When I was a child, my brother and I were inseparable. This was both a burden and a blessing; it meant I never lacked for a playmate and that I was always responsible for someone else's behavior and possible injury. This was a lifelong pattern that began the first time he fell down the steps while in my three-year old care, and did not end until his unexpected death nearly 35 years later. In between we fought like rabid dogs or protected each other from outsiders with the same fierceness; for a few years when he was at his worst, our contact was limited and snarling and ultimately frustrating for both us, but was occasionally broken by a sudden realization of "oh, you're just like me" when talking about our reaction to relationship stress or our view of our often crazy and temperamental mother.
In high school I was often blackmailed by my brother, negating his need to actually work since my hard-earned money could often be extorted from me in order to maintain my good-girl status. My senior year he found my birth control pills hidden in the lining of my purse, and often quietly threatened me by saying "B.C., Paige, B.C." if he felt I was about to rat him out to my parents for ditching school, stealing my money or hiding a bottle of tequila in a speaker in his room. One day I came home to find my parents waiting for me in the living room, both clearly angry and crushed and accusatory; between them sat my birth control pills. Apparently, my brother had gotten bored.
All was not evil and contrary between us, however. In my junior year of high school, a former best friend was making my life so miserable that I had something of a breakdown and my parents decided that the best option was for both my brother and myself to transfer to another school. All I had to do was make it through the last 60 days of the semester, and then I'd be off to a better school and far away from the person who had cast me out from our circle and warned all that speaking to me would earn them the same punishment.
Not too long after a particularly painful and inflammatory public humiliation, I was pulled from my class by school security, the handsome Manny that I had had a crush on since 7th grade and his partner, Jess. Apparently my antagonist's car — a 1970 cream-colored VW bug that I had long coveted and had in fact learned to drive stick shift on — had been tampered with, and I was named as the prime suspect. I stammered and cried my way through a clearly honest denial, and they were forced to let me stumble back to my philosophy class. As I rounded the last corner before hitting the classroom, my brother stepped out from behind a gate, hands in pockets and looking left and right while he cupped a cigarette in his hand. He pulled me into the shadows and asked if I had talked to security yet. I was both buoyed by his concern and dismayed by his insider knowledge and the possibility that he would somehow turn this into yet another blackmail opportunity. It was then that I learned he had completely rewired my enemy's car during second period, and had done such a good job that it took her mechanic step-father over a week to repair it.
This was one of the moments in which I was reminded that through our many moves — we had lived in 11 houses and attended nine schools in less than seven years before finally settling in San Diego — my brother had always had my back with outsiders, even if occasionally stabbing me in it at home. We were a team, and as often as I might call him an idiot or malcontent or evil incarnate, that was MY privilege and right and no one else was allowed to denigrate him in any way. I can only hope that Shawn Joaquin and Madelena have that same loyalty to one and other outside of our house if not always in it; I see how she leaps up to help him, her older brother, when he struggles with something, shouting "I help you, 'mano." How he tackled a visiting child who pretended to shoot Madelena with a finger. How her laughter at his antics can elate or devastate him, depending on whether he feels laughed with or at. How every time I give anything to Madelena - food, toy, book or a drink - she immediately says "para 'mano, Mama?", never wanting him to miss out on anything.
While Shawn Joaquin occasionally feels ripped off having to share the center of my world with Madelena, my hope is that long after I am gone they have each other and the knowledge that regardless of who else may come or go in their life, their sibling is always there. Yelling, screaming or hugging, but always one of the people who loves them best. Until death do they part.
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