M
y sister and I were born one
minute apart. Whenever I
tell people this, questions
inevitably follow: “What’s it like having
a twin?” “Are you best friends?” “Can
you read each other’s minds?”
Over the years, I’ve formed a sort of
automatic response: I laugh, acknowl-
edging the curiosity surrounding a con-
cept that is foreign and fascinating to
someone else yet normal and casual to
me. I then reply with a simple yet in-
tentionally worded, “Yeah, it’s fun. But
I don’t know any different, so I have
nothing to compare it to,” which is true.
Having a twin sister is fun, and we’re the
only kids in our family, so I don’t know
what it’s like to have a non-twin sibling.
But my answer isn’t the whole truth. My
“nothing to compare it to” line is a buf-
fer, a cop-out from having to explain to
another person, or admit to myself, the
tough side of being a twin.
Gracie and I have been compared to
each other our entire lives. Who’s older?
Lilly. Who talked first? Gracie. Taller?
Gracie, until a few years ago. More logi-
cal? Absolutely Gracie. More organized?
Lilly. Kinder, gentler, more thoughtful?
Gracie. Funnier? Definitely, 100% Lilly.
I compare myself to Gracie, too. I
think there’s an inevitable tension be-
tween all siblings, twins or not, that
stems from being constantly compared
to one another. Older siblings carry the
weight of setting precedents and do-
ing most things first, all eyes on them. I
know younger siblings who struggle in
the shadows of their older ones, feeling
like they need to keep up with, or even
one-up, them. Perhaps the unique com-
parison of twins stems from the fact that
differences cannot be blamed on any
gap between exit times out of the womb.
In fourth grade, our dad sat with Gra-
cie and me at the kitchen table helping
us with our multiplication problems.
Gracie knew the answers before my dad
finished reading the question, while
I sat in the chair across from her con-
fused, finishing out the session in tears.
My mom intervened post-math home-
work tantrum.
“What Gracie’s doing or how she’s
doing it has no effect on you. Just focus
on yourself. You’re driving your own car.
In your own lane,” she told me. “Stay in
your own lane.”
As I grew up beside Gracie, my mom’s
advice continuously resurfaced. I was
an anxious and emotional girl, ner-
vous and concerned by way too many
things around me. I sobbed my entire
first summer at overnight camp due to
unmatched levels of homesickness. In
school, I forced myself to do well, gluing
myself to my desk chair until I mastered
the material without fail. I panicked at
the unknown. I’d pass out every now and
again, too, due to vasovagal syndrome —
wherein random triggers, like needles,
cause blood pressure to plummet. Sim-
ply put, I was a hot mess. Gracie, on the
other hand, was cool as a cucumber. She
never seemed to flinch. She was rid-
ing down the highway on auto-pilot, as
if wearing Chanel shades in a pristine
Lamborghini. I, on the other hand, sput-
tered down the road in a peeling truck,
beads of sweat constantly dripping
down my forehead, hands clammy from
the pressure. It didn’t seem fair.
“Stay in your own lane,” my mom said.
I did my best to keep my eyes on the
horizon, but I couldn’t keep them from
wandering. In high school, Gracie had
her entire life trajectory planned out.
She was going to study film in college
and afterward move to California to be a
screenwriter. She then perfectly imple-
mented her plan of action. Gracie took
film class upon film class, bought cam-
eras to practice editing, attended film
review clubs in Chicago and did sum-
mer programs on screenwriting. One
summer, she took Advanced Placement
Biology so she could pack in more di-
recting classes during the school year.
Gracie was cruising.
I felt like my car was going nowhere. I
had no plans. I had no idea what I want-
ed to do in college, let alone after col-
lege. I also couldn’t admit to myself that
I might also be interested in screenwrit-
ing. How could we possibly have simi-
lar destinations if I was seven thousand
miles behind her on the road? I wasn’t
doing screenwriting clubs or assist-
ing the high school film teacher with
his intro classes. On top of this, Gracie
cracked out a 36 on the ACT going into
senior year. First try, cold. I spent the
entire year at my desk, working, claw-
ing, test after test, for one more singular
point. I began to feel small and unim-
pressive. I never measured up. Like ev-
erything else, I couldn’t help but com-
pare my results to my twin sister.
“Stay in your own lane,” my mom re-
peated.
But I couldn’t. I wanted to desire a
specific career path so I could do im-
pressive activities in pursuit of it. I
wanted to be easy-going and relaxed. I
wanted the gracefulness that was quite
literally embedded in my sister’s name.
Gracie’s decisions, ambitions and fear-
lessness felt impossible for me to both
achieve and simultaneously ignore.
