The last slice of cake, the last slice of pie, the ice cream served in one bowl: at first, the ability to allocate my portions from theirs was part of their divine rights of parents, and I more or less accepted this. At five, my parents began permitting me to choose which dish was mine. The slices of cake were always disappointingly similarly sized, so this didn't change a lot, but I enjoyed the power.
I distinctly remember my dad sitting me down on the floor with a slice of cake and two plates. "Today's your turn to divide the cake, and I choose." I set a very small portion on one plate, and left 70% of the cake on another for myself. He began reaching, very slowly, for the larger plate, eyes locked on it, wordlessly explaining in no uncertain terms what was about to happen. I scowled, "Let me try again."
When Isaac was three and old enough to express his interest in cake, it was my duty as the six-year-old to divide the cake and let him select. Isaac was not the same sort of opponent as my parents. At first he could be tricked by putting the smaller portion near him, and after a few rounds of that he could be tricked by my pretending to hide the smaller portion from him and acting like it was somehow better. Just as they later did when the addition of Firefly lead to kickback and collusion dynamics, the divider was severely punished for such dishonest play. Rules emerged: plates had to be equally presented, divisions were final once the first person took a plate, choosers could only select a plate for themselves, and all games were discrete instances: debts incurred in one game couldn't be repaid in another.
It was a long while before Issac was ready to play as the divider, but one day my parents informed me he was. A long bar of brownies was placed on a plate, and my brother pulled off a small square from the end and put it on the second one. I grinned and reached for the larger one as my brothers face scrunched up in a scowl.
"That's not fair."
"It's the rules."
Isaac sighed, annoyed, "You're suppose to want the little one!"
Showing posts with label Isaac. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Isaac. Show all posts
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Fireflies
My sister has adopted her peer's habit of attempting to use youtube as her own personal music library. She's a legitimate thirteen year-old teenager now, complete with a smart phone grafted to her hand, horrendous spelling, and the belief that capitalizing every other letter makes her cooler. We've settled upon some music we can both enjoy, and now the computer screen is filled with a man at his keyboard and a series of whirring mechanical toys.
I smile. Before I left I had trouble enough grasping that she was eight, my clearest memories of her are when she was closer to five or six, before I got sick.
"You remember fireflies," I ask her, "from our old house?"
She doesn't hear me, she's absorbed in her texting. I go back to stirring the rice pudding on the stove.
 | Owl City - Fireflies |  |
 | ||
 | Found at skreemr.com |  |
I smile. Before I left I had trouble enough grasping that she was eight, my clearest memories of her are when she was closer to five or six, before I got sick.
You would not believe your eyesI can remember running through fields at that age where long grass licked my ankles and tugged at my bare feet, chasing fireflies. My grandmother brought me a jar from the kitchen and we tapped holes in the tin lid with the point of a Phillips screwdriver. I remember the sheer joy of seeing them hovering in the twilight over the quad at college for the first time, that fantastic feeling of coming home to something familiar.
If 10 million fireflies
Lit up the world as I fell asleep
Cuz they'd fill the open air
And leave teardrops everywhere
You'd think me rude
But I would just stand and stare
"You remember fireflies," I ask her, "from our old house?"
She doesn't hear me, she's absorbed in her texting. I go back to stirring the rice pudding on the stove.
***
Even at 9 I had known something very big, and probably very bad was happening when my mother had taken me to my favourite restaurant for "special time together." I could normally count the times we ate out on one hand in a year.
"Pika," my mother said gently, "I have some very big news."
I dug into some ice cream with a spoon. If mom was going to spring bad news on me I was going to at least get a chance to eat desert first out of it.
"Our family is going to be a little bit bigger soon."
"You're pregnant?"
"We might adopt a little girl from China who hasn't got a family."
I remember being overwhelmed by two thoughts. The first was that at the point where my mother was telling me this there wasn't really any actual "might" involved here at all. The second was that my mother was in her mid-fourties and dad was scraping fifty. I couldn't think of anybody that age with a newborn child, and couldn't figure out why that was.
"We're going to be about 10 years apart?"
"Yes."
"Are you...expecting me to help raise her?"
"Only as a sister."
I took another scoop of ice cream, thoroughly unconvinced.
"Pika," my mother said gently, "I have some very big news."
I dug into some ice cream with a spoon. If mom was going to spring bad news on me I was going to at least get a chance to eat desert first out of it.
"Our family is going to be a little bit bigger soon."
"You're pregnant?"
"We might adopt a little girl from China who hasn't got a family."
I remember being overwhelmed by two thoughts. The first was that at the point where my mother was telling me this there wasn't really any actual "might" involved here at all. The second was that my mother was in her mid-fourties and dad was scraping fifty. I couldn't think of anybody that age with a newborn child, and couldn't figure out why that was.
"We're going to be about 10 years apart?"
"Yes."
"Are you...expecting me to help raise her?"
"Only as a sister."
I took another scoop of ice cream, thoroughly unconvinced.
***
By mid-high school my sister was calling me "Mom" by mistake more often than I was comfortable with. I remember doing the same thing in early elementary school with my Waldorf teacher, first calling her mom once by accident and then repeating the "mistake" because a part of my head really liked that idea.
***My memories of being sick are blurry, but I distinctly remember finding and watching Grave of the Fireflies. More friends than I could count had told me I would bawl like a child at the end, but instead I couldn't remember being more enraged at a film. The boy had an obligation to his sister before his personal pride, and no matter how wretched his aunt was being I felt he should have stayed there until the food stopped, in order to try to provide for his sister. At 10 years apart he needed to care for her and put her above all else, as she'd never be able to look after herself at that age. Just looking at that little tin of candies in the grocery store made me mad for months.
***
Leave my door open just a crack
(Please take me away from here)
Because I feel like such an insomniac
(Please take me away from here)
***
I went to college more resentful of my parents than you'd believe, and every time I thought about them I worried for my sister. Issac and I were too close in age for me to protect, and my mother had always gotten along very well with him, but my sister I could do something about. All I had to do was graduate well-decorated, land a steady reputable high-paying job in a very good school district and get a chance to take care of her during her high school years. This desire stemmed from very simple logic: either my parents were not as bad as I thought they were, or I would be a terrible person to leave my sister to the same fate when I had the capacity to do something about it.
***
But I'll know where several are
If my dreams get real bizarre
'Cause I saved a few and I keep them in a jar
***
"Why don't they light up?" a six-year-old me asked, shaking the newly-re-purposed peanut butter jar.
The jar was hastily steadied by my grandma, "Don't shake it, you'll hurt them. I guess they just don't feel like lighting up right now."
My cousin Tom taught me how to kill the bugs when they lit up and smear their color on the pavement, but this was not what I wanted. I wanted a living, breathing nightlight which I could care for and in return could light my room.
The jar was hastily steadied by my grandma, "Don't shake it, you'll hurt them. I guess they just don't feel like lighting up right now."
My cousin Tom taught me how to kill the bugs when they lit up and smear their color on the pavement, but this was not what I wanted. I wanted a living, breathing nightlight which I could care for and in return could light my room.
Leaves, sticks, more air vents, I even once opened the jar after mom tucked me in to let them roam my whole room, but the results were always exactly the same. The next morning I had nothing but dead fireflies.
"Well, maybe they are just fragile," Mom offered.
Almost fifteen years later I am standing in the Torii lobby asking out of the blue if anybody ever mastered this.
"I just don't think they survive the night," Jen offered, "they are probably short-lived..."
I sighed, "I just probably never knew how to care for them."
"Well, maybe they are just fragile," Mom offered.
Almost fifteen years later I am standing in the Torii lobby asking out of the blue if anybody ever mastered this.
"I just don't think they survive the night," Jen offered, "they are probably short-lived..."
I sighed, "I just probably never knew how to care for them."
***
There are curling irons mixed in with the rockband controllers. She's fooling with the wires and a little upset.
"There was a man outside when I was walking the dog," she informs me. "He was smoking and drinking."
I smiled a little bit. My sister was still untangling the cords.
"He asked if he could pet the dog and I was scared, so I said no because she bites and came back."
Thirteen. What does a good parent of a thirteen year old do? Certainly no drinking, no hardcore partying, limited going out late, having to stay out of trouble, and forget doing any serious dating... I'd essentially skip the lifestyle of my early 20's for four years, followed by another four years of being careful and financially stable to provide her a good college education. I'd need to move into an apartment with space for her and shift my work hours so I could be with her. Would the company feed her like they feed me? Otherwise I also need to make meals for her...
