myself, can’t describe myself.
I don’t want to seem boastful, I don’t want to burden the people I love.
I’m scared to say what I want,
but I know what I want.
I know where I want to go for lunch,
I know when I want my friends to come over,
I know what time I need to be picked up.
But what if they don’t agree with me?
What if I’ve become more of a burden than an asset?
“Describe yourself, who are you?”
Well I don’t know who I am,
I know I’m kind and smart and talented,
But I know that there are people who would scoff in disagreement as they hear that.
So if they don’t agree, then who am I?
Am I the person teachers describe me to be?
Am I who my friends describe me as?
Or am I the person who my grandmother would describe me as?
So no, I won’t tell you what I want for lunch, I’ll let you tell me.
I won’t tell you when you should come over, I’ll let you tell me.
I won’t tell you when I need to be picked up, I’ll let you tell me.
And I’ll let you do it with a smile on my face.
Someday
No one gets me here.
This small town with small minds,
they don’t understand my complex thoughts.
They don’t understand my world views,
but I know that there has to be someone, somewhere that understands me,
and I’m going to get to them someday.
I’m going to become someone that teenage girls will look up to,
the way I look up to my idols.
I’m not going to do things that don’t bring me joy,
the things that don’t bring light into my life,
because why would I do something that doesn’t fulfill me?
I’m going to find the people that truly get me,
the people who will fill my life with light and love.
But I’m glad that I see the world with the eyes that I have.
My opinions and views are a huge part of who I am,
without them, I wouldn’t be me.
I’d be just another teen, living the small town life.
And I don’t ever want to be that.
Where'd She Go?
This office is a mess.
She was right, the old, damp building was bad enough, but choosing to come back to this dingy place was awful. Her coworkers smelled like stale coffee and B.O. which isn’t very pleasant to work in.
Moving to New York was meant to be a new start with a clean slate, but I think this office has infected my cleanliness.
She compared her office to a pig’s sty most of the time, but that didn’t even cover it all. Pigs would have been much nicer compared to the pigs of men she worked with. You’d think that a news station with as nice of a reputation this one has, it’d be nicer to smell.
Oh well, this job isn’t for forever anyway. Hopefully.
Her day was like any other: get up, go to work, bring a piece to her publisher, get denied, go home. In just under two years, she has only had one piece published, and it wasn’t even good in her opinion. It was only published because it was Breast Cancer Awareness month and she was the only one who decided to bring the whole awareness aspect into their paper.
Her desk has old coffee rings everywhere, and she can’t even imagine what’s hiding underneath, but this morning was different. Instead of her usual coffee rings, there was a small envelope. No postage, no address, no name, nothing. The envelope wasn’t a typical manilla envelope that were kept in the office, it was nice paper, oddly soft.
Maybe it’s my pay, but that doesn’t make sense, we don’t get paid until next week.
“Did anyone put this on my desk?” her question rang out.
Come on people, check your hearing aid batteries and answer me. “Guess not,” she said under her breath.
The letter had a wax seal with the initials “L.E.” She didn’t know anyone with those initials, maybe it was meant for one of the pigs next door.
She set the letter in the break room with a note saying, “This was left on my desk, I wasn’t expecting anything so I think it’s one of yours.”
Very polite, states my point, there shouldn’t be anything wrong with leaving this here.
As the day went on, she couldn’t stop thinking about that letter. The soft caress of the paper in her hand, something about it was captivating.
Oh well, it’s already in the break room. Hopefully it finds who it's meant for.
She thought too soon, because the next day, what appeared to be the same letter was on her desk.
It must be meant for me, I mean, this is the second day in a row.
She decided to open the letter and spill out its contents. An old newspaper article tumbled out of the envelope. The headline titled, “She Said They Were Watching—Now She’s Gone.”
This has got to be some kind of sick joke.
Her demeanor shifted immediately. She didn’t know anyone that could have done this, let alone anyone who would have taken the time out of their day to scrounge all of this together.
I’m probably overthinking this, I mean, a lot of people know that I hate being messed with. It could be anyone I know that did this.
She shoved the clipping into her desk drawer and decided to carry on with her day. She had decided way before this that today was the day. Today was the day that she’d stay late writing the best article the publishers had ever seen.
I can’t get distracted. Not today.
She started writing. She wrote until she couldn’t stand to look at her laptop anymore, and even after that, she kept writing.
She wrote until she woke up with her head on her desk.
Tailgating and Community
It was another one of those classic college football Saturdays, with tailgates stretching as far as the eye could see. The sea of red surrounding Memorial Stadium pulsed with energy, alive with laughter, cheers, and the low hum of fight songs on portable speakers. The scent of grilled burgers, smoked ribs, and bubbling crockpots drifted through the air, mingling with the cool autumn breeze. People say they come for the game—and sure, the football is great—but it’s the tailgating that stirs something deeper. It’s where strangers become family over plates of cheesy potatoes and homemade chili, where tradition is passed down not just in cheers, but in recipes.
Tailgating is centered around the food for so many reasons. Food is a conversation starter; it’s an escape, it’s what brings tailgating to life. Whether it’s the freshly grilled meat, dripping with flavor, or carrots and cherry tomatoes from one of the hundred veggie trays, you are always able to find something that suits your palette. For me, it’s always the sweet treats that bring the party together. Sweet cupcakes, slightly mushy chocolate covered strawberries, or the scotcheroos that’ve been sitting in the sun for just a little bit too long, are what really excite me. There’s so much tradition and generational love that go into these foods. It’s not about the sweetness that coats your tongue that makes these treats loved by everyone, it’s the homeliness that comes with them. These homemade and imperfect tailgate treats serve as a memory; memories of baking with grandparents, perhaps learning how to bake or maybe even your sweet treat after some rough homesickness. If you have a specific treat that reminds you of family, you know how incredible it feels to finally have those things again after not having them for so long.
Food is what brings people together. It’s what fuels us and keeps us alive, but it’s not only food, it's also the community it brings. Without food, we’d have no community, and with no community our society would surely fall.
"Say Hello to My Little Friend Sorrow" by Andrew Grace. Pleiades. vol. 34, no. 2. 2014.
The poem is about a man who is scared to not get into Heaven and his fear of dying.
He starts the poem by calling himself “old,” and that he’s “practically extinct,” even though that isn’t true seeing as he claims to be only 34. He worries about not getting into heaven and that he has nothing to show for his life. He calls himself “as old as Vasco de Gama,” and goes on to explain that de Gama offered sugar and hats in return for the ownership of India, and that he can only offer his scattered possessions, which don’t mean much, in the case of exchanging them to get into heaven. Then, he changes his mind and says that it’s okay that he’s not getting into heaven because he’s “scared of angels.” He questions, “What good has ever come out of a group/demurring, “No thanks, we’d prefer/just to constantly observe from a great distance?” (1). All of this can be interpreted as the fear of not being good enough for someone or something, but finding a comforting peace in that, because what does being good enough for a specified thing really prove? Sure it can give you the satisfaction of saying that you are better than someone or something else, but something like that doesn’t fill the soul.