Birth

I was born in the US to German-speaking parents. My first language was German. I was born in Bellevue Hospital in Niskayuna, Schenectady, NY. The irony of the hospital's name is not lost on me: I am well aware that Bellevue Hospital was also the name of one of the better-known insane asylums of our time.

"Bellevue" of course means "nice view" or similar. Nice view, my ass. My mother has told me more than once that my birth was the most painful thing that ever happened to her. I like to think I can remember it, and believe me, it was the closest thing I can imagine to original sin. I fucked up her birth canal like nobody's business. As soon as those contractions started squeezing me out, I made like a tunnel rat in Saigon, struggling for air and space and a chance at another day before a Viet Cong grenade took me out for good. I fought and squirmed and flailed mercilessly in a battle to the death, trying to get my head above ground, just going for that gasp of air that would separate me from the other corpses littering the ground behind me like a sordid Hansel & Gretel trail. By God, I wasn't going to let those gooks get me, at least not without a good fight for my life.

That was birth. Yay. Mom screamed; I cried; and the first snowfall of the year gently blanketed the ground outside.

The next funny part was that I was a girl. Don't get me wrong: I'd had lots of experiences with girls before. I just hadn't been one in a while.

My dad thought a good German girl should always have her hair combed nicely for a picture. Part of a good hair comb was a perfect side part, with more than a passing resemblance of Hitler's own famous side part. When I say "perfect", I mean that literally not one hair was to be out of place for the photo op. In order to ensure this, I believe he regularly went to the trouble of personally slicking my hair in its proper place with his own spit.

I enjoyed eating. I thought it was fun (and still do.) My mother, being inexperienced (I was her first child) and also a product of the Second World War, indulged me and never restricted my food intake, believing a healthy appetite to be a sign of a healthy child. Back when she was a young girl in post-World War II Germany, my mother had been cursed with a lithe form. Her parents received a lot of flak for this, as it was generally believed that my mother's waif-like shape (which would one day be the envy of other young women and, in combination with a Sophia-Loren facial structure, would launch her career as a successful model in Barcelona) was attributable to the fact that her parents couldn't afford to keep her properly fed. So, in order to keep up with the Joneses of their time and place, her parents force-fed her oatmeal porridge every morning till she was just about to puke, in a desperate attempt to fatten her up in order to avoid further rumors of a failing financial portfolio.

I got so fat as a baby that strangers would comment to my mother on my "full figure" (at the ripe old age of 9 months). My mother would explain to them that "German babies are made that way". In my prime, I boasted 8 rings of fat on each arm and each leg. I was the original Michelin baby.

I love my baby photos. They depict a fantastically obese infant with a Hitler haircut in a white, frilly dress. My smile is huge. I appear to be laughing at the camera, but really I'm laughing at myself. The hilarity of the situation does not escape me. My ear to ear grin is not a cute, girley smile. Nope. More like an absolutely amused, belly-deep guffaw, like I am laughing my ass off at the incongruous combination of fat rings, slicked-back Hitler hair and white lace that my parents lovingly referred to as their baby daughter. I knew even back then that I was completely off.

No one seemed to know I was an Undercover Brother, not even my mother. Holy shit, the possibilities. I loved it. I think I knew even then that I had a lot to look forward to.