an ode-or-something to my sister

there are lots of things i’ve always wanted to say to my sister but never had the guts to.

if you know me, you’ve probably heard me talk about my sister at least once. it’s hard not to. she’ll cackle at anything you say to her, and you can hear her full-bodied laugh from miles away. she works a million hours a week doing social justice research, planting trees (for fun?), and answering millions of emails from both her students and her professors who adore her, simultaneously overworking and underselling herself everyday. but the moment i tell her i’m in crisis, i’ll hear her mud-covered black timbs stomping into the branford dining hall, where she’ll use one of her (very) limited swipes to sit and listen and tell me it’s okay.

at 24, with a nose ring, an ear piercing infected from her travels to india, and a thrifted sweater that makes her look even smaller than she already is (smaller than me, that is), my sister will shove her hair back to tell you about her day and talk about yours. and i’m so lucky to be able to call her my sister.

my other mom, my confidante, my travel-buddy, and my best friend — my sister has taught me how to think, how to argue, how to have patience, and most importantly, how to love. and there are no words on this planet or beyond to describe how grateful i am for that and for her.

so nhu, here’s my ode-or-something to you:

almost none of my aesthetic is original. wild child, my nalgene, candles, noname, plants, my camera, social justice, tattoos, chance, and nose rings all came from you. growing up, i did everything in my power to be like you because in my head, you’ve always been perfect. now i know you’re a little crazy; still, i could only dream of being half of who you are. thank you for inspiring me to be the best me everyday.

my friends always say, “your sister is so pretty. and smart. and cool.” i think at some point i’m supposed to feel angry or jealous, but i never have. i only say, “i know.” thank you for being the beautiful big sister i’m so proud to have.

car rides with you are my favorite thing in the world. singing stupid songs incorrectly and emphasizing phrases (“yuh” -ariana grande) that nobody says in real life. in the cube with you, i feel safe and free. thank you for buying the cube.

you’re like a personal postal service. it’s great because i don’t have to pay for a PO box and the farthest i have to travel to fetch my mail is the high street gate where i’ll always look for you. thank you for all the deliveries.

pickles is not my dog (or yours) but in my heart, she is. pickles’ love is a manifestation for a lot of things we don’t know how to say to each other and emotions neither of us know how to process. thank you for sharing pickles.

you’re there whenever i cry, and i actually have the guts to tell you. one time, you trekked across new york city to come to me. thank you for teaching me how to love.

but you’re there to celebrate the happiness, too. you sent copies of the globalist to all the family members who are hardly as excited as you are. you talk about me like i know what i’m doing. with you, i know someone truly believes in me — that’s something we hardly had growing up. thank you for being the greatest cheerleader, especially when i’m not my own.

your thoughts on social justice imprinted on me a critical and insightful view of the world. you talk to me about the nuances of ethnicity, race, sexuality and everything in between with patience and curiosity, while still emphasizing the importance of recognizing our own positions in the world. you always say it’s wild that i think so deeply about these things at such a young age, but it’s only because you taught me to. thank you for sharing all you’ve learned about the world around us and encouraging me to keep learning.

our radio show “the sister slo:ths” (or better yet, “the sister slo:ths featuring cousin the pickled fish”) is my happy space every week. walking into the radio station five minutes late, i push open the door to find you sitting there — mangled headphones on, one hand on the microphone, the other poised to choose the next song, and a grin on your face — looking at me because here we are. our space. for some reason, we decided one day last year that we were just so funny and interesting that we just had to get a radio show. now our three loyal listeners know that’s mostly true, except the show is mostly us laughing at ourselves. thank you for hosting this ridiculous radio show with me; it’s my favorite project.

you’ve loved multiple boys in your life and none of them have any idea how lucky they are. it’s a wonder that you feel insecure when you’re just the right mix of beautiful, hard working, funny, and strange. but then i remember how damaged we are and it makes a little sense. when we were little, i thought you were like a robot. i’d never seen you cry. laughing and crying with you now, i feel less alone. you share with me your feelings, fears, and irrationalities. thank you for reminding me what it means to be human.

i’m not sure what i’m going to do when you’re not here anymore. but until then, i’ll always say yes to potstickers & pickles at 86 edwards and wherever you are in the years to come. thank you for being home.

i love you & thank you.

see you tomorrow,

v