The Wanderer and the Sitter

Two children born under a gray star in a cloudless sky. One had wandering eyes surrounded by his fat little baby cheeks. The other had closed eyes, content to enter the world sleeping. The first was crying, throwing his little fists into the air as he stirred. The other was quiet. The doctors had to hit him, hard, to wake him up.

Two boys, born under a cloudless sky, down the hall from each other.

The one, the crier, went home in an air-conditioned car. His mother held him close to her, singing a half-remembered song from childhood. The road was smooth as they drove down tree-lined streets. The police smiled as they drove past the sobriety checkpoints.

The other, the quiet one, went home in a rickety old car borrowed from abuela. His mother held him close to her, singing a half-remembered song from childhood. Abuela sat next to her, berating the cops as they drove past the checkpoints and document searches. The road was rutted and unused, scarred by industrial trucks working at the concrete plant. No one was smiling as they walked inside their house, the pile of bills to the right, the smell of weed from the house next door.

The crier fell asleep to the sounds of Mozart. An in-home assistant changed his diapers, while reading to him from the selected literature of a hundred experts. When he tried to walk, they moved everything out of his way. When he tried to talk, they responded as if he could speak. When he tried to eat, they laughed and cleaned up the mess.

Two boys, born in the same building, living in the same town.

The crier went to a school designed to keep him interested. He grew plants, hunted for dinosaurs, and invented robots. He was asked to give his opinion and people nodded sagely as he prattled on about unicorns in the sun.

The quiet one mentioned that there might be flying horses and was told to return to filling out his paper. He learned not to talk or share his ideas. But he learned to duck and run as the checkpoints grew thicker. He learned to fear the tread of boots as guns were pointed at his dark body. He learned to hide, to look down, to never risk open confrontation but never given complete compliance.

War came in the end, like it always does. The crier signed up, his height and physique impressing recruiters. He was handed an assignment designing robots for the wars. The quiet one signed up too, desperate to keep abuela out of the streets. He was mustered into a grunt company, handed a gun and ordered to shoot anyone who didn't wear his clothes.

There were battles and airstrikes, explosions and death. The crier avoided all of that, building his robots that shot bullets farther and dealt pain faster. The quiet one avoided all of that, hopping around mines, clearing hallways, tossing grenades in the dark.

The war was over! The crier went home to acclaim and a medal. The quiet one went home, without a parade, but abuela was well and they had money to never lose power again.

Both boys survived. But tell me, which one thrived? The crier got a job, a wife, a few kids. He made money building more robots. The quiet one had medical bills, dreams that came to him in the night, cries that only the walls heard. Who was thriving? Who was dying?

The crier died soon after the war. There was an accident, ma'am. Someone was running down the street screaming about the end of the world and your husband swerved to not try to hit him. He fell off the road, ma'am. A stray bullet hit him in the crossfire.

Your son was running down the road screaming about the end of the world. He nearly killed two motorists! He was told to stop, but refused. We had to protect the public, ma'am. Because of your son's reckless actions, a war hero is dead.

Two boys, one death, same birth, same death.