I am almost six years older than my brother which was just enough distance to see him as a cute and cuddly threat when he was born and a strange, little brainiac as he grew into a viciously smart kid and I into a miserable, brooding teenager. I was always so curious about him, intrigued and fascinated. He was a boy and did boy things and was sensitive, inquisitive, and obviously bright. It was understood that he was bright. He "got" things easily, skipped second grade, had a memory for all kinds of information, facts, dates, concepts, and loved exploring them, sometimes talking, talking, talking about them out loud in order to process them. His role in the family was son and heir and "the smart one." Nevermind that he was also a talented musician, it seemed a "shame" for him to go in the direction of the arts when he was clearly gifted with this brain for "something more."
I can only imagine how being my little brother must have traumatized the poor soul. I was all arts and smarts--dance, visual arts, music, then acting later in life-- though the smarts did not reveal itself until years later when intelligence was no longer measured in test taking ability, memorization, and advanced algebra and trigonometry. I foolishly committed the rules to memory and existed only to serve them. Until I became that tortured teen, I ignored my own thoughts and cries and pleas for expression and did what I was told. My bro watched in the shadows of the Speak N-Spell, adding numbers on the calculator to turn it upside down and make funny words, spinning the globe and pouring through maps and Encyclopedia Britannica volumes while I went from people pleaser to sad, angry worm. My sister, two years younger than I am, buffered him from my angst and anxiety, teaching him about hip hop and teenage partying, relationships, and navigating the grey landscape that was our childhood home.
And then I was gone. As I watched from the dorm rooms I inhabited in Boston, my brother became a very cool, super hip, politically passionate dude. I wanted to know him but was long gone and fast disconnecting from the mothership. We'd move in and out of the circle, a little do-see-do, but never quite got to know each other or find ourselves completely comfy in each others' presence. I blamed myself for this. My brooding, emotional, artistic self saw ribbons of energy pushing and pulling and twisting around each other and I could never get my bearings. I recalled bad times where he'd existed only on the periphery, moments that did not sit with the same thud for him as they did for me. I was melancholy, mourning, dark and he was still searching, reaching, seeking. Though we were both artistic, creative, thinkers, though we were both inquisitive, longing,questing, I couldn't see in his success, his hopefulness, how it was that we'd come out of the same house, that he remembered too.
As soon as I saw the trotting horses in the park, I collected myself and got my bearings. I looked down and saw that I was pushing Virginie in our Peg Perego stroller that has survived international travel, beach dunes, and took comfort in seeing my hands gripping the carriage handles. I searched for Lily, looking for her red jacket through the trees and other colored parkas in the park and saw that she was close. Close to me and to the trotting horses. I didn't have to say anything because before I could figure out just what I would shout out about now, my brother rounded up the girls (his and mine) and got them well out of "harm's" way. I looked over at my sister-in-law and said, "He has it too, huh? The Penn panic. The horses aren't bothering you at all, are they?" They weren't. At all. Nor were they bothering my husband.
A smile came to my face and I took comfort in this commonality. My brother is all those wonderful things and he was freaked by the possibility of the "charging," yes, now charging (in my mind) horses. He was prepared for danger, ready. He believed in love and life, had found the most incredible place with his gorgeous wife and girls, successful career, nice home, spoils of a well-lived, well-guided life, and still flashed panicked eyes at obstacles on the road. As I watched him, looked at his face, I saw my baby brother, the little one, and I wanted to reassure him, even though I was pretty on guard myself. Even though, when we were younger, I had no tools to guide or protect or reassure.
Even if this guy wasn't my brother, I would think he was pretty awesome. In the second act, I get to know him for whom he probably always was, but I had no idea, and for the person he continues to develop into. The man, the dad, the husband, and the friend. The artist, the lawyer, the thinker. I can only hope that he recognizes that the broody, moody, emotional girl he witnessed has transformed into a still emotional, spiritual, hopeful, still a bit fearful, caring, creative woman with partially exorcised demons and a map with room for more experiences and destinations. We've been through some of the same places and I now hope we can show each other something new.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Beautiful!!
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