Not My Father's Son

by Alan Cumming

For me, I found myself embracing the childhood I felt I had missed. My flat began to fill with games I had either played as a boy or lusted after. I discovered I loved the color yellow and so I had all my walls painted in a bright shade of it. I saw a large floor lamp in the shape of a daffodil, and I had to have it. I bought action figures from TV shows of my youth and placed them in pride of place on my mantelpiece. I started to collect marbles again. I realized that I was living my life backwards. I had to be a grown-up when I’d been a little boy, and now I was tending to the little boy inside who’d never had the chance to properly play. I didn’t question it. I went with it. I liked it. I am referred to often as having a childlike quality, or being pixielike. At first, when these sorts of descriptions began to be attributed to me, I didn’t like them. Childhood for me had such negative connotations that the idea that I was in some way overly connected to that time in my life was a cause for concern, not celebration. Why was I so childlike? Was I in some way emotionally retarded, trapped, trying desperately to reconfigure my past before I could move on? Eventually I began to feel more comfortable with it all. Childlike, I realized, tends to mean open, joyous, maybe a bit mischievous, and I am happy to have all those qualities. Had I not had the childhood I did, would these traits not be so at the forefront of my personality? Who knows? All I know is that I am the product ...