Swimming upstream

“Are we ready to eat?” My aunt’s voice is barely audible over the room full of conversations big and small, loud and quiet.

“Yes!” A few of the louder cousins, of which I am not one, bellow over the din; and then, from the recliner in the corner, my uncle:

“I say, ‘no.’”

“No?” my aunt asks. “No?” The second time with two syllables, to emphasize her confusion.

“I was always taught that nothing should be unanimous,” my uncle says.

And then we eat.


If I had known then that my uncle had just vocalized what would become a recurring theme in my life, maybe I would have pursued some different options. At least once a week since he vetoed dinner, I’ve heard the rewinding squeal of a tape recorder in my head and then the words “nothing should be unanimous” playing in my mind. Why must I always be the lone dissenter?