4 Things About Nickclette Izuegbu

I should clarify that this is a list of seemingly "mundane" things. But the saying goes that the beauty is in the (little) details? People often introduce these types of lists with a paragraph of filler nonsense. This is my paragraph of filler of nonsense. Are you amused? Now, to the list.

• Part of A Team - I am of 6, the oldest to be exact. I often refer to them by numbers because I don't really believe that anyone remembers the names of other people's siblings... even if they are your friends. Unless your Beyonce and Solange. 1-3 are girls, 4 is a boy, 5 is a girl, 6 is a boy. I really appreciate that there are so many of us because it allows for buffers and provided me with a set of automatic playdates growing up. 
• Parenting Life Hack - my mom has a lot of people to "fall back" on when she's older if needed. (Not that she would ever want to.)

• I love public transportation. Whenever I go to a new city, figuring out how to get around without a car is one of the things I have to do to feel at ease. It gives me a sense of peace and removes the "AHHH I'm trapped" feelings I am sometimes prone to. I like the independence of it to... and it's super cost-effective. Ding and Ding. I also enjoy seeing a city this way and meeting all of its residents. Unless they are weird and touching me and then I'm like fuck it, where's my Uber/Lyft.

• I LOVE LIBRARIES. I think it's so neat that you can go to a place and learn about the world. I know there's the internet but there's something different about escaping to a place where the point of it is knowledge with some community services thrown into the mix. Romantic Idealist here. It's also a place where a left of people kind find refuge because you can basically have free water, free internet, free AC/Heating, and a chair.  And if you're like me (or the dearly departed Stan Lee of Marvel Comics fame), you're created entire universes on the city's dime. I stan. (Get it... hahahaha. I slay me.)

• I love grocery stores. It's kind of odd but I love ambling through good market and discovering things I've never seen before. Walking the aisles is this unique sensei moment for me where I'm unwinding and shuffling off the day (and any bullshit that came with it). I instantly move into a new world. Should I be going to the grocery store everyday after work? Probably not. Is it weird to do this after a shift that ends at 10/11pm? Maybe. Do I do this anyway? Yes.

The Dog(s) Who Saved My Life

Animals will teach you about yourself, more specifically, animals will tell you if you are a jaded, dark vortex surrounded by walls made of mortar and dragon-stone. (Yes, I miss Game of Thrones).

To be fair, a lot of us have built up these walls to protect ourselves from the world, from judgement, from abuse, from cruelty. Doesn't matter the reason, sometimes artificial armor (like lot of makeup or overly coiffed beards) or emotional armor (not smiling at strangers, pretending to have your headphones in your ear to avoid contact, walking fast to avoid catcalls) is damn near necessary.

But let me not presume... I don't know all of ya'll so it may be best if I speak for myself.

There is one dog in particular who helped make some of my armor come crashing down. Meet Junior, or Junie for short. A small, loud, needy, thirst-bucket with a pension for human food and human touch. Technically she "belongs" to my sister but with the amount of dog-sitting that I do, I feel like I have co-parenting rights.

Junior "Junie" Izuegbu (and one of her favorite toys laying in the back)

When I tell you I used to RUN for high heaven when whenever I saw a dog. You couldn't get me near a dog to save my life.

EMBARRASSING STORY-TIME:
One day I a group of us kids went to the home of our daycare owner because she had a pool, it was too hot, and field trips were expensive. We enter the house and I began my anthropological analysis of her home. Ms. Nabila, the daycare owner, was from the Middle East and she had one bi-racial daughter in her twenties and I was the oldest of of a very large Nigerian family. I was intrigued by the similarities and differences of what a "home" was.

I'm casually making a mental note of her Designing-Women-meets-Golden-Girls design aesthetic WHEN OUT OF F*CKING NOWHERE, A GOLDEN RETRIEVER WITH DJ KHALED LEVELS OF HYPENESS CAME BOUNDING OUT OF SOME PRIVATE DEAN OF HELL AND YA GIRL... RAN! I  flew up onto the couch of respectable company and stood there like useless goat stuck on a volcano surrounded by hot, flowing, molten lava. When I say fly, I mean ffffflllllyyyy. Not jump. Not hopped, ya girl flew. Fun fact, that's the same day I almost drowned in a pool. Imagine if that dog, who's advances I'd shunned, who could probably swim, would have been forced to save me? I would have been a gone-er.

