Publication Date: Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Our Town: Mirror-image identity
Our Town: Mirror-image identity
(February 18, 2004) by Tyler Hanley
My reflection has a pulse. He strolls the streets of downtown Palo Alto, dines at local eateries and can be spotted catching a flick at the Aquarius Theater.
We have a lot in common, my reflection and I. We appreciate quality films, root wholeheartedly for the San Francisco 49ers and are fascinated by comic-book superheroes.
But if you spot my reflection rambling down University Avenue and shout "Tyler," chances are he won't react.
His name is Nathan.
No, I don't suffer from split personality disorder (I don't think). I'm half of an identical twin set, and the experience of growing up a twin in Menlo Park and Palo Alto was what can only be described as a double-identity crisis, a weird world of twinergy.
Nathan and I are "mirror-image" twins. I'm left-handed, he's a righty. Our hair cowlicks twirl in opposite directions. It's a phenomenon that occurs in 25 percent of the world's identical twins. Only about 5 million of the 6.3 billion people in the world are mirror-image twins. Our uncommon commonality puts us in a group shared by less than one percent of our fellow citizens.
A Northern California "Twin Registry" at SRI International in Menlo Park lists more than 2,000 sets of twins -- an aid to studies on health and lifestyle versus genetics. I know other sets of twins are around, but I've only met three sets in the Palo Alto area.
A twin wasn't something I asked for. In my first years I thought creation had played me a cruel joke. Birthdays meant sharing one cake. School years meant shared yearbooks. Shopping for new clothes meant..., well, you get the picture. It was as if I watched myself growing up at Las Lomitas elementary school and Menlo-Atherton High.
Nathan and I felt far from unique individuals. The laundry list of "lookalike comments" piled up year after year. Friends unintentionally referred to Nathan as Tyler and to me as Nathan -- and eventually gave up, shifting to the always-safe "Hanley." Strangers asked questions with a curious fervor: "Can you feel the other's pain?" or "Do you ever have the same dream?"
Our favorite was when people would ask us to stand back to back (an almost daily request). It ceased to be entertaining after the second line-up.
But as time went on, I -- perhaps we -- began to realize that not being one-of-a-kind is so one-of-a-kind that it becomes a kind of wonder.
With the mistaken names and girlfriends who found themselves attracted to both of us (go figure) also emerged a dependable confidant and companion.
Want to throw the football around? Grab your twin. Need someone to talk to? Grab your twin. Want someone to take the rap for your bad judgment? Grab your .... Oops, he wasn't supposed to know about that one.
When the hormonal tidal wave of high school hit, new students paced the hallways like a backpack-laden herd. While bigger, older students tossed freshmen into garbage bins, they would usually shy away from Nathan and me out of sheer fascination with our duality. Maybe it was just that there were two of us.
We now both work in Palo Alto and our bond has grown ever stronger since those early days of arguing over cake or fighting about having to wear identical pin-stripe shirts.
Some say being a twin is a blessing, others a curse. They're both right. It's fantastic to have a constant friend, someone who knows what you're going through and with whom you can relate and empathize. On the other hand, being known as an individual rather than a pair does have benefits.
Nathan and I solved the problem by pursuing similar but different interests. He strummed the guitar; I slammed the drumset. He studied screenwriting; I set off for acting school. His superhero star is Captain America; I've stuck to Spider-Man. He grew his hair long while I cut mine short. In high school, Nathan had his left ear pierced and still wears an earring to help people identify him for himself.
Our mutual assertion of individuality during the tumultuous years of high school worked. I can now see the reality of what that long-ago egg splitting meant: My best friend was with me in the womb, and I'm glad he's with me in the world, whether on the streets of Palo Alto or anywhere else our futures take us.
Tyler Hanley is assistant to the editor at the Weekly. He can be e-mailed at thanley@paweekly.com.
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