As a child, my little Brother was an absolute cracker. When I use the word cracker I don't mean he was a sweet, energetic, but ultimately loveable child, although he was quite capable of being all of those things when he wanted to be. When I say he was a cracker, I mean he was explosive, unpredictable, and liable to take off half your face if you pressed the wrong button.
As a result of this, my brother and I had a very turbulent relationship. I was a relatively calm, thoughtful child. I fancied myself a small adult, speaking in big words, pretending to be able to read at the age of three (I was really great at memorising text from books that had been read to me, and also at telling a story by looking at the pictures), and asking for 'cups of tea' (read: warm milky drinks with the faintest hint of tea) whenever possible. I was, in short, a rather annoyingly precocious child.
As a prime example of the utter divide between us, I will explain how we each dealt with getting into trouble. My brother had a penchant for getting me into trouble even when I was completely innocent (don't get me wrong, I could be a naughty child with the best of them, I was just better at not getting caught). His favourite technique was to slap himself incredibly hard on the leg so that a red mark would come up and then to start screaming loudly, almost as if he had been murdered. When my mother would run into the room to find out what on earth was making my brother sound like a dying cat, she would usually find us on opposite sides of the room, with him hollering something about me having hit him and pointing to the nasty red welt on his leg as evidence of this fact. In spite of all of my rather logical arguments, 'I am on the other side of the room, it would have been impossible for me to hit him and then get back here in the few seconds it took you to get into the room,' my mother always believed him. I can't say I blame her, we had some Epic Physical Battles at times, I'm surprised my mother didn't open the doors to our neighbours and charge admission for the child version of Fight Club. So the fact that she thought I was capable of causing such pain and distress to him was not a shock. We would both inevitably get punished in this situation though, because mum was also aware of the fact that S was a rather theatrical child capable of hurting himself to get an advantage. So she hedged her bets.
Our punishment was always 'go to your rooms, sit on your beds, don't touch any of your belongings, think about what you have done, and when you are ready to apologise come and tell me what you are apologising for.' I followed these instructions to the letter. I would sit in my room quietly for around ten minutes (a suitable amount of time to build up enough fake remorse to appear genuine), then emerge to prostrate myself before my mother and beg her forgiveness. I would be quickly forgiven and could then go back to eating peanut butter sandwiches and playing with the enormous collection of My Little Pony's that I had amassed.
S, on the other hand, never quite grasped that this sneaky (and, quite frankly, a little creepy) way of dealing with the shitty situation of being in trouble was the way to go. His response to being sent to his room to 'think about what he had done?' To throw the biggest tantrum you could ever possibly imagine. Think of the worst tantrum you have ever seen a child throw in public. Got it? Multiply that by ten. S would throw every single book, toy, small furniture item in his room to the other side of his room, and then back again. He would rage and scream and yell. All at the tender age of three. He was born with a deep seated rage that seemed insatiable. My room was right next door, so whilst I was concocting the quickest way to escape the clutches of my room, I would listen with some amusement to the mayhem going on through the rather thin wall. As you can imagine, S spent a lot of time in his room as a child.
In spite of this clear difference between our personalities, and our tendency to have epic physical battles in which I almost always won (I did have almost four years on him, and believe that if necessary I could still take him now), we loved each other in the way that only brothers and sisters can. He actually adored me, and would do just about everything I asked of him when he wasn't being wilful and slightly psychotic. And I also adored him, even if I didn't show it particularly well.
I will admit that part of my initial reluctance to love him sprang from the fact that he chose to be born a boy. I had had my heart set on a sister. I remember going to the hospital on the day he was born and standing in the gift shop with dad. Dad was buying mum flowers and he told me to pick a teddy bear for my new brother. I pouted and inspected the range of bears. I decided that the best option was to pick the least girly looking bear that I liked, so that I could steal it from him the second he got home. I chose a small, chocolate brown teddy with a bright red ribbon tied into a smart bow around his neck. He was perfect. I don't remember the first time I saw S in the hospital, but I do remember when he came home. I politely asked mum to return him to the hospital, as I had requested a sister, and this was clearly not what had been ordered. This caused my parents no end of delighted hilarity, but I still didn't really understand why they were laughing, or why this small, red, mangled screaming thing was not being traded in for a chubby, laughing, girl-baby clad in a pink dress with ribbons in her hair. It was not a great start.
But, in time, things changed between S and I. I think that this was probably because our parents were so caught up in themselves at times that we formed an alliance that only children of divorce can really understand. And I raised him. Sure, my mum and dad and grandparents fed, bathed, and dressed him. But when you meet my brother, you can see that he is all me. We each have elements of our parents' personalities, but we have these other traits that cannot be explained by looking to anyone in our family. I cultivated him from a young age to be a smarter, less impulsive, and, shockingly enough, milder version of myself. Given his absolute insanity as a child, you would be very shocked to meet him now. He is a ridiculously intelligent (one of those annoying people who is good at just about everything academically without really trying), quiet, mild-mannered young man. I, on the other hand, am prone to rages, can be incredibly wilful when I want to be, and enjoy throwing minor tantrums when I don't get my own way. It seems we have swapped roles as adults.
The point of this post is something that was probably not obvious from the outset. The thing is, my brother came out to me a few years ago, and to the rest of my family at the end of last year. And at the best friend's wedding last week, the celebrant indicated that the best friend and her husband wanted to make it clear that they believed everyone should have the right to be married. And this made me cry a little bit. Because my brother, the one constant in my life, and one of the most impressive people that I know, deserves all of the rights that I have, and then some. And one day really soon, I hope that I'm crying at his wedding and telling all of the embarrassing stories I've relayed here at the reception.
