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THE BIRTH CURSE
A good name is better than precious
ointment;
and the day of death than the day of one’s birth. Ecclesiastes, Chapter 7, Verse 1 Because of my busy schedule I now live by the calendar; making sure the appointments are listed well in advance, as I leave the sanctuary of my surroundings for the grime of the outside world. It was during this time of appointment-calendar mapping that I noticed and then fully realized what strange date is about to occur that literally happens once in every century. Reflecting upon the moment, I actually felt a bit melancholy for those who, by an act of Fate, were about to enter this unstable world on June 6, 2006, or in other terms, have a recorded birth date of 06-06-06...666. On that dark and dismal Black Tuesday, babies the world over born within that 24-hour period will be marked for life by delusional zealots who believe the anti-Christ is within their midst (for the record, anyone opposed to Christ and His teachings is anti or against Christ, thus we have had various forms of anti-Christ since the Lord was caught up in the clouds nearly 2000 years ago) and will have revelations from the Lord to do away with such as those who were born at a time like this. And what of these innocent babes, who, through no fault of their own, are born on that particular date? What will it be like for them as they grow older and people ask when they were born? Will they just nonchalantly give the answer and say no more unless pressed further, or simply change the subject? Will their birth date make any difference to them or have an impact? I suppose these strange thoughts and unanswered questions come about my way of thinking because I, unfortunately, was born in the same position some of these children the world over are about to be placed in, and realize the trauma it can cause if one is not properly educated. To some people, being born on February 29th might be a unique conversation piece (and for an added bonus if you were to go by the Chinese Zodiac, I would be placed in the Year of the Rat). I get a birthday every four years. No person born on such a date will every see their golden birthday (when your age matches your birth date, thus no one born on February 29th ever sees 29 birthdays, which would make that person 116 years old! If you know anyone of this rare exception, please let me know, as I would love to meet that individual.)... I once had fun with my birth date when I was stopped for speeding and the officer noticed my driver’s license had expired, and pretty much gave me a stiff fine which I fought in court; my reasoning being to the judge that my driver’s license had in fact never expired because there was no such date as February 29, 1997 as stated on the government approved document. The case was thrown out of court; the ticket and fine over ruled. I had to get a new driver’s license, and from that point on, anyone born on such a date would have their licenses read, Expires: February 28... no matter what the year of birth was. Then there’s the other side of the coin; the dark moments that I’ve had to keep my guard up, when some religious zealot (who was usually raised a Catholic) discovers when I was born and refers to that date as being when the anti-Christ is to be ushered in. I smile and act dumb and try to disappear from the person’s sight (you know, out of sight, out of mind...), but there was an incident once, many years ago, when that wasn’t the case, and the guy actually thought that if he were to take me out (kill me), he would be the savior of the world. Fortunately, I only had to keep my guard up for a year until the Lord took him out with a case of cancer, but that was a trying time to say the least. Overall, for me at least, the date of my birth has been a curse from the moment I left my mother’s womb. Even my name had to be well thought out because of the circumstances... At that time from the late 50s to... come to think of it, I believe it’s still ongoing with my mother who was (is?) very much wrapped up in Numerology and other assorted white magic (as opposed to black magic that was suppose to be worse than the white stuff, but to me I’ve never seen the difference... delving into Satan’s realm is still evil no matter what color you choose to call it). Add to that the fact that she was raised a strict Catholic by her Italian parents, and we have the makings of an interesting scenario when my father entered the picture and they were married shortly thereafter. In the Catholic tradition, it states that the anti-Christ, I mean the anti-Christ; Satan’s son, the one who will usher in the end times and bring about Armageddon, will be born on what else?...February 29th (although the Catholic church is wise enough never to divulge exactly what year that will be, nor in which part of the earth the birth will take place, nonetheless, we have perhaps thousands of little anti-Christs roaming about this world never knowing their true destinies...). So, my mother, being the good Catholic girl, finally decides to marry (at the relief of her parents who thought, at age 30, their daughter was just too old to find a husband and bear children) a man who literally got off the boat from London, England and found his way to my mother and her family. My mother, believing herself to be of a better class than what the neighborhood had to offer, never wanted to marry, "any of those local Palookas," but when she saw my father and heard him, fell for his accent and English etiquette. Unbeknownst to my mother, the reality came after the marriage that she had indeed married a Palooka; the difference being this one was of foreign descent. To make matters worse, within 18 months after taking the vows, their first child was born, a son (yours truly) on the dreaded date most Catholics fear... the date of the anti-Christ! My father being pleased with the results, announced to my mother while she was still recovering from her 17-hour ordeal (anytime my mother wanted to make a point in an argument with me, she would use the well rehearsed line, "17 hours I was in labor with you! 17 hours! None of my other children ever gave me as much grief as you!...") that he wished to have his newly first born son be given the honor of receiving his name and subsequent numeral as was English tradition for all first born sons in the family. When my mother heard this piece of news from my father, she nearly died of dread, and immediately composed herself right there in the hospital room, as she readied for the battle over the child’s name. Until they came to terms on the deal, I was to be known as Baby Foster, as it was stated on my birth certificate. Perhaps my mother could have given my father what he wanted if I had been born on any other date but the dreaded February 29th, but my mother was well versed in Catholic traditions (as was my father from his Catholic days in England), and she knew God was punishing her for delving into the white arts by allowing me, her first born male child, to be born on such an ominous