Thursday, April 25, 2013

educational experiences

This is the problem with turning 18 in two weeks and having a little brother who is almost six months old: I love him too much that I've forgotten that, graphically if family trees are graphs, we're on the same level. I forget that we are technically, at least 11 days, we are both children. What I am painfully aware of, however, is how I can support my own head with the strength of the bones in my neck. I feel his soft skin and I love him so much that it bubbles out to the surface and dries my own out. I can read signs and books even though I know he cannot. I see cars and shoes and tables, chairs, spoons, trees and I know what they are. They are things that do things but to him they are completely foreign. What I am saying is that I have been thinking, because I can think, is that I have been doing too much thinking and my brain is so wonderfully heavy with information and trivia and manners and names and memories. I should really stop thinking, because my little brother seems so much happier than me. Maybe I should take an electric saw and a soup ladle to my skull and empty it.

I have two brothers. I am the middle child and the only girl and that is the truth, the truth, nothing but the truth. At least it was until junior year highschool. Let's tone down the drama because I hate talking about myself (at least things besides the shallow, the observations, the failed jokes). I really don't like to tell people how my gears fit together because I know, in the gut of every cell, that they do not care. People have their own shit to deal with. I'm going off because I am on things and what I am saying is that I will tell you a story now about my family, which no one can repeat or blab as if it was their own because it is mine godfuckingdamnit. Right. People with parents who are together freak me out because, despite the fact that my parents only got officially annulled when I was in freshman year highschool, they were never together. Sure they loved each other at some point, but that is beyond my memory and I really don't care about that time. I love my parents but they are separate entities. Their is no 'and' that  bridges mama to papa, no conjunction, no entity of parental solidarity. There never has been. So don't ask me if I care if my parents separated or if it affects me because it doesn't and if you assume that they need to be together for me to be okay in my stomach then I will sand in your face and then heat the grains trapped beneath your eyelids until they turn to glass and you can finally see my point.

I've gotten off topic.

I'm sad today, more so than usual, so excuse me.

In junior year highschool my mother was married to Mike, who is nice and makes good chili potatoes and peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches and he treated my cat nice and made my mother buy things to make the house nicer. They-and-they-and oh fuck it I don't want to tell this story. Basically I have another brother now and I'm not the middle child anymore because there is no middle in a group of four. Also I'm not a child anymore. Also I look at my darling babiest brother and I want to keep him in a plastic bubble away from me and my other siblings. I want him to learn and to grow up and to speak Tagalog and Bisaya and Ilocano and play sports and go to school and hate school and know our grandparents. I want him to learn how to speak and walk and do mathematics. I want him to do things I've never done and probably never will do, like cry from laughing too hard, or go skydiving, or live til he is old. I hope he never knows how he will die, never feels the flat and heavy stone of comfort settle inside him as he thinks 'I will deliberately be the death of me, someday, somehow'. I look at him and wish and pray on stars and to deities that he won't have to hold someone he loves while they are crying because they are sick in the head, and I hope he never feels like the best way out of a bad situation is by unlocking your blood from your skin with nails and thin pieces of sharp metal. I hope his little mind never wanders down dark paths and off cliffs. Sometimes I even hope he never gets to know me, that I die before his mind starts writing things down in permanent ink, so that I can't infect him with the sickness that I am. So that I don't have to explain the things that words cannot, but history does. How selfish and hideous of me.

I hope he never wonders why he breaths. I hope he smiles all the time without the corners of his little bow mouth feeling like rigor mortis is already setting in. I hope he never stops in the middle of planning his birthday and starts thinking, casually as if to decide what to have for lunch, whether or not he should live through it, and how to not to. I hope he can imagine himself growing up, can imagine himself at all, because he is wonderful and he is possibility and he is so soft and he smells so good and maybe once the people I know and the person I am, we were once like that but now we are not. A testament to the cruelty of time and change, written in stretchmarks across the back of my knees.

Mostly though, I hope to god buddha allah jesus and santa that he never forgets anything important. Our family has no history of Alzheimer's but three out of four of my father's children have empty spaces in their brains where things that were important used to be. One forgot how to smile, one how to eat and one how to laugh.

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