Gemini vs Gemini

A short rumination when my son was 11 months old

Essay A

I have to admit, I’ve never harbored illusions of being a “woman of history.” I won’t have my name etched into the limestone of a university wing, and I’m fairly certain my silhouette isn’t destined for a commemorative coin. Yet, lately, I find myself preoccupied with a quiet, nagging urge to leave a mark—a footprint that doesn’t simply wash away when the tide of my own life goes out.

The dictionary treats legacy like a linguistic chameleon. As a noun, it’s “an amount of money or property left to someone in a will”; as an adjective, it denotes “software or hardware that has been superseded but is difficult to replace because of its wide use.” There’s a fascinating, almost clinical divide there. In the professional world, “legacy” is often a burden—clunky code or an outdated system that the next generation has to navigate around. But in our personal lives, we talk about it as a gold standard, a grand monument of wealth or political ideals carved into marble.

I’m beginning to think the most profound legacies aren’t found in monuments, but in the biological and behavioral “clunky code” we pass on. It is an intimate, cellular hand-off.

I see it every morning in the way my toddler handles a cereal spoon. There is a specific, unnecessary tilt of the wrist—a mirrored gesture he couldn’t have possibly learned from a textbook. I’m relishing the exact curve of his thumb, which is a carbon copy of my own; relishing the way he furrows his brow when a puzzle piece doesn’t fit, a physical manifestation of my own specific brand of stubbornness (Side note: it’s both humbling and slightly terrifying to see your own flaws rendered in such a tiny, soft-cheeked package).

This is the “superseded but difficult to replace” version of legacy. It’s the way he inherits my quick laugh but uses it to find his own joy, or how he carries my DNA like a quiet, internal library. We don’t need to build cathedrals to remain present in the future. Passing on a temperament, a shared squint in the sunlight, or a peculiar way of telling a story is enough. We are lived-in monuments, and that is more than plenty.

Essay B

I’ve been thinking about my legacy. I’m no ambitious world leader, but knowing that I’m leaving something of me felt important.

When I looked up the definition, I found:

Legacy (Noun)

1: a gift by will

2: something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor

3: children of alumni

Legacy (Adjective)

1: a previous or outdated computer system

2: carried over from an earlier time, technology, business, etc.

I was mildly surprised to see so many interpretations of that concept. (Side note: I also realized that I only think of the noun in my personal life, and the adjective in my professional life. Isn’t that so fascinating?)

I always liked to imagine how the great leaders of this world would define legacy – maybe they call it peace for millions of people, maybe they think it’s unimaginable wealth, even if it’s on the backs of millions of people. Maybe they consider it to be the propagation of their ideals – be it religious, political, business, artistic – or maybe they consider everlasting creations – henges, pyramids, walls, skyscrapers.

But my DNA, here and now, is relishing this itty bitty mini sized legacy I’m creating. It’s relishing the fact that I taught my son the word “arms”, and he throws his arms up in the air every time I say it. It’s relishing that his eyelashes are universally acknowledged as mine, his chunky thighs that look like miniature versions of my own. It’s even relishing things it encounters as foreign – that epicanthal fold, those eyebrow raises, that proclivity to leap before he looks, but only in safe places – because it recognizes those traits as coming from the DNA of the mate I chose, and look didn’t we make such a good decision? 

If all legacy boils down to is passing something on, feels like I’m doing alright for now.