The Third Wheel
TAKE 2 — AN ODE TO MY SIBLINGS
A philosophical haven, an alcove of classified information, and the temple for my renowned one-woman cover of “Bohemian Rhapsody”: the shower at my parent’s house. This dwelling of decaying pink tile and contemplation is where I did my deepest thinking. More importantly, it led me to the conclusion that my life revolves around the number three—I am the youngest of three, I was born at 3pm, and my mom always made me try food three times before I could declare dislike. As I half-heartedly scrubbed my shoulder, I pondered the eerie repetition of the number three in my life. I wondered how I could exist in a world that put such an emphasis on twos—socks, shoes, earrings, relationships, the buy one get one free board game at Target, etc. It was difficult to fathom since the most substantial moments and details of my life have always happened in threes.
In nearly all scenarios of my life, I have been a third wheel. It felt akin to the movie Groundhog Day. We’re a family of five, so my parents have always paired off together, and my older brother and sister would as well. Our family outings accentuated the inherent magnetism the duos had. I could never really blame them though — there was something instinctual about it even for me. I regularly found myself either scurrying too far ahead or drifting aimlessly behind the herd, never able to match everyone else’s pace. My fate was relentless in it’s reminder to me. Every spoon had its fork; each shoe its sock; and every lock already had its key. Anything additional would have to be a replica or it’s just forcing itself to fit in. So, I didn’t.
While I understood the lack of enthusiasm for solitude, I still found myself puzzled by the world’s collective hatred of third wheeling. My intuition poked at me. Reducing it all to loneliness was not only a superficial but, dare I say, naive understanding of my circumstances. It was upon cucumber melon scented reflection that I realized that third wheeling was, admittedly, my impetus. Like a third wheel on a tricycle, I often steer my own way — with the comfort of my back wheels supporting closely behind.
The back wheels I leaned on most growing up were my siblings, Nessa and Goyo. They were like conjoined twins: a team strung by a shared carefree spirit that I could only yearn for. I was often left to find a friend within myself.
In our pre-pubescence, warm summer weekdays could be, at times, monotonous for the three of us. With each parent working and most friends in summer camp, recreation was limited to the boundaries of our home. We passed the time like most other kids in the 2000s — downloading songs from Limewire, watching the Disney Channel, and arguing ’til we boxed. Even that routine sometimes grew dreary, so we’d trek outdoors to the backyard. Among the barren, unkempt grass and our dog Rambo sunbathing; our choices for distraction remained finite.
My siblings came to discover their outlet was sports, regularly engaging in a two-some game of catch. Our childhood boredom was the launch of their impressive athletic pursuits; their natural dexterity flourishing symbiotically. Nessa and Goyo would go on to be superstars in any sport they played. It would make them into the confident, headstrong adults I love today.
In that same backyard, I climbed our plum tree and reveled in the make believe world I created for myself. On Tuesday, I was a cynical huntress who finally stumbled upon an abundance of vegetation. On Thursday, I was steering a small wooden boat — carefully maneuvering the shark infested waters below. I didn’t know it at the time, but my childhood boredom would also plant the seeds for the person I would blossom into.
Early on, our parents decided it was important for us to fill our free time with activities, as a means to become more well rounded and avoid any trouble. They went the route that my Pops was most familiar with: soccer, softball, and baseball. My siblings took to it naturally. Over the years, they were lauded by the community as all-star players. Nessa specifically had this crazy ability to pick up any sport, ranging from Judo to Golf, and reign champion over kids even above her age group. She excelled in competition, often being sought by coaches who wanted her on their team. Before I even hit the field, it was often assumed by coaches that I, too must be a standout — such talent had to be genetic.
While Nessa was a jack of all trades, I’d argue that Goyo was a true master of one: soccer. Like Nessa, he sampled a number of sports over the years. He enjoyed baseball, judo, track, swimming, and football; and was often recognized for his speed in all. His natural athleticism was apparent, although marred by a unique difficulty. At a young age, Goyo found out he had hemophilia — a rare disorder that prevents blood from clotting properly. This made even the tiniest cuts threatening, and by extension every sport dangerous. Unlike most people I know, Goyo took his dreadful circumstances by the hand and danced with it — always being the most rehearsed person I knew in the act of courage. His dedication landed him the responsibility of being our high school varsity team’s captain.
Admittedly, I didn’t care about sports in the beginning. I held two beliefs: competition was frivolous and my participation was optional. Witnesses of my first soccer games often spotted me sitting criss-cross apple sauce, picking flowers in the grass. The more teams I joined though, the more I began to enjoy the friendships I gained in sports. While I still thought competition was frivolous, I now wanted to win for my friends — because it meant something to them. So, I began trying.
As the years went on, I couldn’t escape the gnawing feeling that I must’ve been a mutant. I desperately attempted to match my siblings’ ability, but always resembled something more closely to “Smalls” from The Sandlot. While I accepted that I had no hand-eye coordination, I knew I still had something to contribute to the team. From that point forward I became a bit of a mascot for my teams — diligently cheering on and entertaining my peers, their parents, and coaches. I kept the bench warm with enthusiasm and amused our team to victory. This attitude, in fact, led me to becoming a crowd favorite. So much so, that my little league came up with a faux rule called “the Bella rule”, where an umpire was not allowed to strike me out until I made it on base. My shortcomings evolved into what I consider my biggest strength: the ability to persevere and fail with joy. I found acceptance in not being number one on the field, because I always knew I was number one in everyone’s hearts. I could not have gained that ability without embracing my role as third wheel of the family.
Many people didn’t hold back when it came to pointing out my overall dissimilarity to my siblings. Contrary to popular belief, we do share some things in common: our greenish tinted eyes, tan skin, and inclination to aggravate our Mom. These traits, however, are not what bond us as three.
My mom always described me as being in my “own little world”. It became harder to deny the ways my imagination rooted itself into my identity. It showed up as memorizing and performing Mad TV skits for my family, and consuming books cover to cover the day I bought them. It wasn’t until I got to high school that I finally quit sports and began to explore my creativity. In my Sophomore year, I joined theatre and did my first production of a show called Our Town. I played Wally Webb, the playful little brother to the main character. I had a whopping five lines but was surprisingly onstage often. The show’s lack of set provided minor characters with ample opportunities to play in the background. Our director even had this idea to have the cast walk around the auditorium before the show, to make it more immersive. We’d introduce ourselves in character to nearby audience members and improv through an entire conversation, certain to maintain period accuracy. I remember the way my creativity stunned me. The ease. The freedom. The natural desire I felt to add to the narrative.
It was in those moments that I identified my love for play. To this day I’m baffled I never noticed it— swinging in the trees, picking flowers in the grass, distracting my teammates from a loss. Since then, I have had the gift of telling many more stories onstage, and have begun making a career of sharing my own through writing and filmmaking.
As I’ve grown older, storytelling has become what I am celebrated for. From small talk with coworkers about my weekend, to the written sagas about my family; I find connection in the escapism. I’m sometimes asked what I love about it. What I get out of it. The answer’s never changed. It’s squinting past the hot stage lights and seeing them. It’s hearing their prideful roars from the softball bleachers. Its feeling the pull of their hands inviting me to join the game of catch.
Everyday I set out to tell stories similar to my own. Like my own persona, my storytelling is a bit eccentric, sentimental, with a dash of humor. I look forward to my future in storytelling, as I hope to reach those who do not see beauty in distinction. To put it best: I would like to show that being a third wheel isn’t so bad after all.