Nutt - Becoming Nicole: The Transformation of an American Family

T he child is mesmerized. Tapping his toes and shuffling his small sandaled feet in a kind of awkward dance, he swirls and twirls, not in front of the camera, but in front of the window in the shiny black oven door. Its just the right height for a two-year-old. Wyatt is bare chested and wears a floppy hat on the back of his head. A string of colorful Mardi Gras beads swings around his neck. But what has really caught his attention, what has made this moment magical, are the shimmering sequins on his pink tutu. With every twist and turn, slivers of light briefly illuminate the face of the little boy entranced by his own image.

This is one of Wyatts favorite pastimesdancing in front of the window of the stove, says the disembodied voice behind the video camera. Hes got his new skirt on and his bohemian chain and his hat and hes going at it.Wave to the camera, Wy.

Maybe Wyatt doesnt hear his father. Maybe hes only half-listening, but for whatever reason he ignores him and instead sways back and forth, his eyes never leaving his own twinkling reflection. Finally, the little boy does what hes askedsort of. He twists his head around slightly and gazes shyly up at his father, then lets out a small squeal of delight. It is a childs expression of intense happiness, but Wayne Maines wants something else.

Show me your muscles, Wy. Can I see your muscles? he prompts the son.

Suddenly Wyatt seems self-conscious. His eyes slide slowly from his fathers face and settle on somethingor nothingon the other side of the kitchen, just out of camera range. He hesitates, not sure what to do, then, ignoring his father again, turns back to the oven window and strikes a pose. Its a halfhearted pose, really: With his two little fists propped under his chin, he flexes his nonexistent muscles. He knows hes not giving his father what he wants, but he also cant seem to break the spell of his reflection.

Show me your muscles. Over here. Show them to me.

Wayne is getting frustrated.

Show Daddy your muscles, like this. Over here. Wyatt. Show me your muscles.

At last, the appeals have their desired effect. Wyatt turns again toward his father, hands still under his chin, arms still against his sides, and looks up at him. But thats it. Thats all Wayne Maines is going to get. With a look of part defiance, part apology, the little boy turns back to the oven window.

All right. Thats enough, the disappointed father says and clicks the camera off.

B EFORE LOVE, BEFORE LOSS, before we ever yearn to be something we are not, we are bodies breathing in spaceturbulent, fleshy, sensual, Walt Whitman once wrote. We are inescapably physical, drawn to the inescapably human. But if we are defined by our own bodies, we are entwined by the bodies of others. An upright, moving human being is endlessly more fascinating to an infant than any rattle or plaything. At six months, babies can barely babble, but they can tell the difference between a male and a female. When a feverish infant rests its head on its mothers chest, her body cools to compensate and brings the childs temperature down. Place the ear of a preemie against its mothers heart and the babys irregular heartbeat finds its right rhythm.

As we grow and mature and become self-conscious, we are taught that appearanceswho we are on the outsidearent nearly as important as who we are on the inside. And yet beauty beguiles us. Human beings are unconsciously drawn to the symmetrical and the aesthetic. We are, in short, uncompromisingly physical, even self-absorbed. The philosopher and psychologist William James once wrote that mans most palpable selfishness is bodily selfishness; and his most palpable self is the body. But man does not love his body because he identifies himself with it; rather, He identifies himself with this body because he loves it.

And if he does not love his body, what then? How can you occupy a physical space, be a body in space, and yet be alienated from it at the same time?

There are dozens of videos of Wyatt Maines and his identical twin brother, Jonas, in the first years of their lives, growing up in the Adirondacks of New York and then in rural Maine. Adopted at birth, they are the only children of Kelly and Wayne Maines, and they are lavished with love and attention, the video camera catching everything from the ordinary to the momentous. They splash at each other in the bathtub, plop in rain puddles together, and unwrap presents side by side on Christmas morning. Kelly never wanted the boys to fight over their presents. Anything one gets, the other gets, too, right down to the candles on their shared birthday cake. When they turn one year old there are two candles, one for each boy. When they turn two, four candles. Kelly also believed in exposing them to traditional playthings as well as atypical toys. So at birthdays and Christmases both receive big yellow dump trucks, roller-skating Barbie dolls, and motorized Dalmatian puppies.

In the beginning, with their bowl-cut hairstyles, dungarees, and flannel shirts, it was virtually impossible to tell them apart, except that Wyatts face was ever so slightly rounder. But there were differences, and Kelly and Wayne noticed them soon enough. Wyatt was the one who every morning, in his diaper and with a pacifier in his mouth, stood next to his mother in front of the TV and imitated her Pilates moves. Usually hed do the exercises while holding a Barbie doll, often giving it a shake so its long blond hair swished this way and that, sparkling in the morning sunlight. At other times, hed unsnap his onesie, letting the sides hang down, as if it were a kind of skirt.