When my dad was a very little boy, his father handed him a stuffed animal, a penguin, and said, "This is for you. His name is Anatole." My grandfather had named the penguin after Anatole France, author of the satirical novel L'Île des Pingouins (Penguin Island). My grandfather died when I was nine, so I didn't know him that well, but from what I can tell, this episode gives a fairly good description of who he was. First, there is the semi-pretentious literary allusion that is entirely for his own pleasure, as the extremely young boy he's handing the penguin to would have no clue of what he's talking about. Then there's the fact that he decided the name of the penguin for his son, instead of giving him the opportunity to come up with his own name. And finally (and this is related to the previous two points), there is the lack of any real emotional connection to his son or the gift. I mean, clearly it's a present, so it's presumably intended as an expression of affection, but there seems to be a great restraint of affection in the actual presentation of the gift.
I suppose it's not that surprising that my dad still has Anatole, at the age of 69. Anatole is worn down now, but he still sits in the study at my parents' apartment (formerly my brother's room). My dad loves penguins. As a result, this was, for many years, the standard "I don't know what to get him" gift. Penguin paperweights, glass penguins, stuffed penguins used for juggling—all of these made it into my father's hands because none of us knew what he wanted for his birthday, or Hanukkah, or anything.
This became a terrible habit in my family. My brother liked ducks, so his standby gift was anything related to ducks. My sister liked cows, so her standby gift was anything cow-colored. And I got snails, because of Snaily. Eventually, we all became incredibly annoyed with the pattern. My brother was the first to ask for no more ducks, then my sister asked to stop receiving cows, and I requested an end to the snails. Last month, I found a wonderful glass penguin in a store near my apartment, and inquired from my dad if he would be interested in it, and he politely asked for something else.
I wonder if what bothers any of us about these gifts is the repetition or the message. I mean, certainly I don't need any more snail figurines in my life, but I think what's more distressing is that it communicates a perspective my family might have of me. Their idea of who I am and what I like is so one-dimensional that they can only think to get me a snail, year after year after year. But this is inevitable. As we grow up, we grow apart, and soon other people in our lives—friends or significant others—begin to know us better than our family does. It's upsetting though, to let go of the comforting notion I had when I was a child, that I was completely interwoven genetically and emotionally with my immediate family. When I think back on it, though, it occurs to me that that notion was both a comfort and a source of great anxiety; if my family was the end-all be-all of knowing me, and they clearly didn't get me all that well, or even seem to like me at times, then perhaps there was nowhere that I belonged.
Now that I have Rosie, my family gets me dog-related gifts—either actual gifts intended for Rosie, or just things that have to do with dogs. But I happily accept these gifts and the love with which they are given, and try to reciprocate in kind. We are all just trying to maintain an emotional connection as we inevitably drift a little further apart, and find new people who understand us for all of our complexities.
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