“Who’s your partner?” Alice asks around the thumb in her mouth, her round dark eyes peer curiously at me from her spot in my lap, the eyes shared by many of the cousins.
“What do you mean?” I respond, automatically pulling the little hand away from her face. Her mother had announced they were getting her to quit sucking her thumb, so I was obliged to help.
“Well,” she continues, “Becca and Bridget are partners. Johnny, Emily, and Mary are partners, too. Mine are Joey and Elena.” Amused, I realize she is referring to cousins that are close in age; they go to the same schools, spend weekends together, and grow up best friends.
At first, I was like Alice, serving myself and caring for few outside my circle of playmates. Barefoot, covered in dirt, my four partners and I ran around the yard, traversing lava floors, churning oceans, or dark forests. With my great-aunt down the street, we spent our summers moving freely between houses. At dinnertime, we lined up with practiced ease at the front, following the youngest to oldest protocol. The table before us balanced stacks of dishes, a giant pot of spaghetti at its head. An older cousin held my plate while I bounced impatiently on my heels.
Afterwards, we ran freely through the house, full and satisfied from dinner. There was a warm glow coming from the kitchen, the room alive with chatter, splashing, and clanking. To us, the noise was nothing more than a great timer; when it faded, it was time for bed. An aunt would chase me around with a pair of pajamas balled up in her fist until the excitement of the game wore off, and I picked a spot on the floor to sleep. Anywhere was satisfactory, but it was always warmer if I was curled up close to someone.
There is a gradual and inevitable transition that occurs as our family grows. Little Anthony had always trailed behind us, breathless to keep up on legs one month younger than ours. Now, he is joined by a younger companion, my brother Simon. Soon, there is a group of them: a new media for playing. They follow orders and copy movements, enthralled by our extra two years of wisdom.
Suddenly, I am not running from an older cousin with a toothbrush, but wielding one of my own in a desperate attempt to corner a younger kid at bedtime. The floor seems less appealing now, preferring to share couches.
Everything is shared. My birthday, for instance, is on the same day as two other family members: my Aunt Janet and Aunt Sarah. Names are also shared. There are two Antonio’s born within the same month, named after their grandfather Antonio and cousin Anthony; there is Frank, Frankie, Franko, Grace Frances, and Francesca; I am Maria Josephine, namesake of Marianne Josephine, Josephine Mazzola, and Maryjo (Maria Josephine). As a child, it was frustrating. In a world where being different is glorified, I tried to make myself stand out with a nickname. Some of my cousins still call me Mia, but I grew proud of my title. Around my neck hangs a gold Mary medallion bigger than a quarter, inherited from the great-grandmother who first wore my name.
It reminds me that there is a value in being a part of something greater than myself, and it only increases as I grow. When tall enough, I can see over the countertops in the kitchen. The after-dinner bustle is revealed to be washing dishes. There is only a moment to revel in the discovery before a dish towel is shoved in hand. Now, when my younger cousins are playing after dinner, my companions and I work next to older cousins and aunts, drying and putting away assorted plates and bowls. I form relationships on a deeper level as I gain responsibilities. As we work together, I bond with family members of all ages. Some days, I play with younger cousins, organizing elaborate games for them. Other times, I prepare food with elders, learning old recipes and listening to stories.
Next comes being trusted to be in charge by myself; I am almost equal in the eyes of the adults. Saturday night, there are six boys and one girl at my house, all sleeping in a pile of blankets in the middle of the living room floor. Although exhausted, I am profoundly satisfied and content looking over them, having successfully prepared dinner, gotten their teeth brushed, and sent them to bed. It is in these places that I learn the meaning of purpose, of role, and its correlation to happiness and contentment.
As a child, happiness was surface-deep: playing and serving myself. Growing up, I see that this same definition of happiness is advertised throughout society for adults. I realize that it is fleeting and shallow. It is a knowledge of my mission to serve others, so developed as part of a large family, that allows me to feel a lasting contentment.
