One and the Same Read Online Free Page A

dismissing my armchair analysis. “Females have ignored both of us all our life.” (I notice his use of the singular: “life.”)
    I ask David why he thinks women take no notice. “I have no idea,” he says. “It’s
very
painful. To live an entire lifetime without havinga loving relationship.” He seems abruptly bereft. “Every year we come here to find twins for us to marry.”
    David asks me where my twin is and I fumble a quick explanation.
    â€œIt’s hard to be a twin here without your twin,” he declares, reading my mind.
    I make my way out to the fairgrounds, which are set up for those families with young twins: there’s a bouncy castle, a beanbag toss, and monster basketball. The toddler twins look more at ease than the adult pairs, who meander awkwardly in their matching ensembles, not saying much to each other, just being twins, side by side, observing other specimens. It’s as if they’d gotten into costume too early, and now that they’ve walked out onstage, they’re impatient for the show to start.
    More twins arrive. They’re everywhere now: twins on benches, twins on bleachers, twins on blankets, twins sitting under trees, standing in the sun, flipping absentmindedly through their welcome booklets. At first, it diminishes the rareness, frankly, this twin saturation. I thought the whole point of us is that we’re unique, that there are so few of us. But I begin to see that saturation is exactly the point: when else, and where else, can twins find each other in such large numbers, revel in their unusualness, swap war stories? This is a refuge, a mecca, a commemoration of difference (the oddity of twinship) and sameness, too (even the fraternals dress alike).
    So why do I mulishly seem to see the underside of a happy scene? What’s wrong with a little kitsch, a little revelry? These multitudes aren’t overthinking the coordinated outfits, the clever slogans on matching T-shirts (IT’S NOT YOU; IT’S ME.) , the inherent randomness of strangers thrown together just because they share one anomaly: They were born alongside someone else. For these folks, concurrent birth confers an unspoken fellowship. It’s not only that these twins want to
see
other twins; they really want to
be
with them. As the evening progresses, I notice people seem to like one another withoutknowing one another, to be predisposed to warmth simply because they’re pairs.
    I think I feel alienated, in part, because of where my twinship sits these days. There’s a closeness that’s sui generis, but also a certain detachment. Robin doesn’t seem to savor our twoness, nor is she particularly nostalgic about our history. I can’t say I parade it, but for me, it’s still potent, still a point of pride. I don’t question her devotion; but I know now that a lifetime with a double made her feel less singular in the world.
    When the line dancing kicks off with “Y.M.C.A.,” I’m reminded of how simple our simultaneity used to be. We were always quick to enter the line dance at a party. During our family vacations, we aced the Hustle or whatever Silly Signs routine was being taught by the pool. People watched us because of the kick of seeing double—replicas moving exactly in time. I remember feeling a charge not only in the ease of our synchronicity but in the tangible comfort of having her near.
    As kids, we often joined the joke on our twinship, performing “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” from
Annie Get Your Gun
, and “Why Am I Me?” from
Shenandoah
. In the middle school musical—a revue of old vaudeville tunes—Robin and I feigned a quick-change act, quickly popping out from behind a screen in different costumes, each of us emerging to sing a song from a different culture (I warbled a Hawaiian “Hicky-Hoy” in a grass skirt; then I disappeared and Robin instantly