i've never been fond of birthdays. The whole concept feels arbitrary. A forced charade, the pageantry thin and substance-less, devoid of any intended sweetness. Gifts and cards mere participation badges to assure children they're special that we've never grown out of. Before we get too far off the rails, i'll admit i do like that we celebrate others, both dear to us and not. Without question there's hallmarks of a beautiful, and inspired tradition. i can also concede that birthdays are meaningful markers, though i will contest that they deserve less relevance. The sense of community, and connection should, and can, be highlighted without social pressures or expectation. Our loved ones deserve regular reassurance and reminders of our affections beyond these somewhat frivolous days.
Alright, let's tackle a small contradiction right off the bat. i may hate birthdays, but i do love my birthdate. i'm certain that's quite a normal feeling. Who isn't partial to the day they were born? But beyond the small allure of enjoyable numbers, i don't run with the rest of the herd regarding celebrations. i loathe the entitlement people lord around on their birthdays. Prioritizing themselves over others on "their"day (or worse- week... or even more cringe, month).
There are some worthy aspects in celebrating the date you were born. Utility, and relevance in reflection over a year (or years) of growth and experience. There's beauty and kindness to be found in communal celebration amongst friends and family. As much as i find the date irrelevant, and its existence leveraged as an excuse to get together patronizing, it makes sense as a motive. The camaraderie surrounding cherished ones that may struggle with the existential realities of death and aging on these anniversaries is commendable. Worthy of acknowledgement. While it's unfortunate that sometimes we need that push to come together, rather than making time to show gratitude and appreciation for one another a regular occurrence, it does make sense.
Yet, all that said, it still remains ridiculous to me. The gift giving (see The Greatest Gifts- in short prioritizing presence over presents), the fanfare, pomposity, and grandiosity all verge on revolting. Even that abominable song feels forced and egocentric. How anyone could be on board with the "Happy Birthday Song" mystifies me. The gull to enjoy everyone coerced into singing, even well wishes, and not wanting to join in oneself, or reciprocate in some way, terrifies me. Thirty bloated seconds that ring on eternity. The same brain washing as national anthems within a country1. Should the custom be to sing original works, poetry, or pieces that remind us of our cherished ones, that would be worthy. Much more profound than a card from a big box department store, a gift certificate to a conglomerate, or any other modern normality. The humanity has been sucked out of our celebrations, the "Happy Birthday Song," taking the first vampiric sip.2
There's a sense of guilt i have when i receive more recognition than others, especially when i've done nothing to warrent it. And don't get it twisted- i love attention. But i want the spotlight on my own terms. While it's not something i'm particularly proud to admit, i relish celebration when it feels like i've deserved or accomplished something. Or if i'm on stage performing, it has to be more than being born on a particular date (even if it just so happens to be a very cool one).
Birthdays growing up were always a bit of a struggle. That doesn't mean that my family and parents were neglectful or that i didn't feel cared for. i did, and was, tremendously. My family were beyond generous and sweet. While the past efforts fill me with an indescribable gratitude, that doesn't make the experience any less uncomfortable. The attention a rough, sickening, and unnecessary obligation. The date better served for self inquiry, and quiet celebration at most. Not an opportunity for excusable domination by narcissists.
As a young adult i hid myself away, turned off my phone, refused to make plans, ordered good food, and watched great films. The world could wait while i found a way to weather the storm in comfort. Some might see it as me taking time for myself, the sad truth was i had a very unhealthy relationship with aging, and my self worth. Focusing on films distracted me enough to halt my internal annihilation. Otherwise i would lament myself for my lack of accomplishments by age nineteen. How i hadn't conquered the world, or "made anything of note." That i wasn't married, nor a millionaire.
So i hid.
Barricaded indoors with trivial treats, i tried to subdue my demons with pizza. Without fail, even with locked doors, something unideal would always knock. Usually a close friend's crisis, relationship or some other exterior mishap, would beg for aid. No matter how hard i tried to avoid drama it always sought me out. That was until my twenty-fourth birthday.
i had had enough. In the throes of a brutal bout of depression, alone, living in the slum in Rio de Janeiro, i made a vow. The calendar rolled to February Eighth while i stared at a full moon from my tiny window. The view was stunning, and yet, i couldn't retain it. The awe, and the good fortune surrounding me were easy to recognize, but by no means could i embrace them. i was at the brink, and needed something to remind me of the goodness of life, desperate for any form of salvation. As if following a cosmic clock-hand a curtain of moonlight illuminated the granite face of Pedra da Gávea.
It called to me.
Close to a year had passed since i'd last climbed the monolithic mountain. One of my previous hosts had taken a small group of us on the strenuous hike. While the trails are open to the public it is recommended to hire a guide. Not because the paths are confusing, that's all quite straight forward, but because of how common death and injury is.
Some from reckless photo ops of fools posing too close to the dramatic edges. Most happen at a hundred foot section of free solo climbing. Well ahead of my group that day, i had reached the stone wall alone, and initially thought i'd hit a dead end. A small stencilled yellow arrow pointing up the rock clued me in. Forty feet above a man in his late twenties sat paralyzed with fear. "You alright?" i called.
"Yes, yes, quite fine thank you."
"This the right way?"
"Oh sure, many have passed."
With a shrug i searched for a place to grip and began my ascent. Despite conquering a crippling fear of heights as a teenager, each lift without even a semblance of safety- rope, harness, helmet, proper markings, was nerve racking. After assurances that the coward was in fact happy where he'd stopped, i continued upward. The climb was exhilarating. Though it still shocks me that something that reckless, and haphazard is allowed and open to the public.