Even if I could do all that, could I provide her a good home? Would it be any more realistic or do her any more good than the stick and some leaves in a jar with air holes did for the fireflies? Single working parents have to be nearly heroic to raise children well...and here I've barely figured out all the stuff I have to not do, let alone be sure to do.
"Shit," she says, tugging on the cords.
"You're getting a little gratuitous with the swearing." I add, "It doesn't mean a lot if it's every fourth word."
She looks up at me with an expression I cannot quite fully read, but it definitely says "but you swear."
I'm not sure I can do this.
"There was a man outside when I was walking the dog," she informs me. "He was smoking and drinking."
I smiled a little bit. My sister was still untangling the cords.
"He asked if he could pet the dog and I was scared, so I said no because she bites and came back."
Thirteen. What does a good parent of a thirteen year old do? Certainly no drinking, no hardcore partying, limited going out late, having to stay out of trouble, and forget doing any serious dating... I'd essentially skip the lifestyle of my early 20's for four years, followed by another four years of being careful and financially stable to provide her a good college education. I'd need to move into an apartment with space for her and shift my work hours so I could be with her. Would the company feed her like they feed me? Otherwise I also need to make meals for her...
Even if I could do all that, could I provide her a good home? Would it be any more realistic or do her any more good than the stick and some leaves in a jar with air holes did for the fireflies? Single working parents have to be nearly heroic to raise children well...and here I've barely figured out all the stuff I have to not do, let alone be sure to do.
"Shit," she says, tugging on the cords.
"You're getting a little gratuitous with the swearing." I add, "It doesn't mean a lot if it's every fourth word."
She looks up at me with an expression I cannot quite fully read, but it definitely says "but you swear."
I'm not sure I can do this.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Peter Pan
Its Saturday morning at my grandma's house. She only has probably five or six movies for children, but her version of Peter Pan the musical is the newest so we're watching that again. Mary Martin is bouncing through the woods singing while the lost boys echo her. Issac is on the couch near me singing and dancing along.
"I won't grow up!"
("I won't grow up!")
"I don't want to wear a tie,"
("I don't want to wear a tie,")
"Or a serious expression,"
(Or a serious expression,")
"In the middle of July."
("In the middle of July.")
"And if it means I must prepare,
To shoulder burdens with a worried air,
I'll never grow up,
Never grow up,
Never grow uuuuup..."
I was extremely young at that time and decided that day that I would never grow up either. I was completely determined.
Our parents were painting the house and so my brother and I were sharing the guest bedroom for the time being. As my mother tucked us in I explained to her that I would be leaving to go live with Peter Pan in a few years. I needed to wait a few years so I could always be a cool older kid and able to use tools and know enough to be really useful in Neverland, but I did need to go even though I would miss everybody very much.
"I see," my mother said, "and when will you go?"
"When I'm 13 I'll prop the window open with a stick and Peter Pan will know it is time for me to leave." I said. 13 seemed unimaginably old at that time, and it was about the age some of the older lost boys were to my knowledge. Thinking on it for a moment I asked, "When do children become adults?"
"When they turn 18."
"Ah, so I'll go right before then I guess."
The next day I selected an appropriate stick from the yard to hold the window open and brought it inside. No use in not being prepared and all.
I thought vaguely of my intentions once when I was 13 and again when I turned 16 and laughed on both occasions. On the eve of my 18th birthday I looked out the window to see a fallen tree branch in my yard. The whole question was framed a little differently in my mind then, as the thought of running away from home was never too far from the horizon.
"I won't grow up!"
("I won't grow up!")
"I don't want to wear a tie,"
("I don't want to wear a tie,")
"Or a serious expression,"
(Or a serious expression,")
"In the middle of July."
("In the middle of July.")
"And if it means I must prepare,
To shoulder burdens with a worried air,
I'll never grow up,
Never grow up,
Never grow uuuuup..."
I was extremely young at that time and decided that day that I would never grow up either. I was completely determined.
Our parents were painting the house and so my brother and I were sharing the guest bedroom for the time being. As my mother tucked us in I explained to her that I would be leaving to go live with Peter Pan in a few years. I needed to wait a few years so I could always be a cool older kid and able to use tools and know enough to be really useful in Neverland, but I did need to go even though I would miss everybody very much.
"I see," my mother said, "and when will you go?"
"When I'm 13 I'll prop the window open with a stick and Peter Pan will know it is time for me to leave." I said. 13 seemed unimaginably old at that time, and it was about the age some of the older lost boys were to my knowledge. Thinking on it for a moment I asked, "When do children become adults?"
"When they turn 18."
"Ah, so I'll go right before then I guess."
The next day I selected an appropriate stick from the yard to hold the window open and brought it inside. No use in not being prepared and all.
I thought vaguely of my intentions once when I was 13 and again when I turned 16 and laughed on both occasions. On the eve of my 18th birthday I looked out the window to see a fallen tree branch in my yard. The whole question was framed a little differently in my mind then, as the thought of running away from home was never too far from the horizon.
***
At 14 we can work, at 16 we can drive. At 17 we can see R rated movies. At 18 we can smoke, buy porn, sign papers, vote, and die for our country. At 21 we can toast its victory. At 25 car rentals and many forms of insurance begin treating you as an adult, and at 35 you can run for president. When are we grown up?
***"So," the same grandma asked, "You're 10 today, a whole two digits! How do you feel?"
My grandma asked me this question every year she saw me for my birthday. The answer was always the same.
"Erm...about the same as I did yesterday."
When I was young this statement made me nervous. Birthdays were suppose to be days of change, but I never felt my growth or maturity was so cleanly marked by the strict regiment of the Gregorian calendar. To be honest, I'm not totally sure it does now either.
My grandma asked me this question every year she saw me for my birthday. The answer was always the same.
"Erm...about the same as I did yesterday."
When I was young this statement made me nervous. Birthdays were suppose to be days of change, but I never felt my growth or maturity was so cleanly marked by the strict regiment of the Gregorian calendar. To be honest, I'm not totally sure it does now either.
***
The train leads to a monorail to a plane to a subway and up an escalator to a bus platform where Ginger is waiting for me. He looks different, even only after not seeing him for five months, in a way I can not quite put my finger on. I think I have changed too.
I hold our spot in line for the bus while he goes to get water. He returns and hands me mine.
"How much do I owe you for this?" In undergrad this was an important question.
Ginger shrugs, "Forget it, we're both adults with jobs, a few dollars between friends does not matter."
The eagerness to catch up spills right into the line for the bus and before I know it we're gathering stares and glares as I joke with Ginger about being homeless and the various other adventures which have filled the past 5 months.
"Did I ever tell you," I'm still laughing with Ginger, "about the time a policeman tried to throw me out of a tree for supposedly being drunk?"
The man in front of us and the man in front of him are increasingly gaining credibility with one another by taking turns glaring at us less and less subtly.
The bus engine shudders on, and all of our faces snap to look at it. A young man dressed in green is painted on the side above the bus logo of "Peter Pan." I grin and the lyrics from the television set in my grandmother's house so long ago echo back to me
The outside world can keep its matters of consequence.
I hold our spot in line for the bus while he goes to get water. He returns and hands me mine.
"How much do I owe you for this?" In undergrad this was an important question.
Ginger shrugs, "Forget it, we're both adults with jobs, a few dollars between friends does not matter."
The eagerness to catch up spills right into the line for the bus and before I know it we're gathering stares and glares as I joke with Ginger about being homeless and the various other adventures which have filled the past 5 months.
***
In the course of this life I have had a great many encounters with a great many people who have been concerned with matters of consequence. I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn't much improved my opinion of them. ... I would bring myself down to his level. I would talk to him about bridge, and golf, and politics, and neckties. And the grown-up would be greatly pleased to have met such a sensible man.The Little Prince Chapter 1 by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
***
"Did I ever tell you," I'm still laughing with Ginger, "about the time a policeman tried to throw me out of a tree for supposedly being drunk?"
The man in front of us and the man in front of him are increasingly gaining credibility with one another by taking turns glaring at us less and less subtly.
The bus engine shudders on, and all of our faces snap to look at it. A young man dressed in green is painted on the side above the bus logo of "Peter Pan." I grin and the lyrics from the television set in my grandmother's house so long ago echo back to me
If growing up means it would beI suppose I found how to live in Neverland after all.
Beneath my dignity to climb a tree
I'll never grow up
Never grow up...
The outside world can keep its matters of consequence.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
My Brother's Keeper
The basement was where my mom did laundry. We could always hear her voice at the top of the stairs but normally she tried to shut the door so my brother wouldn't fall down the stairs.