day to a man who’s name was Joseph Adrian Foster, or in numerological terms, 6-6-6... Being that my mother felt she had given birth to the anit-Christ, she was going to do everything within her power to combat the forces of evil that seemed to lay claim to her son. The mama bear was ready for the fight, and she would fight whomever she had to in order to see that her first born child was given a chance to be redeemed for the errors of her ways. One of the first things she did was secretly (well, I suppose it wasn’t a secret once she told me, years later, what she had done) consecrate me unto the Lord, by offering me (as some women did within the Bible) to God to do with as He pleased (once I heard this some 30-odd years ago, I knew I could never run from God and do what I wanted; that I was a marked man thanks to my mother). For the first eight days of my birth, my parents did nothing but argue over what my name was to be. Thank God a time limit was set, else I may still be known as Baby Foster, but eight days it was to be, because my mother was going by the Bible (why this sudden need to cling to the Bible, I’ll never know, except that perhaps she was really scared of what was happening and that this innocent baby; this son of hers should not be cursed by her foolish actions), and it so stated that after eight days the male child was to be circumcised (this could also have been the Jewish side of her coming out... I must say, I’ve had an interesting upbringing... born a Jew, raised a Catholic, became a Christian), and upon that circumcision, and then baptism, the child’s name was to be known... But not Joseph Adrian Foster, alias 666, I can tell you that! Finally a deal was struck! Mother couldn’t do anything about the last name of Foster, so one six was a give me. The second six came about, because my father agreed that if his wife would allow him to give his son his first appellation (and added numeral), then she could name all the other children they had together, and he wouldn’t argue what monikers she chose regardless of how they sounded to him. Give credit to my father that he never went back on his word about this; that my mother had total control over naming my siblings. But that third and middle six... that was the deal breaker. That was the one my mother was going to rule over, which I never liked when I grew older and could comprehend. I actually like the name Adrian. It’s a cool sounding name. I’d have dropped Joseph in exchange for Adrian anytime, but being the first born son in a line of them, and having English tradition behind you, well... My mother hated the name Adrian. Said it sound too feminine and in our neighborhood, if she named her son that, he wouldn’t live to see his teenage years. And she equally detested the name Joseph (my father is simple known as Joe), and if she were to consent to giving me his first name, no one in the family was to ever refer to her son as Joe, Joseph, Joey, Junior, Little Joe, or by any initials. My father heartily agreed (so long as his first name was on that birth certificate, calling me anything else was fine with him), and left my mother to ponder what my middle moniker would be that I would forever be called, which would not be any name that had six letters in it. Names she was seriously considering were... Montgomery (after the actor Clift), Gabriel, David, Michael, Zachary... (perhaps children should be allowed to name themselves when they are old enough to comprehend such things...) Anything! Just so long as it didn’t have six letters in it. I suppose those names were not so bad as opposed to the ones parents are naming their children today. I remember when the book and TV mini-series Roots came out, and suddenly a stream of male children in my neighborhood were being named, Kunta Kinta, so at least my mother had some degree of reasoning to her madness. What parents do and the children have to live with... Finally, there was a new name coming out that hadn’t been used that really appealed to my mother. It had the right number of letters, and as she said it more and more to herself and used it in the different variations with my already chosen first and last names, it struck her as being majestic. When she brought it up to my father, he was equally thrilled, because it was an Irish name, and as his parents were originally born and raised in the Emerald Isle, he went for it. Thus, I officially became known at my circumcision and baptismal ceremonies as Joseph Kevin Foster (alias 656) IV (or the 4th in American terms; being that my father was numeral trio III). Dates on my county birth records were changed to being born a few days before the actual date (I happen to come from a very well known and influential family that pretty much owned the town back in the days when I was born, thus things happen...like changed birth dates), but somehow the date of my actual birth as recorded on my birth certificate (Baby Foster...) from the hospital that also recorded the time and my foot print (as well as mother’s thumb print) forgot to be changed and was locked away until I came across it during my parents divorce years later. When discovering the certificate, I never thought much about it. I had heard stories from my relatives; my grandmother who’s birthday was February 28th always used to say how close I was born to her which was usually dismissed as nothing by my mother. When as a child and wanting to know when I was born, my mother would casually say without directly looking at me, "You’re birthday is the last Saturday in February, unless there’s a blizzard, and then it’s the first Saturday in March." This is exactly what I would repeat to people when asked about my birthday, until a teacher gently mentioned to me that we are actually born on a specific date. When I was given the date my mother had planned for me; the 25th (because 2 + 5 = 7 and seven is a lucky number according to my mother), I just took it for fact, until that day in 1976 when I learned otherwise. Even then I didn’t do much about it until years later when I moved from the wintery East coast to sunny California nearly 20 years ago, and decided I wanted to honor my birth date instead of something else that was created for me. I don’t hold the superstitions my mother once held, and has either long forgotten or has simply placed it out of her mind altogether as she continues to send me a birthday card along with a phone call on 25th of February. The subject was broached several times in the past, but mother just changed the subject. Those times, she says, are unpleasant for her, and why, she asks me, do I want to live in the past when I should be looking toward the future and what God has planned for me. Yes, mother, I say in a casual tone, and leave it at that. And then I think about all the other children the world over that have their birthdays once every four years, and what strange things have come their way... And what will the children born on June 6, 2006 encounter in their lifetimes, I wonder?... Kevin |
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