Digressions: My Life in 500 Words or Less

During this pandemic, many of us have reacquainted ourselves with our home environments. In my case, that has led me to get reacquainted with at least one aspect of my identity.

It happened like this: I was working on reclaiming my man cave — which had turned into something of a storage room — when I found an old blanket. It isn’t even my blanket. It’s a blanket that belonged to my sweetie, Rebecca Ricks.

The top side of the blanket depicts row after row of sheep, white, fluffy and multitudinous. They stand in lines against a brown background.

What I like about this blanket is the row on the top side that depicts a specific sheep, fluffy, black and solitary. No other sheep in its row, it does not fit in the established pattern.

Of course, this is the literal depiction of the metaphor black sheep, as in black sheep of the family. And it is one I feel affection for.

It is me.

In fact, when we used to use the blanket, I would find the black sheep as we nestled under the covering and say, “That’s me.” Rebecca would smile.

She understood. She knew it was how I felt about my place in my family. But also she understood it was not a feeling derived from being ostracized or shunned by family members. It was not a status derived from others. It was self-ascribed.

I recognized fairly early in life I was not like my siblings or parents. In most cases, I was introverted to the point of anti-social, reflective to the point of disengaged and atypical to the point of odd. I enjoyed seclusion and books more than I did people and action. I enjoyed delving into the bizarre, weird and strange because they fascinated me. I was sociable enough under circumstances where I couldn’t avoid it, such as school, but I always preferred being alone. I recognized this was not the norm, and, regardless of the fact that it was self-imposed, I felt the alienation of being different.

I identified with the black sheep on that blanket. It is, indeed, me.

But, at some point, the blanket became worn, torn, deteriorated and dirty. It went into storage because I couldn’t bear to throw it out.

Then I found it a couple of weeks ago. And I remembered how much I love that blanket. I washed it, and wrapped myself in it, allowing it to again envelope me the way I have embraced it.

You see, despite the fact that at one time it felt alienating, I don’t see being the black sheep as a bad thing. The black sheep on the blanket is no less a sheep than the others. The black sheep on the blanket stands out. It is unique.

The black sheep is what it is.

The black sheep is me.