I found my brother crawling on the edge of the stairway and my mother's voice and grabbed him by his overalls to drag him away. He looked bewildered to be sliding backwards, little baby knees sliding fruitlessly back and forth trying to crawl the other way. Issac looked up at me bewildered, but I didn't let go of the red little overalls.
"I saved him," I exclaimed to my mother when she returned up the stairs.
"Oh?"
"He was going to fall down the stairs and I saved him!"
It hadn't been that near a miss in reality but my mother was immensely pleased with me and wanted to encourage this behavior. She picked me up and hugged me, and presented me with a copy of "Babar and Father Christmas" as a reward. I would still pick up the tattered VHS box years later with pride and remember how I had nobly saved my brother.
"Issac will need a lot of protection and teaching," my mother said, "you will always have to be a good big sister and look out for him...keep him out of trouble."
I beamed. I felt important.
Sunday school was difficult: not in an academic sense, but in a behavioral one. I had to wear a dress for one thing, and patent leather shoes which always seemed to come home with scuffs on them, much to my amazement and my mother's distain. I never cared much for my teachers, and I felt like they always taught the same things over and over, but at 8 I was really too young to have much in the way of religious opinions or disbelief in what figures of authority told me was true. Hell, I'm not sure if I had even sorted out Santa Claus yet.
"That's wrong!" I said. I didn't understand at the time that God was upset with Cain for killing his brother, I thought he was mad about Cain not looking out for his little brother. Its amazing how sanitized the world presented to me at that age was.
"What's wrong?" the Sunday school teacher asked.
"Abel wasn't Cain's problem! What if Cain had other stuff to do? Why did he have to be Abel's keeper?"
The Sunday school teacher shook her head, "we are all our brother's keepers, Pika."
I was cranky the whole way home. When I got home I threw my patent leather shoes in my closet and my littly frilly dress on the floor to put my normal clothes back on. Then I pulled my stuffed animals off the shelves and sulked. God seemed pretty demanding and pretty eager to take the fun out of most things.
My brother's head cracked in the doorway and a big pair of blue eyes looked at me.
"NO!" I shouted, "You can't come in here. This is mine. I'm playing by myself."
My brother looked baffled. I sat there for a moment. I knew this wasn't how I was suppose to behave.
"Alright...you can play with one." I presented him Blue Bunny. He grabbed one ear and a foot and started pulling. I could almost hear the little stitches pop.
"No!" I shouted, "stop that! Blue bunny doesn't like that!" I tugged at the animal in his hands and he held on harder. Eventually I extracted it from his hands and stormed back into my room, leaving my bewildered little brother outside the slammed door. There was a few second pause before he started bawling. I could hear my mother's voice outside the door comforting him, and I felt very bad. Mom said I had to be patient with him until he was older and he could learn better. I felt like I had, but apparently it wasn't enough time.
I found my brother crawling on the edge of the stairway and my mother's voice and grabbed him by his overalls to drag him away. He looked bewildered to be sliding backwards, little baby knees sliding fruitlessly back and forth trying to crawl the other way. Issac looked up at me bewildered, but I didn't let go of the red little overalls.
"I saved him," I exclaimed to my mother when she returned up the stairs.
"Oh?"
"He was going to fall down the stairs and I saved him!"
It hadn't been that near a miss in reality but my mother was immensely pleased with me and wanted to encourage this behavior. She picked me up and hugged me, and presented me with a copy of "Babar and Father Christmas" as a reward. I would still pick up the tattered VHS box years later with pride and remember how I had nobly saved my brother.
"Issac will need a lot of protection and teaching," my mother said, "you will always have to be a good big sister and look out for him...keep him out of trouble."
I beamed. I felt important.
***
***
"Hugga hugga hugga squeeeeeeeeeeeze," my mother would say, holding my brother in her arms. On each hug she would give him a strong hug and on the word squeeze she would hold him as long as the word lasted and kiss him on the head. My brother found this comforting when the world became overwhelming, which was often. This was the age where firetruck sirens were terrifying and we couldn't play music on our speakers because it was all overwhelming.
Keeping my brother out of trouble had been a great game when I was five and he was two, but as I neared seven I began to understand that my friends did not need to do nearly as much protecting of their younger siblings as I did, and I grew tired of the game of being important because I looked out for him. It became a chore. He worshipped me, and he wanted to follow me everywhere. As time progressed I just wanted to get away from him.
Keeping my brother out of trouble had been a great game when I was five and he was two, but as I neared seven I began to understand that my friends did not need to do nearly as much protecting of their younger siblings as I did, and I grew tired of the game of being important because I looked out for him. It became a chore. He worshipped me, and he wanted to follow me everywhere. As time progressed I just wanted to get away from him.
***
Sunday school was difficult: not in an academic sense, but in a behavioral one. I had to wear a dress for one thing, and patent leather shoes which always seemed to come home with scuffs on them, much to my amazement and my mother's distain. I never cared much for my teachers, and I felt like they always taught the same things over and over, but at 8 I was really too young to have much in the way of religious opinions or disbelief in what figures of authority told me was true. Hell, I'm not sure if I had even sorted out Santa Claus yet.
And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper? And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground. And now art thou cursed from the earth...Genesis 4:9-11
"That's wrong!" I said. I didn't understand at the time that God was upset with Cain for killing his brother, I thought he was mad about Cain not looking out for his little brother. Its amazing how sanitized the world presented to me at that age was.
"What's wrong?" the Sunday school teacher asked.
"Abel wasn't Cain's problem! What if Cain had other stuff to do? Why did he have to be Abel's keeper?"
The Sunday school teacher shook her head, "we are all our brother's keepers, Pika."
I was cranky the whole way home. When I got home I threw my patent leather shoes in my closet and my littly frilly dress on the floor to put my normal clothes back on. Then I pulled my stuffed animals off the shelves and sulked. God seemed pretty demanding and pretty eager to take the fun out of most things.
My brother's head cracked in the doorway and a big pair of blue eyes looked at me.
"NO!" I shouted, "You can't come in here. This is mine. I'm playing by myself."
My brother looked baffled. I sat there for a moment. I knew this wasn't how I was suppose to behave.
"Alright...you can play with one." I presented him Blue Bunny. He grabbed one ear and a foot and started pulling. I could almost hear the little stitches pop.
"No!" I shouted, "stop that! Blue bunny doesn't like that!" I tugged at the animal in his hands and he held on harder. Eventually I extracted it from his hands and stormed back into my room, leaving my bewildered little brother outside the slammed door. There was a few second pause before he started bawling. I could hear my mother's voice outside the door comforting him, and I felt very bad. Mom said I had to be patient with him until he was older and he could learn better. I felt like I had, but apparently it wasn't enough time.
***
"Pika's little brother is weird," Carolyn said to the group, making a funny face. The bus rattled and clanked off to Girl Scout Camp with all of us bouncing along inside.
"So what?" I asked.
"He acts funny!" she said, "he rocks back and forth and he talks to himself."
"Oh yeah? Well my brother is smart. He can name all the fish in the aquarium. Can your brother do that?"
Carolyn was quiet for a moment.
"That's right," I said, "and your brother is annoying too."
"So what?" I asked.
"He acts funny!" she said, "he rocks back and forth and he talks to himself."
"Oh yeah? Well my brother is smart. He can name all the fish in the aquarium. Can your brother do that?"
Carolyn was quiet for a moment.
"That's right," I said, "and your brother is annoying too."
***
"What..." Mime said, looking at my snowpants and big rubber boots.
"My mom made me wear them. She says I can't go sledding without them. I asked not to...I know they aren't cool..."
Mime rolled her eyes a little gesturing to where my little brother was running around a tree shaking snow off the lower branches. He wrung his hands and rocked and muttered to himself in delight. She sighed, "and you brought him?"
"He's ok. I told him he isn't allowed to talk to anybody."
Looking back on it you may fault me as cruel for making this rule for my brother, but sometimes I did not have the patience to explain the complexities of things and did not want to spend all afternoon justifying him to my friends. My brother lived for black and white rules, and this simple one made so much of my life easier.
Mime, her sister Plato, Issac and I all headed for the sledding hill, but when Mime saw that Laura and her cronies were already at the hill she nearly turned back.
"Whatever," I said, "there is room to share."
Things went fairly peacefully for the first hour. Laura and her friends from time to time would say rude things about my brother, but neither of us rose to the bait. After growing board of this she switched tactics.
"Nice snowpants, Pika," she grinned. None of them were wearing big bulky snowpants.
"Yeah, my mom made me wear them."
"Hah, you always do whatever your parents say?"
"Invariably," my brother nodded, "Pika always honors our father and mother. She is the best."
