There’s no order like birth order

Originally published 11 November 1996

Frank Sul­loway thinks he has dis­cov­ered the dri­ving engine of his­to­ry: birth order.

That’s right, birth order of sib­lings with­in fam­i­lies is the most reli­able pre­dic­tor of rev­o­lu­tion­ary cre­ativ­i­ty, he claims. And rev­o­lu­tion­ary cre­ativ­i­ty deter­mines the course of history.

Sul­loway is a his­to­ri­an of sci­ence, cur­rent­ly asso­ci­at­ed with the Depart­ment of Brain and Cog­ni­tive Stud­ies at MIT. His new book, Born to Rebel: Birth Order, Fam­i­ly Dynam­ics and Cre­ative Lives, makes an impres­sive sta­tis­ti­cal case for his dar­ing the­sis. This is a ter­rif­ic book, solid­ly researched and great fun to read.

Accord­ing to Sul­loway, per­son­al­i­ty is the reper­toire of strate­gies we devel­op in our strug­gle to sur­vive child­hood. We are pro­grammed by mil­lions of years of Dar­win­ian nat­ur­al selec­tion to com­pete with our sib­lings for parental favor.

First­borns iden­ti­fy with par­ents and author­i­ty, and defend their pri­ma­ry place against encroach­ments by younger broth­ers and sis­ters. They tend to be ambi­tious, con­sci­en­tious, and conservative.

Lat­er-borns must stake out new fam­i­ly nich­es; to this end, they are open to new expe­ri­ences and take greater risks. They tend to be imag­i­na­tive, flex­i­ble, and liberal.

To test Sul­loway’s the­sis, I con­duct­ed inter­views with three famous pairs of sib­lings: Hansel and Gre­tel, Flop­sy and Peter Rab­bit, and the Hardy boys. Their respons­es follow:

Hansel: “I knew my father did­n’t want us to die in the for­est. He’s real­ly a splen­did fel­low, just led astray by our wicked step­moth­er. If the fam­i­ly had­n’t been starv­ing, he would nev­er have lis­tened to her evil scheme. Besides, I knew I could find our way home from the for­est if I applied my mind to it. A pock­et full of shiny peb­bles, a pock­et full of bread crumbs. My younger sis­ter Gre­tel is such a whin­er. Always whim­per­ing, com­plain­ing. She does­n’t real­ize how hard it is for our father to feed a fam­i­ly of four on a wood­cut­ter’s income. I knew that when we found our way home he would be proud of me.”

Gre­tel: “If only Hansel would open his eyes he would real­ize that our father had only one thing in mind: fill­ing his own fat bel­ly. Sure, our step­moth­er put him up to it, but he con­sent­ed to aban­don us in the for­est, not once, but twice. Hansel’s such a fool, always mak­ing excus­es for Father. And that sil­ly scheme to fol­low a trail of bread crumbs, as if bread crumbs were the same as shiny peb­bles. Nev­er passed his mind that birds might eat the crumbs. I’ll admit I was scared. But who was it who saved our necks in the end? Who thought of trick­ing the witch into stick­ing her head in the oven? Who pushed her in and bolt­ed the door? Not clever Hansel. If I had my way, we would have tak­en the witch’s pearls and pre­cious jew­els and gone off to live in some glit­ter­ing city, bought myself some adorable dress­es, a coach and fours, mar­ried a prince. But not Hansel. Even after what our father did to us, he returned home and gave Father the witch’s trea­sure. What good, I ask you, is an old­er brother?”

Flop­sy: “It’s a ter­ri­ble bur­den being the old­est in the fam­i­ly. So much respon­si­bil­i­ty keep­ing Mop­sy, Cot­ton-Tail, and Peter from mak­ing nui­sances of them­selves. Espe­cial­ly Peter, the youngest. Always get­ting in trou­ble. Just the oth­er day he made a ter­ri­ble mess of it. Dis­obeyed our moth­er while she was off to the store buy­ing cur­rant buns. Sneaked into Mr. McGre­gor’s gar­den. Can you believe it? The last thing Moth­er said was ‘Don’t go into Mr. McGre­gor’s gar­den.’ And off he goes. Lost his shoes and jack­et, too. He was lucky to get away alive. For the life of me, I can’t under­stand why he does­n’t show bet­ter sense. Moth­er was in a fran­tic fit.”

Peter Rab­bit: “Cur­rant buns! Who the heck wants to eat cur­rant buns when there’s let­tuce, radish­es, and pars­ley just inside McGre­gor’s fence. Cur­rant buns ain’t rab­bit food. Flop­sy, Mop­sy, and Cot­ton-Tail are such wee­nies, in their sil­ly lit­tle jack­ets and pris­sy shoes. Who ever heard of a rab­bit in jack­et and shoes? They’re try­ing to win brown­ie points with Ma, that’s what. Mean­while, I’m hav­ing the time of my life munch­ing McGre­gor’s veg­gies. My old­er sis­ters and broth­er got freaked out ’cause I lost my jack­et and shoes. No way! I ditched ’em as soon as I was out­ta Ma’s sight. Ditched my shoes and ran like the wind, that’s what. Made a fool of McGre­gor. OK, so I got put to bed with­out my sup­per. Who needs it? Man, those radish­es were good!”

Frank Hardy: “Gosh, it’s swell to be the son of a famous detec­tive. Dad’s top­notch, and he always lets me and Joe help him sleuth his cas­es. Joe’s my younger broth­er. My best pal, too. We do every­thing togeth­er. Chase bank rob­bers, spy on smug­glers, foil coun­ter­feit­ers. Trou­ble is, Joe tends to fly off in all direc­tions. He’s impetu­ous, Dad says. A detec­tive should be reflec­tive, ana­lyt­i­cal, care­ful. Like Dad. Peo­ple always say I remind them of Dad. ‘Frank, they say. You’re the spit­tin’ image of Fen­ton Hardy.’ ”

Joe Hardy: “My broth­er Frank is a crack­er­jack guy. But some­times he’s such a straight arrow. Just once I’d like for him to do some­thing crazy. Lose his tem­per. Use a cuss word. Break the speed lim­it in our road­ster. He’s always wor­ry­ing about what Dad will think. It’s Dad this, Dad that. Some­time I’d like to get off on my own — with­out Frank. Sneak a beer in a Bay­port bar. Take Chet’s sis­ter Iola out to that aban­doned house on the cliff, cop a feel, steal a kiss. Frank is such a goody-goody. I can’t wait ’till I’m old enough to get away from Bay­port on my own. Hol­ly­wood, maybe. Play a detec­tive in films. Chase star­lets. Drink like a fish. I’m tired of liv­ing in Frank’s shad­ow. I was born to rebel.”