When you grow up with a younger brother, as I did, you find yourself headed toward one outcome: you will bully him. As I write this, I notice that I'm already planting an excuse for myself. All older brothers bully all younger brothers, my argument goes. Therefore I, an older brother, inevitably was led to bully my younger brother. We all know that I had more control over myself than that. I could've been nicer to him. And I was, sometimes, when I wasn't bullying him.
I was 23 months his senior, minus a week, and my fight record against him was something like 94-0 with zero knockouts. My fight-ending move was to punch him in the upper arm until he cried. Sometimes he'd run off to "tell" on me. However, I don't remember being punished very often, a result that leads me to suspect that I was my parents' favorite. I think I remained the favorite in part because our fights were secret--or, to be exact, I was smart enough to beat up my brother when my parents weren't around.
Another reason, by the way, that made me think that I was the favorite had to do with the visit of President Ford to our state. My Dad was so amped about the visit that he drove me and my brother out to the airport to watch Air Force One land. I was about six years old at the time, and so my memories of the event are hazy, but here's what I think I remember:
While we waited on the outside of a chain-link fence, men in suits, whom I would guess now to be Secret Service agents, approached the other side of the fence and monitored us. They watched us, and we watched them. Soon someone exclaimed, "He's coming!" Voices grew louder and people pushed toward the fence, hands outstretched--because the President was shaking hands over the fence! That fact juiced the crowd up pretty good.
Now came the definitive moment. My Dad wanted us to shake Ford's hand. Realizing that he could only pick up one of us in the time that Ford would brisk past, he selected . . . me. He gripped me under the armpits and lifted me toward the fence. I stuck out my hand. Ford grabbed my fingers and walked quickly past. The. President. Had. Shaken. My. Hand. And then as my father turned and lowered me to the ground, I saw the dark, cloudy look on my brother's face as it rose to greet me.
Now maybe my Dad just picked up the nearest one of us without a thought. I understand that I may be reading too much into this memory. And to be fair to my parents, I can't think of many instances where they seemed to favor me. Perhaps that would be a better question for my brother. Sometimes, however, a lot can be revealed in a moment when a parent has to make a snap judgment--to look at his children and select one over the other.
My bullying of my brother didn't last forever. The window was a four- or five-year one. And I'm not talking about daily fights. I didn't love being the bully. It was just a natural consequence of our fights. A --> B --> C. I was bigger. Therefore, I had to win. Therefore, I was the bully.
Over time, I got too caught up in golf and playing games on my Commodore 64. And I always read too many horror books--Clive Barker was my favorite--to qualify as a nongeek.
What was the result of all of my bullying? I think it ended, not coincidentally, right around the time that my brother started training to be a ninja. He'd stand barefoot in the front yard, wearing a black gi in full view of passing traffic, and swing wooden nunchuks around his waist and neck. He seemed to be preparing for an assault from an unseen army. With all of his training, it's sort of funny that he never sought revenge against me.
From my end, I became nonviolent and rather mellow.
I don't think I harmed him too much psychologically. He's married with children and very successful working in the computer industry in Silicon Valley. He's far more successful than I've been, I'm proud to say.
Nowadays, I consider myself a pushover, one that avoids conflict whenever possible. Odd that I became a lawyer, I suppose. Perhaps I can trace my passive ways back to rebellion against my cruel younger self. I'd like to think so. Still, that bullying weasel is easy for me to forgive. He was just a kid.
I was 23 months his senior, minus a week, and my fight record against him was something like 94-0 with zero knockouts. My fight-ending move was to punch him in the upper arm until he cried. Sometimes he'd run off to "tell" on me. However, I don't remember being punished very often, a result that leads me to suspect that I was my parents' favorite. I think I remained the favorite in part because our fights were secret--or, to be exact, I was smart enough to beat up my brother when my parents weren't around.
Another reason, by the way, that made me think that I was the favorite had to do with the visit of President Ford to our state. My Dad was so amped about the visit that he drove me and my brother out to the airport to watch Air Force One land. I was about six years old at the time, and so my memories of the event are hazy, but here's what I think I remember:
While we waited on the outside of a chain-link fence, men in suits, whom I would guess now to be Secret Service agents, approached the other side of the fence and monitored us. They watched us, and we watched them. Soon someone exclaimed, "He's coming!" Voices grew louder and people pushed toward the fence, hands outstretched--because the President was shaking hands over the fence! That fact juiced the crowd up pretty good.
Now came the definitive moment. My Dad wanted us to shake Ford's hand. Realizing that he could only pick up one of us in the time that Ford would brisk past, he selected . . . me. He gripped me under the armpits and lifted me toward the fence. I stuck out my hand. Ford grabbed my fingers and walked quickly past. The. President. Had. Shaken. My. Hand. And then as my father turned and lowered me to the ground, I saw the dark, cloudy look on my brother's face as it rose to greet me.
Now maybe my Dad just picked up the nearest one of us without a thought. I understand that I may be reading too much into this memory. And to be fair to my parents, I can't think of many instances where they seemed to favor me. Perhaps that would be a better question for my brother. Sometimes, however, a lot can be revealed in a moment when a parent has to make a snap judgment--to look at his children and select one over the other.
My bullying of my brother didn't last forever. The window was a four- or five-year one. And I'm not talking about daily fights. I didn't love being the bully. It was just a natural consequence of our fights. A --> B --> C. I was bigger. Therefore, I had to win. Therefore, I was the bully.
Over time, I got too caught up in golf and playing games on my Commodore 64. And I always read too many horror books--Clive Barker was my favorite--to qualify as a nongeek.
What was the result of all of my bullying? I think it ended, not coincidentally, right around the time that my brother started training to be a ninja. He'd stand barefoot in the front yard, wearing a black gi in full view of passing traffic, and swing wooden nunchuks around his waist and neck. He seemed to be preparing for an assault from an unseen army. With all of his training, it's sort of funny that he never sought revenge against me.
From my end, I became nonviolent and rather mellow.
I don't think I harmed him too much psychologically. He's married with children and very successful working in the computer industry in Silicon Valley. He's far more successful than I've been, I'm proud to say.
Nowadays, I consider myself a pushover, one that avoids conflict whenever possible. Odd that I became a lawyer, I suppose. Perhaps I can trace my passive ways back to rebellion against my cruel younger self. I'd like to think so. Still, that bullying weasel is easy for me to forgive. He was just a kid.
this was a truly great post.
ReplyDeleteThanks!
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