In a large house overlooking the East River, an unusual inheritance meeting was underway.
The owner of the house had not retired yet. In fact, he still had more than six months left in the chair.
Yet relatives from every corner of the world had already begun discussing who should sit in it next.
It was no ordinary chair.
For eighty years, every occupant had become the face of the household, responsible for settling disputes, calming arguments and occasionally pretending to be more powerful than they really were.
The cousins from the Western Coast and Caribbean Isles arrived convinced the chair belonged to them.
“It has been decades since one of ours sat there,” argued the first cousin.
“We have waited patiently,” said another.
A third cousin agreed.
So did a fourth.
Soon the cousins were debating lineage, counting years and producing increasingly creative explanations as to why the chair was rightfully theirs.
At the far end of the room sat a former village chief from the Savannah.
He listened quietly.
The cousins barely noticed him.
Why would they?
After all, they were busy competing with one another.
As the afternoon wore on, a new argument emerged.
Some relatives pointed out that every person who had occupied the chair since the house was built had been a man.
Surely, they argued, it was time for a woman to sit there.
Several heads nodded.
Several others frowned.
The discussion grew longer.
The calculations became more complicated.
The alliances shifted.
The cousins continued talking.
The former chief from the Savannah continued listening.
As evening approached, the gathering seemed less concerned with who deserved the chair and more concerned with who everyone could agree on.
That was when a tired relative looked across the room.
“Tell me,” he asked, “what was the name of that quiet gentleman from the Savannah again?”
The room fell silent.
The old chair creaked.
And for the first time all day, the inheritance meeting became interesting.
