But I will say, once you start spotting these raised-right unicorns, it’s hard to unsee them. They’re the kind of people who can wear heels for more than 40 minutes without regrets. Who don’t just buy art but remember to get it framed. Not only do they own fruit bowls, their contents are never rotten. They’re excited, not overwhelmed, by a destination wedding invite. As stated, their parents aren’t necessarily rich, but they probably have jobs like a florist or cult ceramicist.
Their homes might not be large or fancy, but they’re ruled by secret codes that were kept from the rest of us. Scented candles in the bathroom and bedroom but never kitchen. Salt flakes to finish a meal. Lots of plants but no plastic pots. You know their favourite colour can’t be found in a crayon box.
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I’ve spent most of my life studying this elusive tribe, and I still don’t feel I’m close to cracking their code (let alone their ranks). The only thing I know for sure is this sweet mutation does appear to be hereditary. You can read the right books, watch the right films, and visit the right spots, but you’ll still never really be one of them. They were born this way (probably to a parent with a favourite brand of anchovies).
Ironically, for all the consideration I’d dealt them over the years, it was only recently that another query struck me: If they were raised right, does that mean I was raised wrong?
My family might not radiate cool, uncomplicated sophistication. But they’re funny, smart, astoundingly accomplished and often deeply weird. They carry generation-dividing gossip like TicTacs and deliver searing insights like standing coffee orders. If I asked them what rooms scented candles belong in, they’d assume I was having a psychotic breakdown.
Until I awoke to this juxtaposition, I’d been quietly jealous of raised-righters. (Okay, maybe not so quietly.) It was hard not to wonder how peaceful things must feel when you’re not eternally battling your own brain, always feeling slightly out of step.
But ever since I started seriously considering the alternative, something has shifted. I’m a little less exhausted by myself, my internal and external mess. Their framed artwork and destination weddings are less taunting (although no less inaccessible).
I consider whom and what it took to make them and think: If this is wrong, maybe I don’t want to be right after all.
Although, I will concede, who doesn’t want a cult ceramicist in the family?
Wendy Syfret is a freelance writer and author based in Melbourne.
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