Favorite
Lamenting My Brother’s Waywardness
They say you’re not supposed to have favorites . . . I am the eldest of seven children. It was inevitable that I’d have a favorite sibling or two. There is one. There are two. I will focus on one — the one for whom I shed the most tears. I pride myself on managing strengths over weaknesses when my siblings come to me for advice or just for love. I try to put myself in their shoes for every situation discussed. But sometimes, that is impossible.
I wish I could describe to you what it feels like to be significantly older than all of your siblings, having changed their diapers — assisted them through potty training, taught them how to hold a spoon, chew gum, walk, and live. When there are little black boys growing up in “the hood” or “the projects” or “the bad side of town” you instill in them how-tos and to be on guard for what life could throw their way. You advise them not to look directly in a police officer’s direction, to mind their business, to walk swiftly past couples arguing in the street.
You make sure they have enough money in their pockets if they want to go shopping and you drive them to the mall because black teenage boys on the bus cause “tension” in the South. You gas up their heads, tell them that they’re handsome, smart, and the world will be amazed by them when they get older. You show them how to love, how to care for nature and animals. You make sure they know the meaning of “resourceful” and “hard-working.”
You give them chores and buy them condoms because they will certainly want to cram their junk into every living, breathing thing that walks with budding breasts attached to them even when you warn them to “make good choices.” You hold onto them. You let them go. You watch them run, trip, and fall. You help them up again. You do all of these things and they grow away from you, from your teachings. They have to. They need to live and learn and make mistakes.
But when their mistakes start to affect families created and weaken the one of their origin, you try your hardest not to step in, but you know — you know, eventually, you will. And when you are asked to listen to their sobbing wife who calls you Sister and you hear the quickened breaths she takes as she utters your brother’s name, you assure her — you will talk to him. And you do. More than once. And the fear of God is in him, but he is making plans with something other than the knowledge passed down to him and you feel him turning into the father you share when he was young and dumb.
And you cry out to him to please stay away from the dangers of more!
More does not equal best or better. There is no guarantee that more will keep you happy. More is often the final straw breaking the camel’s back. You do not divulge much. You give him enough on which to chew and tell him, “I love you, but I am disappointed in you right now and I need a moment.” Because if you spew out all that your brain is telling you to say, feelings will get hurt. Bonds will be broken. People will be labeled estranged.
I am lamenting my brother’s waywardness and there is nothing I can do other than watch the tears fall and puddle up under my chin. I am often called to save our family — to stop the downfall before it arrives and typically, I can. But not this time. This time, yearning appendages that sway between legs attached to “he thinks he’s grown now” bodies make decisions and dig ditches that are too hard to climb up from. This time, you can scream as loud as you want and you will not save him. This time, he jumps straight from acting like your father to flat out being your father and you feel a sense of disconnection.
If you were near him, you’d choke him to death.
You tell yourself, “I’m so glad I am not in college anymore. Thank God my temper has curbed,” but you’d probably slap him, just because. And you sit back and remember his giggle, his toddler walk, his reaching arms when he wanted a hug. You think back to how he struggled to say your name, how his bowed little legs ran slower than most, and how you picked him up and gave him piggyback rides because that’s what big sisters do. And you cry. I cried. I cry.
I listen to my sister-in-law and I try to find a button to press that will calm me down and there is none. I tell her that I will always love her. That my home is hers. My life is hers to continue to inhabit. We will always be. I pray and pray and pray and pray that this newfound life my favorite has sought will not kill him — will not tear him a new one. And I give it to God. I leave it there. I have been making beds for years now. I know that when I finally lie in the one I’ve made, when I awaken, I better be prepared for what’s coming.
I hope he likes the smell of a broken heart in the morning.
©2020 Tremaine L. Loadholt
*My comedy comes from pain. I can’t stand to see someone hurting. — Bernie Mac
