The following was prepared for a live storytelling event told at StorySlam Oakland. As of yet, I have no recording.
———
Growing up, it was just my mom, me, and my older brother. Our parents had divorced so early that I don’t even have a memory of them being together.
My brother is nine years older than me so, naturally, I idolized him. And naturally, it had a huge impact on me. I absorbed all my tastes from being around my brother.
If my brother was going to listen to Blondie and The Talking Heads, that meant that I was going to listen to Blondie and The Talking Heads.
If my brother was going to be an artist, then that meant that I wanted to be an artist too.
And if my brother was going to refer to our dad by his first name, then I was going to do exactly the same. He wasn’t bad-mouthing our dad. He was just using the familiar rather than the formal name. So, I did the same.
There’s only on thing that can come between brothers.
Her name was Brooke.
She was a goddess.
And, by the way, I’m calling her Brooke here because, to me, she was Brooke Shields. This was 1980, at the height of Brooke Shields hoopla. I wasn’t old enough to have seen the “Blue Lagoon”, but I didn’t have to. I had Brooke in my household on a regular basis.
She would come to our house to study. They would go on dates together, and I got to tag along. And they were even in a school play together, where she and my brother kissed on stage.
Of course, this meant that I too had to kiss Brooke.
So one night, after finishing up my dose of evening television, my mom told me that it was time to go upstairs to have my brother read me a story and say good night.
As fate would have it, Brooke happened to be at the house that night. They were up there.
Studying.
Listening to Blondie.
Rehearsing for the school play.
Doing everything that I wanted to do.
This was my chance. I stripped down to my Yoda undaroos - just the skivvies, mind you, no tshirt - and marched up to my brother’s bedroom. When I got there, Brooke was sitting on the edge of the bed where I snuggled right up to her and handed her the storybook.
My brother rolled his eyes and went along things.
When the story was over, I asked Brooke for a goodnight kiss. She leaned over and gave me a peck on the forehead. But then I said — “No, can I have a kiss like the one you gave to him on stage, in the play?”
My brother lost it. I had gone too far.
Because that’s when he blurted out: “Oh my god, this is so embarrassing. Thank God I’m adopted.”
Adopted?
What the hell is he talking about?
Does this mean that my brother is not my brother?
I was devastated.
I ran downstairs, crying, and told my mom what he had said to me. My mom sighed and then explained it for me.
It turns out that my mom had been married before my dad and when she married my dad, he adopted my brother who took the same last name.
“So, technically he’s your half brother,” she explained.
I thought for a moment - so that’s why he calls him Butch!
But still, something was bothering me.
Even though the family logistics now made sense, I could tell that for the first time, my brother had said something to deliberately get rid of me.
I wasn’t gonna let that happen.
I wiped my tears and made my way back upstairs.
This time however, I didn’t care about Brooke at all.
I went straight to my brother and gave him a hug and said: “I don’t care if you’re adopted. You’re still my brother.”
About a year later, my brother graduated from high school and then went off to college.
I got over Brooke.
And over the next several years, it was just me in the house. During that time, I started to form my own tastes in music, and movies, and girls.
But to this day, I still refer to my dad by his first name…because that’s what my brother taught me.