I intentionally missed posting on the anniversary of my mother's passing. I didn't do anything on the 15th of this month, except hang out with a good friend, drink and watch This is the End (cause she hadn't seen it and I thought it was the funniest movie EVER. MADE.)
But that doesn't mean I wasn't thinking about her or that I would let this month pass without commenting on how, after all these years, I'm still deeply affected by her absence in my life. I haven't written about that in the past couple years because since I was working at The Institution that shall not be named (Hillman), I didn't want any of my students to stumble upon this site and know all my business. But she's never been far from my mind. Ever.
I'm always extra emotional during the 31 days of October. At first it's kinda good stuff cause my grandparents' anniversary is the 5th, and this past year they celebrated their 67th Wedding Anniversary, so that's always cause for celebration. But just underneath that, I always have this sense of anxiety. Cause everyday is one day closer to that day. And I hate that day.
While I was enjoying myself, my brother text me to check on me, and I immediately felt shamed that I hadn't thought to reach out to him. He wasn't doing too well. He said he had a headache and was in a foul mood. Of course I knew he would be. October 15th and December 8th are hard days for him. The latter being our mother's birthday. My brother is a man of deep sensitivity. In our family, that word was always used as a curse. To be called sensitive was pitiful. And him being an athlete, I'm sure he tried, as did I, to never be so described. It wasn't until I became an adult, an actor actually, that I realized there's nothing wrong with being sensitive. It's a good thing, really, because it shows how connected you are to your feelings. As an actor, that's an invaluable trait to have. And as a woman it's kinda expected. But for a man, because of our society's notion of masculine and feminine gender roles, it can be a black mark on your personality. I'm sure he's been told countless times and in various situations to man up. And I believe he's taken that to heart.
But more than that, my brother is also a de facto care taker. He knows as the oldest, people look to him to know what to do. To handle the situation. And he does so, as is expected. I know that's a message he got loud and clear when were kids. My parents were always telling him to look out for me, and to take care of me. As the big brother, I was his responsibility. Mommy even went so far as to tell him to take care of a boy who was bullying me at school. I remember that, kinda. I didn't know until years later that she told him that, but I remember the kid picking on me in middle school, and me doing my best to handle my own situation, but really just wanting to disappear. I mean, I got a mouth on me and I unloaded it on him, but the kid was relentless. And I was tired. I wasn't gonna last much longer. My mother noticed something was wrong and her instincts were confirmed when I told her that I hated school. That surprised her cause she was under the quite erroneous impression that I loved school. Not sure how she came to that conclusion, but ok. Years later, in high school, both she and my brother told me their versions of this conversation, and they mirrored each other, so I'm guessing it was basically true.
Mommy goes up to him one night, and with a bit of edge to her tone, asked him what he was gonna do about the fact that I was coming home from school crying every day. He looked at her in silence. She said to him, quite sternly, You're her big brother. You're supposed to take care of her. What am I supposed to do? he implored. Take care of it. She's your sister and some boy's makin' it so she doesn't wanna go to school. She paused for dramatic effect and stared with razor sharp accuracy deep into his eyes before continuing. I don't want her coming home crying anymore. He got her meaning clearer than ever before. I was his responsibility. We're family. We can fight and annoy each other, but I'm his little sister. He has to look out for me and protect me. I'll take care of it, he said. Mommy, satisfied, left the room.
The next day, we went to school in silence. His mind must have been heavy with that responsibility. And maybe a bit of good ol' fashioned big brother-ness was there too. I don't know what he said or did to that kid...he never told me, not even to this day, but after that, that boy was my best friend! I was surprised at the turn around but always kept that boy at arm's length. He wanted to carry my books to my classes for me...really weird shit. L must have threatened his life or something.
When she told me the story, I was amused at first, but then I asked her why she did that. She said that having a big brother was the best relationship she'd ever had. They were so close and she loved him a lot. And when she had L she was so excited that he came first, cause she knew whatever gender the next baby she had was, it would always have a big brother. And her dream was that me and L would be as close as she and her brother had been.
She loved us. And we loved her. He was her little boy, and I was her baby girl. And she knew that one day we'd be all the other had. Sure, the hope back then was we'd become adults, get married and have families of our own, but that we'd still only have each other in a way. And that it'd be important for us to love each other, protect each other, draw on each other for support, so that when she and Daddy were gone and times got tough...say, one of us winds up going through a divorce or something, we'd have the other to lean on and get each other through it. Since neither one of us has met that special someone and remain single and childless, that truth seems more salient now. Daddy's not well. And she's gone. And we are all we have. One day, that'll be the truest thing. And he's been protecting me since day one, at her direction. He knows his role and he's really good at doing it. But where he falls down, is in taking care of himself. He's the rock for everyone, but he doesn't seem to have one himself. I think she was his, as she was mine.
What I know about my brother is that he feels things so deeply, that on the surface it can seem like he's not really feeling anything at all. But that's a lie. And because he doesn't let it out as often as I do, he holds onto it longer and that, in turn, means he doesn't always cope well. I worry about him with that. Because eventually, rocks crumble.
Till next time, lovers!
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