There we go. In one line my brother had demonstrated his habit of reading the dictionary and saying words no eight year old knew, and also quoted the black and white rules of the Bible to win an arguement. It was very noble of him to stick up for me, it just happened to be the last thing we needed.
First she was mocking, then her cronies were mocking, and then my brother was shouting, and then they were pushing him. I ran up and joined the crowd, but couldn't think of anything better to say than "Knock it off!"
Laura was sneering. My brother was theatening that I would beat her up, just like I fought other kids who pushed him around. I was petrified.
Somehow it was agreed that I would fight Laura in a snowball fight. I asked for a moment to build a fort, but I knew it was in vain. Laura would run up, tackle me, and jam snow down my clothing, and then beat the shit out of me. I was weaker than her, smaller than her, and far slower in these God-awful snow pants. The fort was important though because it kept my brother occupied to build it while I tried to figure out a plan.
"I hope you appreciate," Mime said a few hours later when we were wrapped in blankets and drinking hot cocoa, "everything I did to get you out of that."
"You didn't do anything! You sat around with Laura's cronies and you were going to let them pummel me. Plato saved us because she's the only one who threw a fit to stop the fight."
"Plato lay on the ground and cried."
"Yeah! And it worked! And it was a lot more than you did!"
"You are so ungrateful," Mime said.
"Pika, is not! Pika is the best!" my brother shouted.
"Oh will you shut up!" I snapped. "This is how we got into trouble in the first place."
My brother looked upset to hear me shout at him like that for giving me a compliment. He didn't understand.
"My mom made me wear them. She says I can't go sledding without them. I asked not to...I know they aren't cool..."
Mime rolled her eyes a little gesturing to where my little brother was running around a tree shaking snow off the lower branches. He wrung his hands and rocked and muttered to himself in delight. She sighed, "and you brought him?"
"He's ok. I told him he isn't allowed to talk to anybody."
Looking back on it you may fault me as cruel for making this rule for my brother, but sometimes I did not have the patience to explain the complexities of things and did not want to spend all afternoon justifying him to my friends. My brother lived for black and white rules, and this simple one made so much of my life easier.
Mime, her sister Plato, Issac and I all headed for the sledding hill, but when Mime saw that Laura and her cronies were already at the hill she nearly turned back.
"Whatever," I said, "there is room to share."
Things went fairly peacefully for the first hour. Laura and her friends from time to time would say rude things about my brother, but neither of us rose to the bait. After growing board of this she switched tactics.
"Nice snowpants, Pika," she grinned. None of them were wearing big bulky snowpants.
"Yeah, my mom made me wear them."
"Hah, you always do whatever your parents say?"
"Invariably," my brother nodded, "Pika always honors our father and mother. She is the best."
There we go. In one line my brother had demonstrated his habit of reading the dictionary and saying words no eight year old knew, and also quoted the black and white rules of the Bible to win an arguement. It was very noble of him to stick up for me, it just happened to be the last thing we needed.
First she was mocking, then her cronies were mocking, and then my brother was shouting, and then they were pushing him. I ran up and joined the crowd, but couldn't think of anything better to say than "Knock it off!"
Laura was sneering. My brother was theatening that I would beat her up, just like I fought other kids who pushed him around. I was petrified.
Somehow it was agreed that I would fight Laura in a snowball fight. I asked for a moment to build a fort, but I knew it was in vain. Laura would run up, tackle me, and jam snow down my clothing, and then beat the shit out of me. I was weaker than her, smaller than her, and far slower in these God-awful snow pants. The fort was important though because it kept my brother occupied to build it while I tried to figure out a plan.
"I hope you appreciate," Mime said a few hours later when we were wrapped in blankets and drinking hot cocoa, "everything I did to get you out of that."
"You didn't do anything! You sat around with Laura's cronies and you were going to let them pummel me. Plato saved us because she's the only one who threw a fit to stop the fight."
"Plato lay on the ground and cried."
"Yeah! And it worked! And it was a lot more than you did!"
"You are so ungrateful," Mime said.
"Pika, is not! Pika is the best!" my brother shouted.
"Oh will you shut up!" I snapped. "This is how we got into trouble in the first place."
My brother looked upset to hear me shout at him like that for giving me a compliment. He didn't understand.
***
"Is this a bad time?" I'm sitting in a bar with some coworkers in Arizona after another equipment test."
"Uh, no" I said, hastly making my way out with my phone in hand, "What's up?"
"Well I wanted to apologise. We found a lot when we were teenagers, and I... want to make it better. I blamed you for a lot of things which aren't your fault."
"Oh."
"And... I never really thanked you for everything you did for me when we were really little. You tried really hard, and I appreciate that a whole lot, and I never thanked you."
"Forget it," I said.
"What?" he asked, taking me literally, "but it was really..."
"I mean... don't worry about it. Its what a good big sister should do... keep her brother out of trouble. I'm sorry too that I didn't do better sometimes..."
"Its ok Pika," I could hear the innocent smile through the phone line, "You're still the best."
"Uh, no" I said, hastly making my way out with my phone in hand, "What's up?"
"Well I wanted to apologise. We found a lot when we were teenagers, and I... want to make it better. I blamed you for a lot of things which aren't your fault."
"Oh."
"And... I never really thanked you for everything you did for me when we were really little. You tried really hard, and I appreciate that a whole lot, and I never thanked you."
"Forget it," I said.
"What?" he asked, taking me literally, "but it was really..."
"I mean... don't worry about it. Its what a good big sister should do... keep her brother out of trouble. I'm sorry too that I didn't do better sometimes..."
"Its ok Pika," I could hear the innocent smile through the phone line, "You're still the best."
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Eighths
When my brother was young he lacked the insight that other people were people too. When he hurt himself he caused himself physical pain which his body told him was bad. When he caused physical pain to others it did not hurt him. Thus, his mind never added up that it was bad.
This resulted in a two year old child who would grab a fist full of hair and pull it as hard as he could to get your attention. From a standpoint of a logical human who completely lacked empathy this was a very effective tactic: all his mind saw was the cause and effect that causing people pain would promptly get their attention. I understood that there would be strict penalties to hitting my brother, so I didn't, and so in my brother's perception there were no negative consequences to this action.
He and our dog, a very mild mannered part German Shepard part yellow lab, had the same favourite beanbag chair. This was a major source of inconvenience for Issac who frequently wished to remove the dog from the chair so he could use it. Issac would toddle up and begin kicking the dog, pulling on its ears, and yanking on its tail until she got up and left. The dog tried to express her dislike of this procedure politely by growling and snarling but my brother blew past these warnings for the same reasons he had no problem pulling my hair or hitting me. One day the dog simply decided to not put up with it anymore. She lept up and with a single paw the 60 pound dog swatted my two year old brother to the ground. She used the paw to hold him there and began gnawing on his hair, moving across his scalp like she might clean a puppy's fur. My brother howled and screamed but was unable to escape until the dog finished. At that point he lay bawling on the floor completely overwhelmed and baffled with what had just transpired. That was the day he learned that there were other things in the world which felt pain, that the rest of the creatures in the world were a little more than moving scenery. The dog served as his best friend well into my college years when it died.
This resulted in a two year old child who would grab a fist full of hair and pull it as hard as he could to get your attention. From a standpoint of a logical human who completely lacked empathy this was a very effective tactic: all his mind saw was the cause and effect that causing people pain would promptly get their attention. I understood that there would be strict penalties to hitting my brother, so I didn't, and so in my brother's perception there were no negative consequences to this action.
He and our dog, a very mild mannered part German Shepard part yellow lab, had the same favourite beanbag chair. This was a major source of inconvenience for Issac who frequently wished to remove the dog from the chair so he could use it. Issac would toddle up and begin kicking the dog, pulling on its ears, and yanking on its tail until she got up and left. The dog tried to express her dislike of this procedure politely by growling and snarling but my brother blew past these warnings for the same reasons he had no problem pulling my hair or hitting me. One day the dog simply decided to not put up with it anymore. She lept up and with a single paw the 60 pound dog swatted my two year old brother to the ground. She used the paw to hold him there and began gnawing on his hair, moving across his scalp like she might clean a puppy's fur. My brother howled and screamed but was unable to escape until the dog finished. At that point he lay bawling on the floor completely overwhelmed and baffled with what had just transpired. That was the day he learned that there were other things in the world which felt pain, that the rest of the creatures in the world were a little more than moving scenery. The dog served as his best friend well into my college years when it died.
***
Brown on one side, black with white spots on the other. I was wrapped from head to toe in this blanket with a portion of it looped up over my head like a hood. My mother lay in a large bed and next to her was a small bedside table with white sanitary plastic walls around the top.
