“Are you the oldest?”, a woman interrogates, exaggeratedly gesturing in my direction.
Amused, I glance at my siblings and chirp, “Yep,” before leading my siblings away.
Of the many questions my siblings and I are asked when introduced as a group, this is perhaps the most common, to which I always shrug or mumble a disinterested response. I am by no means a liar, but in certain circumstances (such as this one), I am prone to making exceptions.
“Actually, I’m not just the oldest sibling, I’m the eldest sibling,” would be a truthful response, but considering not even my younger siblings are aware of the distinction, blatantly correcting my interrogator would serve a minimal purpose. I instinctively bristle at that term “oldest”. Why does it matter that I was born before my siblings? I never asked (or even wanted) to be born first. Alas, that I can neither change nor control. But I do maintain the capacity to neglect my siblings or to assume my role as the eldest sibling. So, of course, I prefer description as the “eldest” to the temporally denoted superlative, “oldest”. To be asked if I am the “oldest” is to be asked if age alone distinguishes me from my siblings when of course, that is not true. And, as the word suggests, the oldest sibling is just that - a passively and carelessly aging firstborn, while the eldest sibling actively aspires to be a respectable model for younger siblings.
As the oldest sibling, I intimately understand the complications of being the firstborn. One such disadvantage being the enduring torment of awaiting a parent’s permission for certain privileges, (and in my case, specifically soda.) For years, I privately worshiped this sacred substance in empty aisles, envisioning the glorious day when I would partake of a drink other than water. Yet, it was only after relentlessly badgering my parents with raucous calls of, “Can I have soda? How about soda? Mom, have you ever had soda? Did you like it?”, that my parents consented to soda at the legal “drinking age” of twelve. But I severed my spiritual relationship with soda when my parents extended their consent to all of my siblings as well - forever tainting the glory I had envisioned. As for other coveted privileges, I utilized similar strategies only to yield equally disappointing results of inclusion of all my siblings for “the sake of equality”. This pattern of simultaneous permission disadvantages the oldest or even “firstborn” child, but I have realized that there are no such disadvantages to being the eldest sibling.
As Belgian psychologists Vassilis Saroglou and Laure Fiasse explain in their 2003 paper published in the journal, Personality and Individual Differences, as the oldest sibling, I am predicted to be “responsible, competitive, and conventional”. Though my personality may align with the characteristics of this listing, (and I can’t say I disagree with any of them), these adjectives were concluded from studying patterns of behavior in oldest siblings without regard to interactions with their younger counterparts. So, when referred to as the oldest sibling, I cannot help but feel that this term isolates me from my siblings and enchains me to a string of qualities that essentially nullify my relationship with my siblings (and undesirably so). Thus, the eldest sibling distinguishes himself from the oldest sibling by utilizing his characteristics as the sole firstborn to benefit not only himself but his younger siblings as well. Just as how I remind Josh to remember his lunch, encourage Philip through light competition, and explain to Emma that no, she does not have to dress like her friends.
This critical distinction between the terms eldest and oldest sibling was initially apparent to me when, in 2004, my dad had been deployed to Iraq. At this point, my youngest sibling had not yet been born, but my other siblings and I accompanied our mom in my dad’s absence. As a curious toddler, I listened to adults repeating the peculiar word, “deployment”, in regular conversation. “Goal-oriented and determined”, it was the oldest sibling that requested a definition of this unfamiliar combination of syllables, “deployment”. However, it was the eldest sibling that explained this new term to his younger siblings and promised to support them while their dad was “deploy”.
Although I hardly remember the first fourteen months of my life (the only fourteen blissfully alone), I am told that rather than reveling in my parents’ attention, contrary to oldest sibling stereotypes, I was often preoccupied snatching at the air, desperately seeking to latch onto something. As I grew, I graduated from clawing at vacant space to pinching my fingers and toes. But it was not until fourteen months later, when my brother was born, that I stopped searching for an object to hold, and held onto him instead. I gingerly held my sister, and still years later, my youngest sibling, in the same way. I held them because I needed to. That was my purpose. And it was necessary for my younger siblings that I fulfilled that purpose. If not, I would share a roof, plates, and toothpaste with my siblings, but only as a neighbor - a roommate.
Oldest siblings do not maintain the same levels of necessity as eldest siblings, primarily because distinguishment from younger siblings on the sole basis of living the most days is irrelevant. Insignificant. Unnecessary. Even as a toddler unaware of the nuances between eldest and oldest, I acted as the eldest sibling in consciously choosing to involve myself in the burgeoning lives of my siblings - though I very well may have grabbed a bag of popcorn and watched.
As I continue to grow alongside my siblings, striving to surmount the stereotypes of oldest siblings, it is my greatest hope that in time, my siblings too will come to know me as their eldest and not oldest sibling. But for now, whenever I am asked, “Are you the oldest?” in their presence, I can only flash a grin and respond, “Yes, I am the eldest.”
