The Good Son

The reason I'm in Milwaukee is so that I can see my brother off to India and Kenya. This isn't just a study abroad venture. He's been there, done that. No, he's going to LIVE in these places. I have a feeling he'll end up in Kenya for a good period of time.

My brother and I have an interesting relationship. We don't get along. In fact, whenever I'm around him I feel inferior. I feel trapped within the body of street-smartless buffoon. It's all insecurity on my part, but it's doubly magnified when I'm in the presence of my brother.

We are the complete opposite. Take a look at me, take a look at my brother, a buzzed, Abercrombie, K-Swiss rap hound. Popped collar be damned, he is the image of the Hollister Brigade's Fall Catalogue. I've got my girlish figure, my long curly locks, my hip huggin' booty jeans, small t-shirts, and dirty feet sandals. He pumps Jah Cure, I pump the Volta.

He's not being a jerk. He's not antagonistic. If something doesn't give him pleasure he'll let you know. He's quiet, he doesn't give away too much. He only says what he needs to say. But he's quick on sarcasm and wit, so he stays afloat in his social cicles. He has a strong personality. I've always had problems with strong personalities.

He loves me. I just never feel it. If one of us dies the love will be shown on each of our faces. Until then . . . I just wish I felt accepted around him. I never ridicule him, he always seems repulsed by me. He hugs me, he retracts quickly because he thinks I smell. If another family member remarks about me, "That beard is a chick magnet. Whoo!" he'll remark, "No it isn't." He means it, it's not just a harmless punch. It's a lesson he's trying to teach.

Maybe he is teaching, but it's a lesson developed by me. My brother is the instrument I can use to face my demons, of which I have many. I don't have to be bothered by anything he says. I could just say "We're different. That's it." But it's harder than that. I've never met anyone that has made me feel so uncomfortable.

We were brought up by the same parents. My parents split when we were young, and they both developed different ways of raising us. I turned out a lot like my mom, my brother turned out like my dad. This also sheds light on my relationship with my father, which is similar to the one I have with my brother. I feel judged whenever I'm around them.

Or maybe I'm judging myself and they're just repulsed at my internal battlefield. "Grow up!" they seem to glare.

I'm trying. Just not in a way they're comfortable with.

Fever Ray -- "When I Grow Up"