"You want to see him?" my maternal grandmother asked.
"Mmm!" I said, extending both arms in a y above me as my way of asking to be picked up.
She picked me up and now I could see over the edge of the hospital crib. There was something small ugly and pink in it. "See?" grandma asked, "there he is!"
"Mom says we'll be best friends for our whole lives," I recited.
"That's right," grandma said.
"How long before we can play T-ball and tag?"
Grandma laughed a little, "not so long, but you'll have to be patient."
As it turned out my brother needed significantly more patience than anybody had anticipated. Even after he started preschool a firetruck or an ambulance driving within earshot would cause him to dissolve in a fit of tears on the floor from sensory overload. Any game which involved coordination was almost entirely out of the question, as a matter of fact his motor skills were so poor that my dad use to give him candy to practice playing catch with him in the back yard. When this failed to provide results he was sent to physical therapy.
Perhaps it was because my parents were at that age too busy for me or perhaps its because I have always been an attention whore but I remember being terribly jealous of my brother for getting to go to physical therapy. In my eyes it seemed like my brother randomly recieved the undivided attention of an adult for several hours a week for doing mind-numbingly easy tasks. Sometimes the therapist would meet us at a park and I would be told to go play while they worked, but sometimes I was permitted to stay and watch quietly. I remember watching him being handed playing cards back and forth and them discussing them. I remember them not even throwing and catching a ball but sitting down and rolling it back and forth to each other. Once or twice being I was permitted to play too. I blew through all the games, only to find that doing so did not result in candy or being lavished with praise and that it made my brother cranky and jealous of my progress. Once I went with my dad to pick him up from physical therapy and I remember being green with envy. Everywhere as far as I could see were giant balls to play on and large foam structures to climb on like at gymnastics class. It looked like the ultimate playground. My brother wandered out looking very tired.
"He did a great job today," the therapist said.
"That's great," my dad said, "Issac, you can choose what we have for dinner tonight."
"Pick soup!" I said as I ran up to the nearest foam toy and begin climbing on it.
"Now Pika," my dad said, "your brother worked very hard today and its his...Pika! Pika get down from there! You're not allowed up there!"
It all seemed so horrendously unfair.
"You want to see him?" my maternal grandmother asked.
"Mmm!" I said, extending both arms in a y above me as my way of asking to be picked up.
She picked me up and now I could see over the edge of the hospital crib. There was something small ugly and pink in it. "See?" grandma asked, "there he is!"
"Mom says we'll be best friends for our whole lives," I recited.
"That's right," grandma said.
"How long before we can play T-ball and tag?"
Grandma laughed a little, "not so long, but you'll have to be patient."
As it turned out my brother needed significantly more patience than anybody had anticipated. Even after he started preschool a firetruck or an ambulance driving within earshot would cause him to dissolve in a fit of tears on the floor from sensory overload. Any game which involved coordination was almost entirely out of the question, as a matter of fact his motor skills were so poor that my dad use to give him candy to practice playing catch with him in the back yard. When this failed to provide results he was sent to physical therapy.
Perhaps it was because my parents were at that age too busy for me or perhaps its because I have always been an attention whore but I remember being terribly jealous of my brother for getting to go to physical therapy. In my eyes it seemed like my brother randomly recieved the undivided attention of an adult for several hours a week for doing mind-numbingly easy tasks. Sometimes the therapist would meet us at a park and I would be told to go play while they worked, but sometimes I was permitted to stay and watch quietly. I remember watching him being handed playing cards back and forth and them discussing them. I remember them not even throwing and catching a ball but sitting down and rolling it back and forth to each other. Once or twice being I was permitted to play too. I blew through all the games, only to find that doing so did not result in candy or being lavished with praise and that it made my brother cranky and jealous of my progress. Once I went with my dad to pick him up from physical therapy and I remember being green with envy. Everywhere as far as I could see were giant balls to play on and large foam structures to climb on like at gymnastics class. It looked like the ultimate playground. My brother wandered out looking very tired.
"He did a great job today," the therapist said.
"That's great," my dad said, "Issac, you can choose what we have for dinner tonight."
"Pick soup!" I said as I ran up to the nearest foam toy and begin climbing on it.
"Now Pika," my dad said, "your brother worked very hard today and its his...Pika! Pika get down from there! You're not allowed up there!"
It all seemed so horrendously unfair.
***
"Now," my mother asked my brother as they sat on the floor with a poster of faces and a pile of candy. "Which of these faces is the annoyed face?"
It is a good thing one of my brother's greatest difficulties was non-verbal communication because I didn't do a whole lot to contain my eye-rolling.
It is a good thing one of my brother's greatest difficulties was non-verbal communication because I didn't do a whole lot to contain my eye-rolling.
***
"One eigff of..."
"Eighth," my mother corrected.
"Uh-huh."
"You must work to say all the letters in the words Pika."
I continued to draw on the piece of paper in front of me.
"Pika, are you listening to me? You never use to speak like this. You have gotten lazy recently with your speech. You are copying Issac."
As the days passed my mother found me more stubbornly lazy...and so I found myself sitting in the first day of speech therapy. I was terribly excited. I knew that my brother came here for an hour or so each week to recieve the undivided attention of an adult and then be treated to ice cream by our parents. It seemed that I was finally getting in on this scam too.
The therapist's name was Mrs. Buss. I remember thinking that a funny name for a speech therapist as none of her patients would be able to call her by name until they didn't need her anymore.
We talked for a little bit as she studied the way I spoke, when finally she held up a diagram and said "Now," said Mrs. Buss, "what fraction of the pie is shaded?"
"Three out of eight."
"And how else might you say that?"
"Not five out of eight."
Mrs. Buss was not amused. "Say three eighths."
I frowned. I had carefully learned to dance around hard 's' sounds and 'th's around strangers as I was aware that I would frequently say them inaccurately and I found the new lisp embarassing. As a side note, who decided that lisp should have a hard 's' in it? This seems about the equivalent of making the word "mute" in sign language require a verbal component to it.
The rest of the hour dragged on. Mrs. Buss had sheets of sentances littered with difficult words to say. It was not tiring of itself, but the humiliation of knowing that this sort of thing should be a cakewalk wore on me. For the first time I began to understand what a complete asshole I was for belittling how difficult my brother's physical therapy tasks were.
"Eighths," Mrs. Buss said.
"Eigffs."
"Eighth," my mother corrected.
"Uh-huh."
"You must work to say all the letters in the words Pika."
I continued to draw on the piece of paper in front of me.
"Pika, are you listening to me? You never use to speak like this. You have gotten lazy recently with your speech. You are copying Issac."
As the days passed my mother found me more stubbornly lazy...and so I found myself sitting in the first day of speech therapy. I was terribly excited. I knew that my brother came here for an hour or so each week to recieve the undivided attention of an adult and then be treated to ice cream by our parents. It seemed that I was finally getting in on this scam too.
The therapist's name was Mrs. Buss. I remember thinking that a funny name for a speech therapist as none of her patients would be able to call her by name until they didn't need her anymore.
We talked for a little bit as she studied the way I spoke, when finally she held up a diagram and said "Now," said Mrs. Buss, "what fraction of the pie is shaded?"
"Three out of eight."
"And how else might you say that?"
"Not five out of eight."
Mrs. Buss was not amused. "Say three eighths."
I frowned. I had carefully learned to dance around hard 's' sounds and 'th's around strangers as I was aware that I would frequently say them inaccurately and I found the new lisp embarassing. As a side note, who decided that lisp should have a hard 's' in it? This seems about the equivalent of making the word "mute" in sign language require a verbal component to it.
The rest of the hour dragged on. Mrs. Buss had sheets of sentances littered with difficult words to say. It was not tiring of itself, but the humiliation of knowing that this sort of thing should be a cakewalk wore on me. For the first time I began to understand what a complete asshole I was for belittling how difficult my brother's physical therapy tasks were.
"Eighths," Mrs. Buss said.
"Eigffs."
***
Gilby's standing in the kitchen making himself a meal and so am I. Truth be told, its the only time we see each other normally. We don't have a lot in common to discuss otherwise.
"I've got no problem," he said, "With autistic people just so long as they work and overcome it."
"So, basically, you have no problem with autistic people who aren't autistic?"
"No, they can still have problems, but they have to be trying, and they have to improve. If that happens, well they're just doing their best..."
"And how will you know how far these people have come?"
"I've got no problem," he said, "With autistic people just so long as they work and overcome it."
"So, basically, you have no problem with autistic people who aren't autistic?"
"No, they can still have problems, but they have to be trying, and they have to improve. If that happens, well they're just doing their best..."
