"The Brotherly Test"

Earlier this month (January the Sixth), my brother had a humorous commentary published in The New Yorker magazine, chronicling “The Untold Story” of Albert Einstein.

I was not sure how I would feel about that.  Over the years, I had submitted several commentaries to The New Yorker, and had had all of them rejected.  In response to my submissions, I received a quarter of a piece of paper that essentially said “No.”  It could have been smaller – how much paper does “No” take?  A rolled-up fortune cookie message:  “No!”  Who knows?  Maybe the really bad submissions received that, and I was proportionally honored by the rejecting quarter of a page.   

Anyway, that happened, “that” being my brother’s noteworthy achievement.  And I was curious how I’d react.  I knew I would inevitably find out, because companion to “How do I know what I think till I hear what I say?” there is “How do I know how I feel till I see what I do?”

So what did I do?

When the family arrived the weekend after the publication, I found myself standing at the front door, clutching the New Yorker in my non-door-opening hand, my extended index finger “bookmarking” the relevant page, figuratively if not literally frantically jumping up and down.

I could not wait to show it around.

My daughter Anna was excited just seeing the name.  After reading it, my two sons-in-law pronounced the work consecutively “great” and “very witty.”   It’s a shame my family’s not bigger.  I’d have shown it to them too!

Ever-loyal Anna suggested I should now “top” him.  (Ignoring my entire career in the process.)  But I knew that was not necessary.

In the smoldering “Battle of the Brothers” our mother had already made the determining call.

And here’s how.

As a young adult, my brother boldly announced:  

“I’m going to be a comedian.”

To which my mother reflexively replied,

“Who do you think you are, Jerry Lewis?”

Later, at a similar age, I, though certainly less boldly, announced:

“I’m going to be a comedian.”

To which our mother reflexively replied,

“Who do you think you are, Jack Benny?”

Our mother, always astute in these matters, had made the distinguishing decision, which was this:

She believed I wasn’t a better comedian than my brother wasn’t.

So I won.

As for his appearance in New Yorker – which I commend to your attention – I can feel it right now –

The electric grin on my face that says,

“Nice goin’!”

Is there envy?

Sure.

Feelings of competitiveness?

Of course.

But topping everything else by miles, there is…

“Pomerantz Pride.”  

Hm.  I wonder if they’d be interested in this.  A brother’s reaction to…

“Stop it!”

Okay.