Brother’s Keeper

Jealousy and domination threaten to tear two brothers apart

John invited me to hit him in the face.

I did.

I look back at this and am shocked at how my Father wrote the script for this awful Moment — always telling John that I’d be bigger than him someday — always telling me to keep fighting to keep up.

Then, Dad always told John that I could do physical things a year earlier than he could. I hated how he treated John, yet I reveled in my success.

Dear Jesus, did you make my Father the vengeful god of Genesis?

Why does there always have to be a fate?

Why did John always know how to push my most vulnerable button, which revealed the worst in me?

In this case, it resulted from my Father’s rules for “Family Fights.” I could not hit “family” in the face in a physical fight; it would send the wrong public message.

My Mother, conversely, would often tell us to punch anyone in the face, except family, who is bullying us and stand up for ourselves.

Armed with the knowledge of lunatics, I took my fight to a kid bullying my friend at the Mall. Knocking a bully over was the biggest thrill I had ever felt. I came alive that day and carried the foolish arrogance of impetuous violence straight through middle school. Little did I know the inspiration for all of this was my parents; they did this. I was now my Father’s son.

Constantly flipping the script, Pete told me that men could be imprisoned for this. That seemed unbelievable, but then there was an article about a man who punched someone out in a bar fight, and the person’s head hit the ground with enormous force. The man died from the blow, and now another tough guy was going to prison for manslaughter.

The fear worked on me, and my pugilist days ended at age 14. Unfortunately for John, now I was 15, and I’d just spent the last eight months growing 6 inches and layering on the resolve to persevere through any pain. He knew I wouldn’t punch him as he teased me about my declaration that I was a peacemaker.

“Do you want to be a priest?

Do you think Dad will love you more if you do that?

Are you just a big pussy?”

He slapped my face.

He grabbed my shirt.

He shoved me.

His intent was obvious, but a rage grew in me, and I could not contain it. It was worse than Dad yelling at Mom.

It’s worse than yelling at the shoplifter.

It came from my built reputation and street cred. I was ready.

Jesus, I thought I was Abel, but now I’m Cain. My brother must die. I will murder my Father’s oldest son.

I wound up.