"And how will you know how far these people have come?"
Friday, May 15, 2009
We're All Adults Here
[So...big pause...I'm working on a large-thought post...hope to finish it later this week. Not that it will be especially profound, those posts are just a lot more time consuming.]
My brother, Isaac, has come to visit today.
He's going to community college next year. He keeps asking me what I think of that, and I keep saying "whatever makes you happy man." It kills me a little that he's talking about considering going to community college for English. If you're going to piss away four years of your life on a useless degree at least do it in a pretty location with some good drinking pals...get the full experience. God knows Mom would spring for it.
"He's not ready to go so far afield." Mom says.
Far afield? The school in question is right next to my high school...and not more than an exit from the middle school he attended at the time. He went that far every morning then...why not now?
"Well, I'm going to take Mom's advice," he says.
Ugh.
Its several hours later now, he's standing in my kitchen. Gilby is wandering around making dinner. We have come to a truce in some sense, I think everybody has calmed down since his move-in and found a little common ground. I'm cooking a vat of plain pasta for my brother, who is strolling around the kitchen venting his excitement by fluttering his arms and hands as he walks, grinning to himself.
"You want some sauce for your pasta?" Gilby asks him.
I find myself answering on my brother's behalf before he does, "No, he doesn't like that, he likes it plain."
"Maybe...some pasta sauce from a jar then if he doesn't like mine?"
"No, he eats things plain, he's like Hannalore."
Gilby grins a little, "There are more people like Hannalore?"
"Yup."
We share a few minutes of comfortable silence as the grease bubbles on the stove and my brother paces. I can't help but compare my brother and Gilby. Gilby may be immature and stupid but I still think of him as my peer in some sense, which is probably why I give him such a rough time on all his flaws.
"When's your birthday Gilby?"
Gilby looks up from a pan of hot greese and steak bits to tell me.
"Huh," I said, "Hey Isaac, you're twins with Gilby, what do you think of that?"
Gilby smiled, "Yeah, but not the same year."
"Guess again."
Isaac is pretty excited by this. "What time of day?" he asks. Gilby doesn't know, and this frustrates Isaac. I drain his pasta and begin serving him a portion.
"I can do it myself," Isaac informs me and takes the tongs and plate for himself.
Oh...yes...of course. I stutter mentally. I can't treat him like this, after all, would I ever serve Gilby his pasta? I'd tell him to get his lazy ass up to the stove and do it himself.
I watch Isaac, quietly marveling how much his coordination has improved. He use to be unable to throw and catch a ball. A physical therapist would throw and catch with him for hours. First she would roll a ball to him on the ground which he would capture and return. It was ages before he could catch it in the air himself. He found it infuriating. My parents would bribe him with candy and anything his heart desired to get him to keep trying. I remember running in front of him and catching the ball instead, hoping to get the same amount of praise. It didn't quite work like that.
I've never regarded my brother as disabled. I have, since a very young age, always known he was different, but it had been ages since I had compared him to anybody. I avoid it normally, try to take him as he comes.
I find that he is older than the high school kids I coach, and yet requires more care and supervision. I find that my middle school sister is beginning to overtake him in many ways, and that it is growing far easier to bond to her than to him.
You can't treat him like a normal person. If a normal person talked to me with the same ignorant narrow-minded black-and-white view of the world I wouldn't hang out with them. Depending on my mood I'd probably also tell that person off too. Personal beliefs aside, its pretty difficult to hold conversations with somebody who has, medically speaking, pretty much no sense of subtlety.
Yet, to not take my brother's words and thoughts seriously, to shrug it off as simply as an artifact of a medical condition, is to not take him seriously as a peer who requires my respect as a fellow human being. He can sense when I do this, and it infuriates him. After all, what right do I have to treat somebody only three years younger than myself as a child?
I'm almost positive both of us have expressed at some point in our lives, although never directly to each other, that we wish he simply needed a wheelchair instead. It would be so much easier on so many levels.
I'm telling Gilby and Isaac the story of the bar fight in the pancake house by this point.
"So we're in this pancake place...nice middle aged lady is our waitress...kinda heavset...wears a red checkered apron, big smile, calls you dear, asks you if you want gravy on your gravy..."
"Gravy on your gravy?" Isaac asks. "What about your food?"
"Its..." I pause, "you know the sort of place I mean. The place where everything comes with gravy."
"Ice cream?"
"Well...uh...not everything."
"She's evoking an archetype," Gilby said. He paused for a second. "How do you prounounce that?"
"Ar-keh-type," I responded.
My brother grinned. We were now discussing true and false statements, which is a favourite topic of his, "Yup! That's right!"
I nodded and continued my story, "So, there we are...and one of my friends...this kid is probably the whitest guy I know..."
Gilby grins and nods his head to my brother, not putting down his food, "Whiter than him?"
"I'm actually really pleased with my tan this summer," Isaac chirps excidedly.
Gilby starts cracking up.
"That's not quite what I meant," I said, looking at my food.
Isaac is puzzled, "What then?"
I put a chunk of meat in my mouth to chew to buy myself some time. We can make jokes at our own expense...I mean...we're all adults here...right?
Gilby, for once in his life, seems to be catching on. "Its another archetype."
We finished our meal and cleared the plates. My brother is thrilled. I can tell this meant a lot to him, and that he had a really good time. I walk him downstairs and let him out, then come back upstairs to help Gilby clear.
"Hey, thanks for..."
Gilby cuts me off with a laugh, "No, thank you for not being like your brother."
I feel like a total asshole but I laugh anyway. It definately is a relief when people acknowledge that we're not alike.
"Your brother has white-person syndrome...doesn't he?"
"What?"
"He's Asperger's."
I start cracking up again. It isn't even that funny, I'm just massively relieved.
"He's gone right?" Magpie pokes his head out the door of his room.
"Yeah," I said.
Magpie shakes his head, "You two are so mean."
"Aww come on," Gilby smiles, "We're all adults here..."
My brother, Isaac, has come to visit today.
He's going to community college next year. He keeps asking me what I think of that, and I keep saying "whatever makes you happy man." It kills me a little that he's talking about considering going to community college for English. If you're going to piss away four years of your life on a useless degree at least do it in a pretty location with some good drinking pals...get the full experience. God knows Mom would spring for it.
"He's not ready to go so far afield." Mom says.
Far afield? The school in question is right next to my high school...and not more than an exit from the middle school he attended at the time. He went that far every morning then...why not now?
"Well, I'm going to take Mom's advice," he says.
Ugh.
Its several hours later now, he's standing in my kitchen. Gilby is wandering around making dinner. We have come to a truce in some sense, I think everybody has calmed down since his move-in and found a little common ground. I'm cooking a vat of plain pasta for my brother, who is strolling around the kitchen venting his excitement by fluttering his arms and hands as he walks, grinning to himself.
"You want some sauce for your pasta?" Gilby asks him.
I find myself answering on my brother's behalf before he does, "No, he doesn't like that, he likes it plain."
"Maybe...some pasta sauce from a jar then if he doesn't like mine?"
"No, he eats things plain, he's like Hannalore."
Gilby grins a little, "There are more people like Hannalore?"
"Yup."
We share a few minutes of comfortable silence as the grease bubbles on the stove and my brother paces. I can't help but compare my brother and Gilby. Gilby may be immature and stupid but I still think of him as my peer in some sense, which is probably why I give him such a rough time on all his flaws.
"When's your birthday Gilby?"
Gilby looks up from a pan of hot greese and steak bits to tell me.
"Huh," I said, "Hey Isaac, you're twins with Gilby, what do you think of that?"
Gilby smiled, "Yeah, but not the same year."
"Guess again."
Isaac is pretty excited by this. "What time of day?" he asks. Gilby doesn't know, and this frustrates Isaac. I drain his pasta and begin serving him a portion.
"I can do it myself," Isaac informs me and takes the tongs and plate for himself.
Oh...yes...of course. I stutter mentally. I can't treat him like this, after all, would I ever serve Gilby his pasta? I'd tell him to get his lazy ass up to the stove and do it himself.
I watch Isaac, quietly marveling how much his coordination has improved. He use to be unable to throw and catch a ball. A physical therapist would throw and catch with him for hours. First she would roll a ball to him on the ground which he would capture and return. It was ages before he could catch it in the air himself. He found it infuriating. My parents would bribe him with candy and anything his heart desired to get him to keep trying. I remember running in front of him and catching the ball instead, hoping to get the same amount of praise. It didn't quite work like that.
I've never regarded my brother as disabled. I have, since a very young age, always known he was different, but it had been ages since I had compared him to anybody. I avoid it normally, try to take him as he comes.