To my brother!
B. J. Barnes
As a result of this, my brother and I had a very turbulent relationship. I was a relatively calm, thoughtful child. I fancied myself a small adult, speaking in big words, pretending to be able to read at the age of three (I was really great at memorising text from books that had been read to me, and also at telling a story by looking at the pictures), and asking for 'cups of tea' (read: warm milky drinks with the faintest hint of tea) whenever possible. I was, in short, a rather annoyingly precocious child.
As a prime example of the utter divide between us, I will explain how we each dealt with getting into trouble. My brother had a penchant for getting me into trouble even when I was completely innocent (don't get me wrong, I could be a naughty child with the best of them, I was just better at not getting caught). His favourite technique was to slap himself incredibly hard on the leg so that a red mark would come up and then to start screaming loudly, almost as if he had been murdered. When my mother would run into the room to find out what on earth was making my brother sound like a dying cat, she would usually find us on opposite sides of the room, with him hollering something about me having hit him and pointing to the nasty red welt on his leg as evidence of this fact. In spite of all of my rather logical arguments, 'I am on the other side of the room, it would have been impossible for me to hit him and then get back here in the few seconds it took you to get into the room,' my mother always believed him. I can't say I blame her, we had some Epic Physical Battles at times, I'm surprised my mother didn't open the doors to our neighbours and charge admission for the child version of Fight Club. So the fact that she thought I was capable of causing such pain and distress to him was not a shock. We would both inevitably get punished in this situation though, because mum was also aware of the fact that S was a rather theatrical child capable of hurting himself to get an advantage. So she hedged her bets.
Our punishment was always 'go to your rooms, sit on your beds, don't touch any of your belongings, think about what you have done, and when you are ready to apologise come and tell me what you are apologising for.' I followed these instructions to the letter. I would sit in my room quietly for around ten minutes (a suitable amount of time to build up enough fake remorse to appear genuine), then emerge to prostrate myself before my mother and beg her forgiveness. I would be quickly forgiven and could then go back to eating peanut butter sandwiches and playing with the enormous collection of My Little Pony's that I had amassed.
S, on the other hand, never quite grasped that this sneaky (and, quite frankly, a little creepy) way of dealing with the shitty situation of being in trouble was the way to go. His response to being sent to his room to 'think about what he had done?' To throw the biggest tantrum you could ever possibly imagine. Think of the worst tantrum you have ever seen a child throw in public. Got it? Multiply that by ten. S would throw every single book, toy, small furniture item in his room to the other side of his room, and then back again. He would rage and scream and yell. All at the tender age of three. He was born with a deep seated rage that seemed insatiable. My room was right next door, so whilst I was concocting the quickest way to escape the clutches of my room, I would listen with some amusement to the mayhem going on through the rather thin wall. As you can imagine, S spent a lot of time in his room as a child.
In spite of this clear difference between our personalities, and our tendency to have epic physical battles in which I almost always won (I did have almost four years on him, and believe that if necessary I could still take him now), we loved each other in the way that only brothers and sisters can. He actually adored me, and would do just about everything I asked of him when he wasn't being wilful and slightly psychotic. And I also adored him, even if I didn't show it particularly well.
I will admit that part of my initial reluctance to love him sprang from the fact that he chose to be born a boy. I had had my heart set on a sister. I remember going to the hospital on the day he was born and standing in the gift shop with dad. Dad was buying mum flowers and he told me to pick a teddy bear for my new brother. I pouted and inspected the range of bears. I decided that the best option was to pick the least girly looking bear that I liked, so that I could steal it from him the second he got home. I chose a small, chocolate brown teddy with a bright red ribbon tied into a smart bow around his neck. He was perfect. I don't remember the first time I saw S in the hospital, but I do remember when he came home. I politely asked mum to return him to the hospital, as I had requested a sister, and this was clearly not what had been ordered. This caused my parents no end of delighted hilarity, but I still didn't really understand why they were laughing, or why this small, red, mangled screaming thing was not being traded in for a chubby, laughing, girl-baby clad in a pink dress with ribbons in her hair. It was not a great start.
But, in time, things changed between S and I. I think that this was probably because our parents were so caught up in themselves at times that we formed an alliance that only children of divorce can really understand. And I raised him. Sure, my mum and dad and grandparents fed, bathed, and dressed him. But when you meet my brother, you can see that he is all me. We each have elements of our parents' personalities, but we have these other traits that cannot be explained by looking to anyone in our family. I cultivated him from a young age to be a smarter, less impulsive, and, shockingly enough, milder version of myself. Given his absolute insanity as a child, you would be very shocked to meet him now. He is a ridiculously intelligent (one of those annoying people who is good at just about everything academically without really trying), quiet, mild-mannered young man. I, on the other hand, am prone to rages, can be incredibly wilful when I want to be, and enjoy throwing minor tantrums when I don't get my own way. It seems we have swapped roles as adults.
The point of this post is something that was probably not obvious from the outset. The thing is, my brother came out to me a few years ago, and to the rest of my family at the end of last year. And at the best friend's wedding last week, the celebrant indicated that the best friend and her husband wanted to make it clear that they believed everyone should have the right to be married. And this made me cry a little bit. Because my brother, the one constant in my life, and one of the most impressive people that I know, deserves all of the rights that I have, and then some. And one day really soon, I hope that I'm crying at his wedding and telling all of the embarrassing stories I've relayed here at the reception.
To my brother!
B. J. Barnes
