My brothers hated me. At least this was how I felt growing up. Interesting how now, after
growing up, we have almost no contact.
Truth?
As the female of the family, I was the low man on the totem pole, routinely accused of
being the baby, the manipulator, the irritant, the annoyer, the instigator, the bad singer,
sexually wise beyond my actual experience, etcetera and so on. When I was given the
opportunity to skip grade five, the news was handed down to me as if I’d committed a
crime against my brothers.
I became a goth. I listened to the Cure and Siouxie and the Banshees. I joined the
theatre club at school. I became sexually experienced. I learned to drink alcohol, shut
down, shut off, skipped school, took the bus downtown, ran.
It’s taken many years and a whole lot of pain and dollars to pick through it, to grasp the
full consequence of it, to work through blame.
Yet still I am ambivalent. At times. I work on love. It don’t come easy.
So here I sit, my daughter on my lap, some random book that wound up in my
apartment; I turn the page.
My daughter takes special interest, makes the curiosity sound, points, and looks up at
me.
Now what do I do about it?
How did this happen?
How did this image get past the many editors and publishing professionals?
I understand the sentiment. Big brother annoyed by younger sister. I know it. I lived it.
DW, the name of the sister in this series of stories (not even a real name, as a friend
pointed out) is guilty of the crime of being smart and expressing her opinion.
This is where it gets her, the laugh line, the punch.
How did this image get past us? Because it didn’t get past the Guppins.
-Drama Mama
[originally posted: july 6, 2012]
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