Uncommon App Essays: Emily Morris

I am the youngest of four siblings. My oldest brother, Sam, is a Marine Colonel. I’ve shared a bedroom with the other two, Milton and Basilia, for the past seventeen years. We haven’t always gotten along —†they made fun of me all the time and I frequently pretended they didn’t exist. But now we’re ok. I mean, we don’t talk much because they’re stuffed platypi and all, but I’m quite fond of them. And I think they’re quite fond of me, too.

You see, in my family, it is illegal to take yourself seriously. And if you cannot accept that you have three stuffed platypi for siblings, and that the one once left in a motel in Massachusetts is actually a Marine helicopter pilot, then you are taking yourself far too seriously.

Our family has a good reason for this rule: you can’t be a happy person if you can’t laugh at yourself and your mistakes. And so we laugh. A lot. There has not been a day in my life when we three (six) haven’t at least snickered at each other. I’ve snorted quite a bit of milk from my nose.

In a family of this much laughter, you can probably guess that it’s important to be funny. We’re definitely a little ridiculous. My father is a commercial lawyer Monday through Friday; but on the weekends he is a revolutionary war reenactor who dons a musket, a red coat, and a kilt to fight for King George. My mother is an actor, choreographer, and one of the original Dirty Dancers (yes, from the movie) —†we still have her metallic miniskirt in the house somewhere. It’s great having them as parents; but with these goofs running my life, there’s a whole lot of pressure here to be silly. Especially for someone like me.

Realize that I am a quiet person —I like my room and my craypas. I like studying and biology. I love science. I would play guitar and paint all day if I had the time. Weird, coming from that pair, right? But they decided a while ago that, quiet as I am, I still have to be a Getz Morris. That I, too, have a duty to be ridiculous. So what else could they possibly do but haze me?

Initiation rights were extensive. To make a funny gal, I could never be punished —only mocked for my mistakes. Ballads were written about any major screw up. Pun wars have been frequent and ruthless. My own mother has pantsed me, twice. They have never gone for the solid, child-services approved parenting choice —always for the funny.

What my nutjob parents have really been doing all this time, though, is so subtle you might miss it if you blink. Or maybe not. By giving me an obligation —nay a duty to be funny, they have made me enjoy my failures. They have made my darkest moments into great dinner party stories. They even gave me siblings —cuddly ones that don’t poop —for when I get lonely. In a world like this one, those goofballs managed to give me all the tools to be happy. And for a teenage girl, happy’s a pretty rare thing to be.

I’ve had a pleasant life —†no dead relatives, no poverty, no interesting flaws or adventures. I’ve never faced much adversity and the most exotic place I’ve been is Canada. There is really no one story or experience that defines me. But you know what? I have funny parents; and if they have done one thing, they have made certain that I will never be dull.

#mexico