Alone With My Brother

He ran down the hall and cried on the day I was born. My brother. I obviously don't remember this event, but I have been told about it. Many, many times. It's sort of a running joke in our family, brought up every time we reminisce about our childhoods. I was an accident to begin with. My parents already had three daughters and a son, all three years apart. The perfect family. An even number. Then, five years later, I came along. My brother was no longer the baby of the family, but he was still the only boy-child, and this apparently crushed his spirit. If there had to be another sibling, he wanted a brother. He wanted a brother so badly that he ran down the hall and cried when he found out I was me. A girl. A sister. And let me tell you, being resented from the day you are born is a burden no one should have to bear.

I didn't ask to be born. And I didn't ask to be a girl. But I was, and I am. My earliest memory of my brother is sharing a bedroom with him when I was a toddler. He already resented my mere presence, so I imagine that being forced to share a room with me just added insult to injury. I adored him. I wasn't old enough or wise enough to know yet that our relationship was lopsided. I slept with one of his school shirts, a "blankey" of sorts. It was soft and it smelled like him. He avoided me. I followed him. As we got older, I moved out of his room, to his great relief. Sometimes he would torture me by taking my own hand and hitting my face with it, gleefully yelling "why are you hitting yourself?" I would cry and tattle tell, but secretly I kind of liked it, because at least he was paying attention to me. Acknowledging my existence.

We had to walk to and from school together back in the days when young children did that sort of thing. I was always forced to trail behind him. When I was around eight years old and he was thirteen, I decided one day that I was going to walk next to him, whether he liked it or not. I ran to catch up with him. He stopped. He just stopped. He didn't speak, he didn't look at me. He started walking again; a little faster this time. I ran to catch up and in so doing, I went flying into a free fall that had me skimming across the concrete on my knees. Forty-five years later I still have the scar from that fall. A reminder of a rejection that has followed me all my life.

My childhood was somewhat idyllic. I grew up in a blue-collar neighborhood filled with split-level homes, mature trees and expansive yards. I went to a small parochial school, played hide and seek and kick ball outside until the street lights came on, and had a Mom and Dad that loved each other and all of us kids. But I felt like an only child. My brother was the closest in age to me, but five years is enough of a difference that we didn't share friends or have anything in common other than the fact we were siblings. By the time I was twelve, my sisters had all moved out. I had given up on trying to get my brother to like me at that point. I knew it was hopeless. His indifference to me was palpable. I didn't understand it. And it hurt.

My brother graduated from high school the year before I started there. He had been a popular, well-liked student. Girls were crazy for him, guys wanted to be him, and teachers adored him. Why wouldn't they? He was smart, had a sharp wit, and charm oozed from him. Once I got there older students and teachers alike would hear my last name and say, "Are you his sister?", as if he was some kind of celebrity. I would say yes, but I couldn't tell them the truth. That I barely knew him. Yes, we lived in the same house, shared the same parents and siblings, but we didn't know each other. How can you know someone who has ignored you your whole life?

I'd been on the road for three hours thinking about him. Wondering what I would say when I saw him. Wondering why he asked me to pick him up. He had lived overseas throughout his twenties and thirties and at forty-five was moving back home with his wife and two daughters. Oh, the irony. He still didn't get his boy-child. He was traveling ahead of his family to find a house and get situated before they came to join him. All of my sisters had been to visit him at one time or another over the years. He'd lived an exotic life with stints in Paris, London, Dubai, and most recently Brazil. A world traveler. People would ask me why I wasn't taking advantage of having a free place to stay to explore another country. But I knew I wasn't wanted, and I don't go where I'm not wanted. I had seen him and met his wife and girls a couple of times when they came to family events, but not since my parents had passed away. It had been eight years since I had even spoken to him. And I don't recall ever having had an actual conversation with him. It was going to be a long, quiet four hour drive home from the airport.

As I watched him walking toward me, all those same feelings of rejection flooded my brain and made me feel queasy. I hated having this reaction to him, but knew no way to prevent it. He was handsome, charming, smart, and funny. I wanted him to like me. it didn't take long to find out why he had asked me to pick him up. All three of my sisters had been asked first, but were busy. I was his last option. A quote from Maya Angelou popped into my head, "Never make someone your priority when all you are to them is an option." It made me sad. The drive was long, the silence was deafening. I dropped him off at my sister's house, where he would be staying until he got settled in his own place. He got out of the car and said, "Thanks Sis" and walked away. At least he didn't run, and this time he wasn't crying.