As humans, it can be difficult to stay
in our own lane without looking around
at the others. Research suggests that
about 10% of human thought is com-
parative. Yes, our individual lives may
occupy singular lanes, but windows ex-
ist for a reason. There are other cars on
the road — you can’t ignore them. As
a matter of fact, in driver’s education,
we were taught to check our mirrors
every five seconds. Some cars are even
equipped with blinking light systems
that alert you of the positions of ve-
hicles in neighboring lanes. Whether it
be for safety, for motivation or just from
plain-old intuition, we compare.
Beyond being necessary to acknowl-
edge, I think the other cars can also be
helpful. Watching Gracie’s car has given
me strengths in areas I was admittedly
lacking in. My willingness to experi-
ment — to go to overnight camp, write
short plays or befriend different types of
people — is inspired by her open-mind-
edness. My grit and drive to succeed
have been shaped by Gracie’s natural
academic ability. It’s undeniable: Floor-
ing the pedal on my sputtering truck in
order to keep up with her Lambo has
certainly been a character builder.
We cannot simply keep our eyes
ahead of us. If I adhered strictly to my
mom’s metaphor — if I didn’t check
over at Gracie at all — I don’t think I’d
be driving at the speed that I am now
or be as willing to swerve around in my
own lane. Had I locked eyes on the ho-
rizon my entire life, I wouldn’t be who I
am now. Gracie inspired me to work on
my shortcomings rather than run away
from them.
I
recently read that poet Amanda
Gorman has a twin sister, Ga-
brielle Gorman. Gabrielle is also
unbelievably impressive. She’s worked
on digital marketing campaigns for
TOMS, directed a short documentary
and was presented with the Aaron Sor-
kin Writing Award, among other feats. I
wonder if, when Amanda struggled with
her speech impediment, she shared my
sputtering truck sentiment. Did she get
inspiration to keep going from Gabrielle
as I did from Gracie? Maybe seeing each
other’s cars pushed them along, too.
Since I’ve been at the University of
Michigan, I’ve lost sight of Gracie in my
mirrors. I’m navigating the hustle and
bustle of Ann Arbor and she, the tree-
lined roads of New Hampshire. Not only
have I left my lifelong bar of comparison,
but I’m navigating unfamiliar streets
— dance teams, newspaper columns,
new classes (including film) and new
friends. They say being on the open road
alone grants perspective, and I’ve found
that to be true. No longer surrounded by
Gracie and everyone else who has been
driving around me since grade school,
I’ve been able to focus more easily on
my lane, and I like the freedom.
Now that I’m on my own, I realize I
had spent so much time checking the
mirrors that I was failing to see what
was right in front of me, and what has
always been within me. The summer
that Gracie did Northwestern’s Cherubs
Screenwriting Program, I was at over-
night camp. The summer she took AP
Bio, I went on a teen tour with my best
friends. While perhaps less impressive
on a resume, those experiences were
right for me: a social, fun-loving girl,
without a specific dream that needed to
be pursued immediately. My road has
been fun, comedic and even impres-
sive in a lot of areas. I should’ve been
confident in my route and enjoyed it,
looking forward and trusting my own
directional abilities. Maybe one day I’ll
screenwrite too, and it doesn’t matter if
I’m seven thousand miles behind Gra-
cie. I’m exploring other routes, seeing
amazing sights. There’s no race or finish
line.
Moreover, everyone’s lane gets bumpy
on occasion. Gracie went to college far
away with no friends. She recently came
home due to a mononucleosis-strep
throat-bacterial infection trifecta. I now
check on Gracie over Facetime — not to
see if we’re equidistant on the road, but
to make sure she’s doing okay in her car.
Everyone’s Lambo feels like an old truck
sometimes.
So I’d like to revise my mom’s advice
to: “Check your mirrors, but trust your
own lane.” Glancing at other people
and taking a check-in is healthy. We
grow through comparison and better
ourselves through competition. But we
also must be confident in our journey as
well.
Different
drivers
have
different
needs. People take pit stops, switch
lanes, speed up, slow down. Right
now Gracie and I are taking separate
routes, and perhaps it’ll stay that way
for a while, or maybe we’ll merge, and
I’ll be able to check over at her Lambo
once again. Maybe we’ll even have the
same destination, and we’ll both end up
with creative careers like Gabrielle and
Amanda, raise kids at the same time or
grow old in the same place. There are
multiple lanes for a reason: so that the
road is wide enough for two cars. I’m
glad to have her on my road, I’d be lost
without her. But I’ll also keep my eyes
on the horizon in front of me. I deserve
the trip.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
statement
Driving on a multi-lane highway
BY LILLY DICKMAN, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Wednesday, February 17, 2021 — 9
ILLUSTRATION BY EILEEN KELLY
ILLUSTRATION BY EILEEN KELLY