My mother was one of twelve siblings, and throughout my childhood I heard about her favorite brother, Bob, and favorite sister, Polly. Her younger sister Betty’s favorite brother was Jim, except sometimes it was Fred, and Betty’s favorite sister was also Polly, which led to a battle royal over who would manage Polly’s memorial mass at the local Catholic Church in my hometown; there were, ultimately two programs for that event, one that I created and made multiple copies of for my mom, and another that Betty created and – did I also make copies for her? Maybe the local Priest at the time made them? Not sure, and it’s also possible she brought them from Florida, all printed out. It was a long time ago.
All to say that I was very aware that having favorites was a thing, a theme, a way to make someone in one’s life feel and be special, and, consequently, make other someones feel less so, less special, when not ‘the favorite’. Here’s the thing about favorites in my childhood home, though, while my mother regularly insisted she loved all of her children equally (one of many giant, huge, lies she told throughout our upbringing), she proved daily in the way in which she treated each of us that, in fact, she preferred and absolutely favored my two older siblings. Big time.
My brother Fred was served dinner second after my dad, and offered another helping as a matter of course, which none of his sisters were – although, yes, my older sister was anorexic and then bulimic during a significant chunk of this time (so deeply weird, really). My brother was also the openly acknowledged ‘owner’ of our second family car, a VW Rabbit; he was shown how to balance a checkbook, and do his laundry, although my mother did it until my brother’s wife took over, when he was nearly thirty. He was also allowed use the ride around lawnmower but was exempt from any household chores other than taking the garbage out, which I mostly ended up doing because he was in his room, not to be disturbed! He was given respect, along with rights and privileges I could only dream of at the time, although I was only a year behind him in school. All of this, and more, was heavily sexist, but it was also favoritism.
My sister Polly was offered a horse, riding lessons, ballet lessons, music lessons an hour away, given carte blanche on all things relating to clothing and jewelry, and, upon completing high school her graduation gift was an emerald solitaire ring (mine was a trunk). Her college choice – out-of-state and private – wiped out my parents’ saving to date, but that was what she deserved, and needed, endowing her with an education worthy of her immense talent (fine art painting). It didn’t help, either, that my mother regularly referred to my younger sister and I as her ‘spares’. Our mother also liked to remind me that she hadn’t wanted children, at all, and that while she was willing to have them because our dad so wanted them, once she’d had given him a daughter, Polly, as well as a son and heir, Fred, she was done, a reluctant mother at best to my younger sister and I.
When I was in therapy decades ago (we’ll call it mid-that long, multi-pronged journey), I reminded my younger sister of these statements from our mom; she told me she had never heard either of them. Or, at least, she sure didn’t remember our mother calling us spares, or talking about not wanting children. Never. Not ever. Personally, given my younger sister saved my mom from yet another unwanted pregnancy (she was her fourth child and caesarian in five point five years, and her birth was accompanied by a hysterectomy), it’s very possible my mom didn’t say those things to her.
Who is your favorite uncle, was something I was asked by my mom. Um, I like them all? Not acceptable. Who?! Um, okay, Uncle Jay? Of course, of course – you would say that. Uncle Jay was my dad’s brother, not one of her seven male siblings, and yes, of course I would say that. But he was, sorta, my favorite, if I had to have one (why do I have to have one, again?). Uncle Jay was a lot like my dad, funny and playful, willing to toss a softball around, young at heart; he grew sideburns the same year my dad did, and both my cousin Marsha and I exclaimed over our respective uncle’s matching and so, so groovy, shades of Jack Lord ‘burns’ the next time they visited us at the farm, and within minutes of one another, ‘Your dad grew sideburns!!!’
The other thing is, in all of this I was also turning the concept of favoritism inward, toward myself. My right side was the favored side, the good side. My left was the bad side. I would not wash the left side of my body in the bath, or if I did, it was cursory, quick, not sufficient. Ditto my face, teeth, and hands. In school I would only seek out one favorite friend in all my years there, even though I wanted more friends, more connection; it was important to have a favorite, and stick with that person and relationship through thick and thin (my choice led to a lot of thin), and to resist spreading my ‘favor’ – for what little it was worth – too slim. This continued until my older sister noticed my one-sided, lop-sided cleaning rituals in the bathroom, and got in my face about being a weirdo, which I definitely was, only – given she was bingeing and purging literal gobbums of food following a handful of years spent of trying to get below 70 pounds – how was I the weirdo and freak?
I was not the favorite. Eventually, ultimately, I was in disfavor with myself, because I could not (me, smart me!), figure out how to fix it, get out of the box of dis-favorment I was stuck in, a box that pinched and squeezed and hurt and hurt and hurt, so much. Favorite-ing is dangerous. Stupid. Harmful. Nonsense. Commonplace. Very commonplace, sadly. I needed more friends. I needed uncomplicated, whole-hearted love. My grandparents, given I was named after my gram, did seem to slightly, ever so slightly favor me, but their base line principle was to not ever show favoritism to any of their many grandchildren, because of course they didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t.
Grandpa, my dad’s father, now he had favorites, but they were whichever of his children was most obedient or made him proudest, and which of his daughters-in-laws were comely and buxom, and – vitally – not Catholic (his sons-in-law were both useless). But all of that was long before my time. He did start to favor me, actually, once he realized I was a good bowler, abandoning my older sister for my earthier, practical capacity to knock down pins, his favorite hobby in retirement. But, he died when I was twenty, a handful of years into my being elevated, and – given my mother’s intense dislike of him, of us both – was his favor doing me any?
Everyone, every single person on this planet, deserves to be a favorite of some other person, knock wood someone with the ability to positively support, love, and affect their beloved favorite’s life, without doing harm to others, or to the beloved themselves. Maybe I don’t mean favorite, maybe I just mean everyone, every child for sure, deserves to be loved, and supported by at least one other person in their lives, someone who has their back, and thinks they are terrific. No favorites, because that implies, again, others who are not favored, making the favorite a standout for affection among many or even just a few, which is potentially, probably unkind.
I was not the favorite. And when, as she did many times, my mother accused my dad of loving me more than he loved her, of my being his favorite, he would laugh, and say ‘that’s because she reminds me of you, Dorothy!’ But in reality, my father tended to avoid me, to protect me from her jealousy and wrath – when he was home, that is, which was not often. Finally, when the questionnaire comes around asking who my favorite person is on the planet, I say ‘me, I am my own favorite’, because sometimes, oftentimes, I am, we are, all of us disfavored ones, all that we’ve got.