"My Little Brother"

He's taller than me and has been for a long time now. The center in a cult of personality, he's magnetic, a clever kid who passes gracefully through the hoops of social circles. As his sister, I am utterly possessed by the notion, "He is the good kid. He is the smart one. He does not succumb to peer pressure; he is the peer pressure, hopefully not for devious intent." Despite his academic performance, he's not dumb. In no aspect is he stupid, though sometimes he plays the part. Like any human, he changes depending on who is surrounded by. The tone of voice, his words, they change instantly when our conversation is interrupted by a phone call. Youth nurtures his casual and indestructible persona, complemented by negligence and an infallibility complex. I worry. Over and over and over, I repeat that my fear is to see him die an untimely death. Tonight, he told me he is going to fight another kid. I don't worry about this fight. He has honor and general opinion on his side. We stood talking, him casually framed in silhouetted by the darkened laundry room, wearing boxers and jeans. I had never noticed that he is quite literally "jacked." The weight set in his room is not for show. The nightly crunches are not mythical. He is much older than I remember him, so much cooler than me.

We are so similar in our potential, so different in the expression of those ambitions.

"La la la, words, la, words"

When I was newly welcomed into this world, my room was the one currently occupied by my brother. I more remember this as a fact, rather than memories of actually staying and sleeping in the room before being relocated to my current residence. However, I do remember that in the corner by the window, there was a rocking chair. It was very rounded, with a wooden frame and arm rests, covered by some thin fabric upholstery. My mom used to sing to us or read us stories as we sat in her lap. In my head, I also remember my dad would sometimes be the provider of stories and lap space, but this may be inaccurate. Either by time casting a warm glow on the past, or by the power of a nightlight, all of these memories recall the lighting as a dim, yellow-orange light. When it was absolutely, last-call time for bed, we would get one reprieve; nobody had to go to bed until the last note of Amazing Grace was finished. This did not manifest itself in a desperate, "slow as possible" rendition, but that the last note was to be held out as long as our little lungs could. Mom always won.

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On the way to preschool as a toddler, my mother would sing with me in the car. Zip-a-Dee Doo Dah leading into You Are My Sunshine. After my brother was born, she commenced teaching us Hort v Kloop d'Kinderen, a Dutch Christmas song of dubious spelling, to imbibe us with a little bit of cultural heritage. I still remember the words and fondly recited them for Mr. Geating's algebra class upon being caught late once in the holiday season. It is my current recollection that Jack never quite remembered all the lyrics, even in the time we sang it every day.

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Freshman year, everything was bright with the adoration of naivity. It was the first time I had heard Ben Folds or the Dresden Dolls. I finally learned the words to Hallelujah beyond the chorus. Prior to that year, I sang a little, but hardly ever by myself in public. The sound of my voice, as it remains today, verged slightly upon the adjective "unpleasant." Beyond fear of criticism, I'm not entirely sure why I was reluctant to sing. Singing is such an intimate action, I was surprised and in awe of this group that let boys and girls sing real songs on real buses in real public spaces. We all knew the words by heart, and then opened those hearts to each other when we opened our mouths. It was very much a cult of personality. The year Jeff graduated was the year Viv went to prom and never came home again. The next year, singing was done at the oversight of Jeremy or Schade, "80s" (while rockin', still restrictive). Now, there are two years that don't know the words to Hallelujah or Freshmen, one year reluctant to sing, and one year who can't reclaim the harmonies of the past.

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This summer, I snuck out with Nick F. We drove around some, walked around some, and talked quite consistently through the early hours of the morning. Nearing 4 AM, it was decided that to avoid the possibility of a night into morning conflict with parents, we should be at our respective homes by 5 AM, so we returned to the car. First, we listened to the psychadelic rock of Vanilla Fudge and Deep Purple, followed by the vocalized instrumental "Regatta de Blanc" by The Police. Parading through unmarked CDs of funk and indie, we stumbled upon the ultimate playlist genre. "Cheese." The first sweet notes brought to our ears on this CD may well have been the opening drum beats from "Never Gonna Give You Up." Delighted and immediately fascinated by this discovery, we eventually struck upon "Amazed" by Lonestar. The mildly twangy crooning sang over sweet and sappy piano was laughable and inappropriate for the moment, and still, we persisted. Growing to the chorus, I hummed the words I did not know and quietly mouthed the ones I did. Nick, fantastic vocalist that he is, started belting. I could not rightfully leave him hanging when it was obvious I knew the words to the chorus. The strangest 4AM sing-along completed, I nearly laughed 'til I cried, or at least until I got home.