I find that he is older than the high school kids I coach, and yet requires more care and supervision. I find that my middle school sister is beginning to overtake him in many ways, and that it is growing far easier to bond to her than to him.
You can't treat him like a normal person. If a normal person talked to me with the same ignorant narrow-minded black-and-white view of the world I wouldn't hang out with them. Depending on my mood I'd probably also tell that person off too. Personal beliefs aside, its pretty difficult to hold conversations with somebody who has, medically speaking, pretty much no sense of subtlety.
Yet, to not take my brother's words and thoughts seriously, to shrug it off as simply as an artifact of a medical condition, is to not take him seriously as a peer who requires my respect as a fellow human being. He can sense when I do this, and it infuriates him. After all, what right do I have to treat somebody only three years younger than myself as a child?
I'm almost positive both of us have expressed at some point in our lives, although never directly to each other, that we wish he simply needed a wheelchair instead. It would be so much easier on so many levels.
I'm telling Gilby and Isaac the story of the bar fight in the pancake house by this point.
"So we're in this pancake place...nice middle aged lady is our waitress...kinda heavset...wears a red checkered apron, big smile, calls you dear, asks you if you want gravy on your gravy..."
"Gravy on your gravy?" Isaac asks. "What about your food?"
"Its..." I pause, "you know the sort of place I mean. The place where everything comes with gravy."
"Ice cream?"
"Well...uh...not everything."
"She's evoking an archetype," Gilby said. He paused for a second. "How do you prounounce that?"
"Ar-keh-type," I responded.
My brother grinned. We were now discussing true and false statements, which is a favourite topic of his, "Yup! That's right!"
I nodded and continued my story, "So, there we are...and one of my friends...this kid is probably the whitest guy I know..."
Gilby grins and nods his head to my brother, not putting down his food, "Whiter than him?"
"I'm actually really pleased with my tan this summer," Isaac chirps excidedly.
Gilby starts cracking up.
"That's not quite what I meant," I said, looking at my food.
Isaac is puzzled, "What then?"
I put a chunk of meat in my mouth to chew to buy myself some time. We can make jokes at our own expense...I mean...we're all adults here...right?
Gilby, for once in his life, seems to be catching on. "Its another archetype."
We finished our meal and cleared the plates. My brother is thrilled. I can tell this meant a lot to him, and that he had a really good time. I walk him downstairs and let him out, then come back upstairs to help Gilby clear.
"Hey, thanks for..."
Gilby cuts me off with a laugh, "No, thank you for not being like your brother."
I feel like a total asshole but I laugh anyway. It definately is a relief when people acknowledge that we're not alike.
"Your brother has white-person syndrome...doesn't he?"
"What?"
"He's Asperger's."
I start cracking up again. It isn't even that funny, I'm just massively relieved.
"He's gone right?" Magpie pokes his head out the door of his room.
"Yeah," I said.
Magpie shakes his head, "You two are so mean."
"Aww come on," Gilby smiles, "We're all adults here..."
Friday, May 8, 2009
Broccoli
"But, Anne" my uncle asked looking quizzically at my mother across the dinner table as we ate, "you hate broccoli."
My mother was strangely upset by this. She pointed at me and said with a raised voice, "I've been eating broccoli all her life to set a good example for her, and telling her that I like it, and smiling through the whole thing."
I remember being approximately 10 at the time and thinking that that was a silly way to go about things. If my mom really wanted to teach me a lesson about healthy eating she should have told me that she hated broccoli but ate it anyway because she knew it was good for her. I thought that would have been a lot more relevant a lesson for me, given my mother's cooking. The whole of it wasn't a very big deal to me though.
At this point I remember being woken from my thoughts by a significant shouting match between my mother and my uncle. Looking over across the table I saw my two cousins who were present, my brother Isaac, and my infant sister, all of them younger than me. I was thinking that this was somewhat of a silly thing to get so upset about, and that this probably constituted a far worse example than having a personal distaste for vegetables. I guess it takes a hell of a bratty 10 year old to be mentally condescending to adults, but I've never been a particularly nice or polite person anyway.
The next day we had the bane of my existence: freeze dried peas with carrot cubes, corn, and lima beans. I suppose none of those items would be so terrible of themselves, it was more they had been frozen together in one bag and the soupy water which emerged from the microwave reheating process and coated everything. It always tasted to me just like too many colors of paint mixed together looked: not unlike puke. I was careful not to protest, seeing as my mother had apparently suffered for 10 years with broccoli and was quite bitter about it, I figured my requests would fall on deaf ears.
The day after that was broccoli again but my mother had a bowl of the leftover frozen vegetable mishmash. I remember getting caught glancing at it.
"I don't have to eat broccoli because I don't like it," my mother snapped defensively.
My grin must have given me away as I eyed her bowl eager to file away that logic for the next meal I didn't like. She puffed up like a cat or a bird trying to look bigger than it is and glared at me a little.
"I can do that because I'm an adult."
That is, for the record, one of my least favourite excuses ever.
My mother is still very bitter that my uncle ever let on that she doesn't like broccoli. So bitter in fact that I have, on numerous occasions, forgotten that this incident ever happened only to later be reminded of it when my mother complains about it. I'm probably not going to ever understand that.
I cook with broccoli from time to time now, but it is always in something. Stir fry is the usual candidate for this. My mother always served the broccoli plain and soggy from steaming, not even with butter. This is another thing I'll never understand. Almost all vegetables can be dressed up and made tolerable if you put the effort in and can stand spices. Perhaps the fact that we ate everything plain in my house growing up has something to do with my brother, or perhaps mom never really learned to cook. Maybe its a little of both.
The steamed broccoli on the stove looked odd today at first and I stood there for a moment staring at the chunks, almost not recognizing what they were, before adding a portion to my bowl.
"I don't think I have had broccoli in years," I said, "like I think last time I had it was high school."
Magpie looked up from his bowl, "You don't like it?"
"Nah, its alright. It probably just says something odd about my eating habits."
"Pretty sure I've had dishes where you cooked it."
"Guess I haven't eaten it plain in some time."
Oddly enough the broccoli was probably the highlight of the meal. Its not to say Magpie can't cook: far from it, it is simply that I have been eating almost exclusively sandwiches and things which can be ordered via phone for delivery to my lab for the last week. At some point the grease just gets to you. You miss fresh fruit and vegetables. Sometimes you don't even know you miss them until you have them again. Apparently I missed supposedly boring, flavorless, steamed broccoli enough to go back for seconds on it.
Everybody always says that as you get older you grow more like your parents. This is a concept I'm uncomfortable with on many levels. Somehow, in that sense, I find eating plain broccoli, (which I find a bit boring and slightly unpleasant but quite tolerable) very comforting. Its purely symbolic and has no real bearing on anything. However, its one of those pleasant reminders that we are all individuals with wills of our own to be what we choose to be, and not necessarily victims to the same shortcomings as our parents, or mindless automations crafted by our circumstances.
My mother was strangely upset by this. She pointed at me and said with a raised voice, "I've been eating broccoli all her life to set a good example for her, and telling her that I like it, and smiling through the whole thing."
I remember being approximately 10 at the time and thinking that that was a silly way to go about things. If my mom really wanted to teach me a lesson about healthy eating she should have told me that she hated broccoli but ate it anyway because she knew it was good for her. I thought that would have been a lot more relevant a lesson for me, given my mother's cooking. The whole of it wasn't a very big deal to me though.
At this point I remember being woken from my thoughts by a significant shouting match between my mother and my uncle. Looking over across the table I saw my two cousins who were present, my brother Isaac, and my infant sister, all of them younger than me. I was thinking that this was somewhat of a silly thing to get so upset about, and that this probably constituted a far worse example than having a personal distaste for vegetables. I guess it takes a hell of a bratty 10 year old to be mentally condescending to adults, but I've never been a particularly nice or polite person anyway.
The next day we had the bane of my existence: freeze dried peas with carrot cubes, corn, and lima beans. I suppose none of those items would be so terrible of themselves, it was more they had been frozen together in one bag and the soupy water which emerged from the microwave reheating process and coated everything. It always tasted to me just like too many colors of paint mixed together looked: not unlike puke. I was careful not to protest, seeing as my mother had apparently suffered for 10 years with broccoli and was quite bitter about it, I figured my requests would fall on deaf ears.
The day after that was broccoli again but my mother had a bowl of the leftover frozen vegetable mishmash. I remember getting caught glancing at it.
"I don't have to eat broccoli because I don't like it," my mother snapped defensively.
My grin must have given me away as I eyed her bowl eager to file away that logic for the next meal I didn't like. She puffed up like a cat or a bird trying to look bigger than it is and glared at me a little.
