Younger Brothers

Last night I went to a pub and watched the World Cup semi-final between Spain and Germany--hardly my usual choice of activity. But I was hanging out with two colleagues who are teaching with me here in Ireland, it was what they wanted to do, and I tagged along. Dan and Joe are in their 30s. Relaxed, witty, and smart, they're fun travel companions. (Except when I start talking about things that happened at LSU in the early 90s and they smile politely and I remember, oh right, they were, what, 12 years old when that happened, and then feel old and feeble-minded.)

I imagine that having younger brothers is like the last few weeks with Joe and Dan--hanging out, having a drink, watching sports, laughing a lot. I've never had younger brothers, but they strike me as far preferable to older brothers. They don't hang you upside down and dunk your head in the toilet. They don't nail you inside the clubhouse. They don't tie you to the bedpost with a belt and then leave you there while they go out with friends. They don't tell you that their friends say you're fat. They don't sit you down before your first day of high school and advise you to do with boys whatever boys want you to do so that you'll be popular. Often, when people learn that I grew up with five older brothers, they coo, "Oh, you must have felt so protected." I can only conclude that such people have no experience with older brothers, or at least not with mine.

My sister's husband once asked, after hearing her recount the toilet dunking story (which I confess happened to her rather than to me: I was a chunk of a child whereas she was one of those skinny kids with bones jutting out all over, the perfect size and shape for a quick grab, flip, and dunk),"Where in the world was your mom?" Such a strange question. My mom fed and clothed us. She made sure we caught the school bus. She washed out our mouths with soap if we swore and she slapped us if we spoke disrespectfully to an adult. She tucked us in at night and heard our prayers. She helped us memorize the books of the Bible. She bought our Christmas and birthday presents. She drove us to our various school and church activities. It never occurred to us, or to her, I am quite sure, that she was supposed to do anything more. Making it through the day, surviving the torments that older brothers devised, that was up to us.

I got back at them, of course. I turned to the time-honored survival strategies of the weak: I became a world-class eavesdropper and snitch. I suppose I should thank my brothers for teaching me that words have power and that information, when wielded well, is a powerful weapon. Right after I find some really big guy with experience in toilet dunking.