Me: the lamb/ Dog: the predator (I SAIDT WHAT I SAIDT)

EMBARRASSING COLLEGE STORY-TIME
Then came college. People would always let their dogs run free in Harvard Yard and there was no way I was going to make it to Chem 5 if I couldn't walk past their over-eagerness to "get to know me." It may have been part of why I never did finish being PREMED. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Don't let this submissiveness fool you. That ball is red for a reason.

Time passes and my baby sister is gifted a puppy, Junie. About a week into my constant interaction with her, I realized, I'm wasn't deathly afraid anymore. Her reaction to me is pretty much one of a constant need for snuggles, cuddles, and human body warmth. Like... she is a genuine thirst bucket.

My reaction to her? I care if she's had enough puppy massages. I get stressed out when I realize it's been several hours since her last walk or poop. Or how she happens to know when I walk in the door and starts barking *my* attention. There are other people in the house ya'll! How does she know and sense the heaviness of *my* gait? And that shit is high-key annoying for someone who likes peace and quiet and stress free zones.

But you know why she's awesome? She forgives. She loves. Freely. She's brought out a softer side to my entire family. My Nigerian mom wakes up and buys chicken... for Junie! One of my brothers jokingly let it slip that Junie was lowkey a therapy dog for him.

To be honest, her arrival helped me get through one of the darkest time in my life. She was a gift in more ways than one and I am forever grateful that the "walls of defense" I created were trampled by this little white-and-peanut-butter-colored nugget of a dog. She's the best.

Junie, if you can read this, the family loves you.

(Actually Junie, if you can read this, we have bigger problems.)

How can you not cuddle her. Junie... you da besssst!

3 Ways To Be The Perfect Aunt

 Folx is birthin' babies. Left. Right. Front. Back... someone in my life is either with with child or has recently produced one, the closest of which being one of my dear sisters. And with a nugget (my term of affection for a baby) comes responsibility. Lots of it. So...if I've birthed NO babies, why do I find myself in a position of quasi-shephardship? 

Why is this my problem?

This should not make me anxious.  I am, after all, the oldest of a large tribe (oldest of six. I'm Nigerian - this is normal for us). I should be used to it by now. But, something about rearing the next generation and the weight of this added (read: unrequested) responsibility got to me. Fortunately, I've instituted a few practices to ease the anxiety AND win the competition of best muthaf*ckin aunt--yes, it is a thing. 

• Staring Game: perfect your staring game. Whether the child likes you or naw, staring works. And by work, I mean they are instantly transfixed and captivated by your giganticness. Add repetitive laughter, neck rolls/pops, and one-word syllabic sounds that start with consonants, and the object of your attention will laugh uproariously. 
  BONUS POINTS if this laugh happens in front of the parents. 

• Pass It. Knowing when to pass the progeny to a grandparent, aunt/uncle, or whomever... is considered respected, is gold. You'll be deemed loving not needy. Warm not suffocating. Responsible not power-hungry. You'll avoid the nappie changes and cries that sound like hell, while still creating enough memories to embarrass your niece/nephew. BONUS POINTS if you avoid a blowout.

• Food: Have food (and water) in the form the child can consume. And make it bland as f**k. One need not be blamed for a pepper-induced screaming fit. BONUS POINTS if you remember to pack stuff for yourself. 

Basically, be there and be present. In the end, it's not all *on* you. The fallback/blame is reserved for the parents (then maybe the grandparents or godparents, in that order... I think.) 

Happy rearing.

-N

My Brother's Teacher Made Me Do His Homework

March 4, 2015

Dear Teacher

Let the record show that you must read the entirety of this opus in order to arrive at a brief summary of what I believe life was like in our family before JJ was born. Excuse me, I mean John-Joshua. Wait, I mean John….whatever.