It's tough to say what was harder to believe at the top. The incredible beauty of the Brazilian coast and sprawls of Rio, or how many other people had braved themselves to the summit.
Memory dissipated as i watched the moonlight. Without a second thought i closed my window, grabbed my sneakers and hit the streets. i had limited Portuguese, no internet or mapping devices to guide me forth. It took well over an hour to zip through the labyrinth like streets of the favela, an ingenious combination of charades and pointing, a collectivo van, and moto taxi before i found myself at the trailhead.
Long past midnight, the night air was still humid and sticky. Moonlight aided my way up to the first steps within the wooded jungle. It wasn't until i'd submerged into the darkness that i realized how unprepared i was. No water bottle, no torch. No matter, i marched on.
Using the light from an iPod Nano when necessary, i cranked the tunes and plowed through the unknown sweating and stumbling. Stomping through spiderwebs and mud, tripping over roots and rocks. It's tough to say what drove me forward, aside from pummelling music, and a desperate goal. Life felt ugly then. The view from my window had been stunning. If somehow i could be a part of that, perhaps, things would shift.
My ferocious pace had me arrive at the hundred foot climb earlier than i'd expected. While the inevitable hurdle had nagged the closer i stalked, when the moon finally unveiled it i felt nothing but relief. The rock sparkled under the magick moonbeams, and i didn't hesitate. The stone was rough under my fingertips. Not it, nor the height of the drop below slowed me as i raced to the heavens. The proximity to the peak pulled me ever onwards.
Hours after midnight i could only guess the time, and yet there they were. Despite not passing a single soul on my way up, a large number of scattered groups and couples picnicked at the peak of Pedra da Gávea under the stars. i made my way to the edge, caught my breath and let my sweat dry under a cooling breeze. There i sat for hours, as the moon dipped into the Atlantic, and my age dawned before me.
Maybe You've Been Brainwashed Too by The New Radicals had scored my journey through the dark. High above the city i listened to the single You Get What You Give on repeat while waiting the Sun. Despite my mental state hours before, i felt ok, i felt like myself. Adventure had settled my soul. From my vantage point i saw both my neighbourhood in the slum and the nodes of my lifetime. Twenty four, alone, in a beautiful, exotic, dangerous land, watching a strange ocean. Life hadn't unfolded the way i'd planned, i hadn't brought the world to its knees so to speak, but, it wasn't all rot. i'd done somethings i was proud of. i couldn't predict i'd have spent my birthday like that, but had i'd been able to, i without a doubt would have chosen to.
Perspective was a gift in itself.
My climb down was in many ways more precarious than up. By midmorning, after treating myself to a well deserved açai and a bottle of ice cold water, i returned to the favela, back to my hammock. i tried to sterilize water in a coffee maker for tea, charged my ipod, grabbed a book, and settled in to spend the rest of my birthday content, weaving in and out of daydreams, naps, and pages.
Late in the afternoon a loud call woke me. With a suspicious eye i checked the caller ID. It was my best friend. There was no mention of the date, he'd called to see if i was up for a hang, maybe a film while he finished a few projects. Couldn't have asked for anything better. i made my way over and arrived to him rolling his eyes at me. Ratted out by social media, he'd had an alert that it was my birthday while i walked. He shook his head and told me we weren't doing anything crazy, that he'd ordered us pizza to celebrate, that we were going to watch movies, and i was going to shut up about it.
All i could do was smile. A gorgeous sunrise, books, dumb comedies, punk rock documentaries, laughs, delicious food, a great friend, and a thrilling adventure. It was a perfect birthday. With nothing fake. No cake. No songs. No presents. No obligations. A day that reminded me how lucky i was to be. Despite how burdensome my woes may seem at times, i was able to embrace how fortunate i was to be born of this time, in an able body, with the capability to rise when i wanted to crumble, that i had been blessed with such extraordinary friends and family. To date i've received few gifts that have compared.
i remember reaching for another slice of pizza as the credits rolled on the second film, watching my best friend type away at his work as the final hours of my birthday concluded. It was exactly how i wanted to celebrate each year. A tradition i've strived to maintain each anniversary around the Sun. To do something bold, to go on an adventure, to participate in something preposterous that balanced out the beauty and absurdity of life, that made me grateful, not only for the days past, but the years to come.
Thanks for reading!
More birthday adventures to come…
-Mr. Write
To be fair, i can find some sort of rationale to "sing" a non threatening introduction to oneself at international forums. A sign of respect, from one identity to another. An opportunity to see some humility, and a healthy (though sometimes far from) level of pride. A chance to showcase musical prowess, lyrical ability, and to humanize ourselves. Showcasing one of countless commonalities across the globe, a reverence for the arts through love of song.
Alright, i can admit there's some hyperbolic language flying around here. Whatever, this is subjective and what you've signed up for with pieces from this section. i do have one great Happy Birthday tradition, maintained by my dear sister (whom i don't express nearly enough gratitude towards). As a teenager i discovered "the New Happy Birthday Song"
a b-side from punk luminaries NOFX (which you can find on 45 or 46 Songs that weren't Good Enough for Our Other Albums).
Happy birthday, you're not special
You're getting older, but not much better
We all want to embarrass you
That's why we're singing this song
So happy fucking birthday, you're not special
You're not special
- NOFX
i am 100% ok with this sung to me on every birthdate, which she often does (or at least links me too). While i loathe the word "lucky," and favour "fortunate" to describe much of the incredible aspects/and experiences in my life- my relationship with my sister is indeed that. By sheer luck i've been gifted an incredible person as my sibling.