Sisterhood
ˈsi-stər-ˌhu̇d
Sisterhood is new emotional territory for me. I’m a mother of two daughters, and growing up with a brother hadn’t prepared me for mediating the ups and downs of their sisterly kinship. They seem strangely inseparable, or inseparably at each other’s throats.
I remember a time, when I was at my friend Charlotte’s house playing Candyland at the kitchen table, then suddenly, out of nowhere, her curly-headed, pimpled faced older sister came up behind us and ripped off Charlotte’s necklace.
“That’s mine, you bitch,” she said.
Beads fell all over the linoleum floor, tap, tap, tap, like raindrops. A part of me wanted to duck under the table, and another part of me wanted to watch. I definitely didn’t want to get involved, so I stayed quiet and stared.
“You said you didn’t like it anymore.” My friend was unfazed and defiant. She stood her ground. She played her part well. I was quietly applauding Charlotte with my fingers squeezed between my knees.
“I don’t like it, but it still doesn’t mean you can go into my room and take my stuff.” The grouchy teenage sister had a point. I’d never go into my older brother’s room. Some places were off limits, especially those occupied by cruddy adolescents.
“Sorry,” said Charlotte. Her cheeks turned bright pink and puddles gathered in her eyes. I was expecting the older sister to hug her, and tell her it’s okay, I’m sorry I yelled at you, like any warm hearted person would do if they saw an underling hurt and crying. She gave Charlotte a cold stare, and called her a baby before stomping out of the kitchen, and slamming the door behind her. Sisters can be so cruel.
Charlotte wiped the puddles from her eyes with her sleeve. I was afraid to touch her. I had had no experience in the sisterhood, so I didn’t know how to respond in this sort of emotional situation.
“She’s having her period,” Charlotte said. I didn’t know what a period was. I assumed it was another sisterhood thing. I didn’t dare ask, not wanting to sound stupid while being equally unsupportive.
My daughters are quick to insult and hit each other, but they easily succumb to reconciliation. In my observation, one of them plays the provocateur and the other is the gullible victim.
“Mima, you know Ella came to my class today,” the little one’s voice is sweetly annoying, yet persuasive.
“Agh, I hate her. She’s so mean.” Mima has fallen for it, as usual.
“She told me she plays on the soccer team with you. I like her. She’s nice to me,” sings little Nina.
“Don’t talk to her anymore. You’re my sister. You should be on my side. If she comes to your class again ignore her,” Mima tries to hold in whatever emotion is coming out in her voice.
Nina doesn’t like being told what to do, and she’s looking for a fight. “I can talk to her if I want to. She’s faster than you anyways.”
“No she’s not,” Mima shouts. “You’re so stupid. I hate you.”
“Yes she is,” Nina screams.
Mima hits her little sister in the shoulder. Nina kicks her back. Then Mima pushes her too hard, whereby little Nina falls backwards and lands on her butt. She lets out a long high pitched wail that only persons of her age are capable of making. Mima spews out some more inaudible insults at her sister. I see her lips curl, and can sort of make out the words, stupid, baby, and dumb.
I usually don’t get involved until one of them screams like that, because it’s impossible to ignore, or if there is blood. There is rarely blood, hardly ever.
Arbitration is hit or miss with me. Honestly, I think that they’re both being bothersome little snots and that they should keep quiet, respect each other and read, or comb each other’s hair or do the nice things that sisters are supposed to do.
So, I ask them to tell me more about this Ella girl. Dishing out gossip on Ella helps calm them down. Sometimes I feel I can handle sisters, and sometimes I feel like Jane Goodall observing chimps.
