The title has nothing to do with this entry. Or maybe it does.
I think the point of sibling teasing is to get ready for
other people. I think in order to
realistically deal with people, we need to have cracks, to already be a little
bit damaged. Like, “These are the people who are supposed
to love me. And they keep harassing
me. If I can put up with this, I can
definitely put up with strangers making fun of me.” I don’t mean bullying, which is conscious
maliciousness, but just the every day grim, slow soul staining meanness that
some people don’t even know they’re being a part of.
Anyway, the sibling teasing shouldn’t be wholly malicious,
something a few minutes of alone time and the promise of pizza, can shake off. Anything more than that isn't teasing, and falls more in the painful realm of bullying.
Daniel graduated from sixth grade today, the end of grade
school. It’s a metaphorical change, and
a physical change. To help him get
ready, I’ve been incorporating the words penis, testicles and vagina into my
daily speak, so often he doesn’t even blush anymore. We’ve been trying to get him to swear, but so
far he’s resisted. Pubic hair is
mentioned to him with curiosity and regularity.
(So, buddy. Any of those pubes
coming in yet?) And on a more fatalistic
note, Daniel is our last chance at getting a childhood right.
But sometimes I worry.
Have I taken it too far? Has
threatening to steal his eyebrows while he sleeps and fashion fashionable
eyebrow wigs out of them, too much? Will
he have a fear of small furry caterpillars, as he ages? Will he look back at his childhood and only
see torment and misery? Does he know
that we never did anything out of pure meanness, and that it was just
light-hearted, and if we were ever too mean, that it was careless and we regret
it?
Children are pliable and resilient. But, weird things set people off. Example, I can speak Ilocano fairly well, but
I rarely ever do, since I was told by Brother 1 and 2 (Daniel being brother 3),
that when I spoke Ilocano, I sounded
funny. Of course I sound funny. It’s a different language and I barely have anyone
to speak with. It wasn't spiteful, just a casual observation, but it was big enough to make me stop
speaking it, all together.
I’d like to hope that Daniel will fondly remember the
shrill shouts and whistles every time he went on stage. I hope he doesn’t resent all the frantic
waving and gesturing every time he performed, or the orgy of cameras flashing
for his attention. That he never has to
tell a therapist of the burning shame of being the only sixth grader with a
giant portrait of himself, grinning to greet him as he received his
certificate, or that instead of leis he was adorned with Mardi Gras beads, a
pool floatie and an inflatable crown. I
hope he was a little bit proud that he was the only one whose family wore
shirts and stickers proclaiming themselves to be #TeamDaniel.
That when the sea of mad hormones comes rushing into the
city of his brain, the deluge of teenage-hood rears its ugly head, that he
doesn’t hate us too much. That my
overenthusiastic affection didn’t hurt him.
That it didn’t make his scared of life.
And that maybe he had a little bit of fun.
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