JJ is number 6. In our family he is number 6. Or number 7 depending on whom you count. That’s how I talk about my siblings with other people because I have multiples of each gender. I also refer to him as JJ. I believe he goes by John at school, and I don’t blame him. It’s easier than having to explain to people why your parents named you John-Joshua… as in you have two first names. Not one of the guys who has two first names as full names, but the guy who has two actual first-name first-names.

Let the record also show that I will not divulge THAT family secret of how he got two first name first-names. Every family deserves their secrets. If you ask, I will send Olivia Pope your way while I go sit in the sun with my Izuegbu Gladiators.

But I digress.

Anyway, when JJ informed me via text message that he needs my help with a paper. One of his teacher’s had asked him to get a family member to do write about life before him I astutely retorted, “JJ, I’ll help you edit and brainstorm but I will not write your homework for you. I want you to understand hard work.”

He elaborated that said teacher actually wanted a perspective of life from before he was born to which I quipped, “Yeah… well I’m the oldest so I have the worst memory out of the 6 of us. You should ask one of the other ones” and we leave it at that. (I’m #1 or #2 depending on how you count. Or #3 if you count my dad, but he’s no longer with us so…yeah things get awkward when you try to tell people that.)

He calls me the next day about this assignment as I’m walking into my abode after a long day that had followed a night of insomnia, about the assignment. Below is an edited version of our conversation in question. If you want any proof that I’m an older sibling, I began with

#1: If this is your homework, just tell me. You don’t have to lie.

(Paraphrased & Edited)

#1:       Do your homework. Teachers don’t grade students on things that family’s write. That makes no sense. How much time did she give you to complete this? Is this for extra credit?

#2        I’m serious. (He sends me images of the assignment in question because it’s 2015 and I         need proof.)

#1:       Oh. She’s for real! (grumbling, annoyed, wanting to change and dry my now wet hair…it was raining.)

#2        Please (or some other variation of help me, I want to do well in the class. I need to do well on this assignment)

#1:       This makes no sense

#2        PLEASE!!! (…or some variation of that)

#1:       Don’t you have 4 other siblings? Get one of them to do it

#2        #5 (Jr in college) – has an exam and needs to study for it

#4 (Snr in college) – doesn’t respond to texts or any sort of communication

#2 (married nurse) – I’m….. snorezzzzz zzzzz zzzz

#3 (nurse who lives with #6) – I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS! I HAVE A LIFE!)

Please. You’re my last hope.

#1        Fine! BUT I reserve the write to say whatever I want however I want. (Dear teacher. I edited. I respect educators.  My mom’s a teacher, I often teach/coach/mentor and #5 wants to enter education. But I was still not enthused about it.

And so I spent the next 30 minutes thinking about how to summarize life before JJ was born.

I considered I haiku from the perspective of one of the siblings…

Haiku

There’s another one.

Another boy. Finally.

Who wants to go play?

I considered copying and pasting our text msg exchange…

That would make this too long…because you know this description is already short

I considered sending baby pictures of what we all looked like pre- and post- “The Coming of the Second Son”….

But I don’t live in Houston at the moment so that was a nay.

But here goes.

I’m writing from the perspective of one of his many siblings. We were all born very close in age to parents who wanted a family. Born so close in age, in fact, that I myself have no memories of being the only child. So essentially, life has always involved our family growing. It doesn’t feel as if life before was much different. I’m sure it was and that my mother could give greater detail. I’m also sure we were all excited, for the most part, about a new sibling/playmate.  But I can’t quite say which “baby” memory is attached to which sibling. Which one took the long to potty-train.? Which one stopped breast-feeding earliest? Which one’s head got rammed into a wall by accident? Doesn’t really matter. We were just a bunch of babies roaming around a house becoming friends and enemies and friends again. We were just the Izuegbus. And after his birth, we were bigger and more full of life.

Warmly

#1

PS. Please forgive me and do not judge JJ or my family for anything written in this opus/essay/whatchamacallit/standupcomedybit. I think I’m the weird one.

PSS (or PPS). Feel free to give him extra credit. I think he needs it. I’m the smart one (IM KIDDING….)

PPSS. Or PPPS. Or PSPS. Or PSS……..

I am a real person. Feel free to verify essay at nizuegbu@post.harvard.edu