"I can do that because I'm an adult."
That is, for the record, one of my least favourite excuses ever.
My mother is still very bitter that my uncle ever let on that she doesn't like broccoli. So bitter in fact that I have, on numerous occasions, forgotten that this incident ever happened only to later be reminded of it when my mother complains about it. I'm probably not going to ever understand that.
I cook with broccoli from time to time now, but it is always in something. Stir fry is the usual candidate for this. My mother always served the broccoli plain and soggy from steaming, not even with butter. This is another thing I'll never understand. Almost all vegetables can be dressed up and made tolerable if you put the effort in and can stand spices. Perhaps the fact that we ate everything plain in my house growing up has something to do with my brother, or perhaps mom never really learned to cook. Maybe its a little of both.
The steamed broccoli on the stove looked odd today at first and I stood there for a moment staring at the chunks, almost not recognizing what they were, before adding a portion to my bowl.
"I don't think I have had broccoli in years," I said, "like I think last time I had it was high school."
Magpie looked up from his bowl, "You don't like it?"
"Nah, its alright. It probably just says something odd about my eating habits."
"Pretty sure I've had dishes where you cooked it."
"Guess I haven't eaten it plain in some time."
Oddly enough the broccoli was probably the highlight of the meal. Its not to say Magpie can't cook: far from it, it is simply that I have been eating almost exclusively sandwiches and things which can be ordered via phone for delivery to my lab for the last week. At some point the grease just gets to you. You miss fresh fruit and vegetables. Sometimes you don't even know you miss them until you have them again. Apparently I missed supposedly boring, flavorless, steamed broccoli enough to go back for seconds on it.
Everybody always says that as you get older you grow more like your parents. This is a concept I'm uncomfortable with on many levels. Somehow, in that sense, I find eating plain broccoli, (which I find a bit boring and slightly unpleasant but quite tolerable) very comforting. Its purely symbolic and has no real bearing on anything. However, its one of those pleasant reminders that we are all individuals with wills of our own to be what we choose to be, and not necessarily victims to the same shortcomings as our parents, or mindless automations crafted by our circumstances.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Que Sera Sera
Que sera, sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera
I hadn't heard that song in so long I couldn't even remember where I knew it. The Spanish made me at first think it was from Spanish class in high school. I remember Mr R (God, he was so nice to me, and I can't even remember his name. Apologies Mr. R.) saying it from time to time and me privately rolling my eyes. I was always more of the philosophy that I'll make whatever I need to happen happen, that just sitting back and taking life as it came was for people who didn't know how to take control of things and get things done.
Come on, I'd be pretty hard pressed to believe that any of us aren't idiots now, let alone when we were in high school.
Anyway...it still didn't fit. I can remember most of the songs we sang in high school (I have an odd habit of remembering anything which rhymes..."but look at our brother the youngest one / my arm's still a wing cause my shirt wasn't done" from our class play in first grade. If only the translation of kinematic constraints into linear algebra rhymed.)
Anyway, it wasn't from high school.
When I was five my brother Isaac was two. At that time my parents and many doctors were concerned he would never be well enough to attend normal school. He would cry for hours if he heard an ambulance or a fire truck. His motor skills were poor and he was developing slowly. I had no idea. Mommy and Daddy as they were then, had told me before he was born that new babies required a lot of patience and would not be like "the big kids." To be honest, it wasn't until we were both a lot older that I realized there was anything different about my brother at all. I thought all babies were just like him.
What I did know though was that Mom and Dad just didn't have time for the both of us. My parents had planned for enough time to take care of two normal children but my brother's needs were vast and pressing.
Even very simple tasks had been made very complicated between my brother's extreme sensitivity and the well-meant advice of doctors. My mother would lay my brother down for a nap, roll him over like the doctors said to, and he'd wake up, crying. Calming my hysterical brother was a reasonable timesink, and when he finally fell asleep my mom would roll him over as instructed and the system would start again. This process would continue for hours.
Most of my memories from that age in my home are of sitting on the couch at the foot of the stairs and waiting for Mom to come back downstairs so I could use paints or do whatever it was that I wasn't permitted to do without adult supervision.
Eventually my parents decided to start sending me to my maternal Grandma's house. I haven't any idea how often it was, time at that age worked something like this.
1) how long until christmas
2) how long until my birthday
It was probably a few days a week.
Anyway, Grandma was pretty nice to me. I ate a lot of Spaghetti-O's and I learned about how microwaves heat things non-uniformly. I used a small object like an artist's pallet to measure spaghetti...and then would just throw more in the pot anyway because I thought it was never enough. I drank juice out of plastic cups with animals on them that came off the side a little to form the handles.
Grandma brought me along shopping and sometimes asked me what I thought when she needed to choose between two objects. Green was my favourite color at that time. By the time I was in grade school the majority of Grandma's interior decorations were green. She still drives a toothpaste green Toyota.
Every night Grandma would sing to me before I went to sleep. They were old and familiar songs to her, I know "how much is that doggy in the window" was actually a pop hit when she was young, but these are songs which have been mostly forgotten with time. They were certainly novel to me.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother "what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?"
My mother answered me
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
When I grew up, and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart "what lies ahead?
Will we have sunshine? Will we have rainbows?"
My sweetheart turned and said
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
Now I have children of my own
They ask me "mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?"
I answer tenderly
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
Really, its not a bad philosophy for life.
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera
I hadn't heard that song in so long I couldn't even remember where I knew it. The Spanish made me at first think it was from Spanish class in high school. I remember Mr R (God, he was so nice to me, and I can't even remember his name. Apologies Mr. R.) saying it from time to time and me privately rolling my eyes. I was always more of the philosophy that I'll make whatever I need to happen happen, that just sitting back and taking life as it came was for people who didn't know how to take control of things and get things done.
Come on, I'd be pretty hard pressed to believe that any of us aren't idiots now, let alone when we were in high school.
Anyway...it still didn't fit. I can remember most of the songs we sang in high school (I have an odd habit of remembering anything which rhymes..."but look at our brother the youngest one / my arm's still a wing cause my shirt wasn't done" from our class play in first grade. If only the translation of kinematic constraints into linear algebra rhymed.)
Anyway, it wasn't from high school.
When I was five my brother Isaac was two. At that time my parents and many doctors were concerned he would never be well enough to attend normal school. He would cry for hours if he heard an ambulance or a fire truck. His motor skills were poor and he was developing slowly. I had no idea. Mommy and Daddy as they were then, had told me before he was born that new babies required a lot of patience and would not be like "the big kids." To be honest, it wasn't until we were both a lot older that I realized there was anything different about my brother at all. I thought all babies were just like him.
What I did know though was that Mom and Dad just didn't have time for the both of us. My parents had planned for enough time to take care of two normal children but my brother's needs were vast and pressing.
Even very simple tasks had been made very complicated between my brother's extreme sensitivity and the well-meant advice of doctors. My mother would lay my brother down for a nap, roll him over like the doctors said to, and he'd wake up, crying. Calming my hysterical brother was a reasonable timesink, and when he finally fell asleep my mom would roll him over as instructed and the system would start again. This process would continue for hours.
Most of my memories from that age in my home are of sitting on the couch at the foot of the stairs and waiting for Mom to come back downstairs so I could use paints or do whatever it was that I wasn't permitted to do without adult supervision.
Eventually my parents decided to start sending me to my maternal Grandma's house. I haven't any idea how often it was, time at that age worked something like this.
1) how long until christmas
2) how long until my birthday
It was probably a few days a week.
Anyway, Grandma was pretty nice to me. I ate a lot of Spaghetti-O's and I learned about how microwaves heat things non-uniformly. I used a small object like an artist's pallet to measure spaghetti...and then would just throw more in the pot anyway because I thought it was never enough. I drank juice out of plastic cups with animals on them that came off the side a little to form the handles.
Grandma brought me along shopping and sometimes asked me what I thought when she needed to choose between two objects. Green was my favourite color at that time. By the time I was in grade school the majority of Grandma's interior decorations were green. She still drives a toothpaste green Toyota.
Every night Grandma would sing to me before I went to sleep. They were old and familiar songs to her, I know "how much is that doggy in the window" was actually a pop hit when she was young, but these are songs which have been mostly forgotten with time. They were certainly novel to me.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother "what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?"
My mother answered me
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
When I grew up, and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart "what lies ahead?
Will we have sunshine? Will we have rainbows?"
My sweetheart turned and said
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
Now I have children of my own
They ask me "mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?"
I answer tenderly
Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera sera
Really, its not a bad philosophy for life.
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