All children mythologize their birth. It
is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him
to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be
a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.
Diane
Sutterfield, The Thirteenth
Tale
The story of my birth on July 25, 1945,
a few weeks before the Americans dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and six
months before the official start of the “Baby Boom,” has morphed into a drama
of heroic proportions. Well, maybe
not heroic but courageous, gallant, determined. It was, after all, a time of war when ordinary people lived
extraordinary lives. I have no
doubt that over the years the details have been exaggerated, even modified to
provoke suspicion in the minds of the most trusting of souls. What if the story
has been mythologized? It’s not
the truth that matters but the persistent memories that count. Memories are
like the whispered words in a game of “Telephone.” By the time the last player repeats the words out loud, they
are nothing like the original. The
fluidity of the game mimics the ever-changing stories of our lives—stories that
create reflections of the past and decisions in the future.
STAY TUNED FOR PART 2
And do share your birth story with me below.
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