Brotherly love best valentine gift
Unconditional affection of younger sibling quells earlier
resentment toward new family arrival
By Roxane Marquez
Daily Bruin Columnist/Editor in Chief
A few weeks back, I went and saw the movie "Kids" in Ackerman
Grand Ballroom for the second time. None of it had really shocked
me at the first viewing, probably because an old friend of mine had
warned me ahead of time that it was pretty hard core
That evening, though, it proved difficult for my mind to absorb
what I was seeing. Not because of the sex or the weed or the foul
language, and not even because some of the actors in the movie are
about 13 years old.
I mean, really, none of it was especially new. Drug use and
sexual experimentation existed at my junior high school, and that
was back in 1987. Young boys my age, and even a few girls, were
swearing like sailors by the time they were in fifth grade.
What made it difficult for me to watch "Kids" was that one of
the little Puerto Rican boys smoking weed at the party toward the
end of the movie resembled my little brother, Eric. There, the
little actor sits, squeezed into a sofa with three of his friends,
all of them shirtless and sharing a fat blunt back and forth among
themselves. And there I am in the front row thinking, Jesus, that
could be Eric not too long from now.
Even a year ago, that thought wouldn’t have crossed my mind.
Come on. He just turned 9 this past October and what did he know,
right?
But right before winter break, my mother called me on the phone
to catch up on things. She’d been cleaning his room, she told
me.
"And I was making his bed and guess what I found stashed between
the mattress and the wall?" Mom asked me.
"What?" I responded.
"A ‘Victoria’s Secret’ catalogue."
"No kidding?"
"I’m serious."
I laughed in semi-disbelief. "This is too much. He just turned
9!"
"I know. So then I confronted him."
"You didn’t!"
"I did. He was watching cartoons, and I went right up to him and
said, ‘Eric, what’s this?’"
"My God, Mom, that’s a little messed up … so what did he say
back?"
"His eyes opened real wide and he begged me, ‘Please, Mom, don’t
tell Dad!’"
We both laughed. "So did you tell Dad?"
"Of course – I tell Sammy everything."
* * *
It’s funny, because when Eric was first born back in October of
1986, I didn’t greet him with resounding joy. In fact, I was a
little upset.
Here came this little baby, the boy my father always wanted. He
was this little human being who couldn’t walk or talk but had the
power to kick me out of my room and make me share one with my
sister, and force me to use public transportation throughout high
school given that we didn’t have any money for a car. I was a
spoiled adolescent, and his birth made it show.
Then one evening around the holidays, my mother woke me up,
practically in tears. Eric was faintly moaning somewhere in the
blackness.
"Roxane, get up."
"It’s 3:00 in the morning," I mumbled.
"Go take care of the baby. He’s crying."
I opened my eyes. She was hardly a young mother at 39, and she
looked like she hadn’t slept in days. I remembered that my father
didn’t take care of babies …
"Go to bed, Mom."
I trudged toward the baby’s room, his wailing growing louder. He
was squirming in his crib like an overgrown worm. I sighed, wrapped
him in a blanket, picked him up, and collapsed, still sleepy, in a
chair beside the Christmas tree in the next room.
"Shhh. Be quiet. You’re waking everyone up," I whispered.
He kept crying. Maybe he needs a bottle, I thought.
I dragged us to the kitchen, made a bottle and sat down again
near the Christmas tree. He was so hungry, I could tell. As I
watched him, I smiled. He did look a lot like me, just like
everyone said. How funny, a little boy version of me, I thought. I
giggled.
He giggled back.
My eyes widened in surprise. His did, too. So I giggled again,
and he mimicked me again. We giggled at each other for the rest of
the morning.
* * *
Eric and I are about 14 years apart in age, but I think he’s
been the most loyal person to me that I know. Boyfriends have
betrayed me, friends have disappointed me and I’ve disappointed
myself, but his love for me has been practically unconditional.
At random, he’ll call me at my apartment just to say hello.
"I’m callin’ you like they do on commercials for ‘Friends &
Family,’ just to say hello and we can save money," he told me over
the phone a few weeks back. "Whadaya doin’ at college?"
"Working, studying, same things, baby doll. What about you?"
"I’m makin’ valentines."
"It’s kind of early, isn’t it?"
"No! It’s in a few days!" he exclaimed. "Doncha give out
valentines in your classroom at college?"
I laughed. "No, silly, I have lots of different classrooms with
tons of people I’ll never meet."
"Oh. Well, doncha have a boyfriend?"
"No."
"What happened ta Matt?"
"Silly, we broke up three years ago!"
"Oh, I guess I fuhgot. Well, bye!" he shouted, and hung up.
On Valentine’s Day, I was bummed out from observing couples
around campus giving each other flowers and kisses when Chancellor
Young decided to make my day a permanent disaster by announcing his
retirement. Breaking news – the paper went crazy. I didn’t get to
my apartment ’til about 2:00 the next morning.
Just as I was about to force myself up the steps leading to my
apartment, I remembered to check my mailbox. Buried amongst random
junkmail and a few bills was a tiny letter with my father’s
handwriting dictating my address boldly.
I opened it. The infant from the "Rugrats" cartoon on
Nickelodeon smiled at me crazily. "Aw, come on … be my
Valentine!" it said, and my brother had signed his name below.
He had also included another letter from him on a sheet of
school paper. Written in black and purple marker it said:
"Der Rxane by the time you get thes it will be to late. I mise
you. Come home sone. love Eric."
Márquez is a fifth-year student double-majoring in history
and English/American studies and is the editor in chief of the
Daily Bruin. Her column runs on alternate Thursdays.Comments to
[email protected]