I have a brother. He is everything I am not: tall, underage, brave, athletically gifted and good at driving. He is everything I am: sensitive, self-conscious, brunette, named after family members. Charles Caswell Hardaway - Charlie - is 16 and he is "the twins' brother."
When my mother first told my sister and I that we were going to have a little brother we simultaneously threw temper tantrums. We had just gotten used to being around other humans, and the thought that another one would be entering our house - taking attention away from us - was devastating. For the first few years of his life, we tortured Charlie.
Eventually we all got used to each other and the younger brother/older sister dynamic set in. As childhood progressed, Charlie read our text messages and made fun of our teenage angst; as my sister and I grew older and inevitably more boring, we helped our mother in analyzing our brother's phone messages and crumpled up love notes.
Lately I've been concentrating a lot on my relationship with my sister. She's a constant presence so we're always redefining our "twin dynamic." I am also more frequently asked, "What's it like being a twin" and not, "Do you have any other siblings?" My brother, therefore is pushed to the background of my very important and very busy collegiate life.
And yet, he's still a part of my life. Before I head home for a weekend he'll text me, "hey sis, bring home some goods." I'm pretty sure this means illicit drugs, but I usually just respond with an "ok!" I never bring home anything but college stories and dirty laundry. I don't think he ever really thinks I'll bring him a handle of cheap liquor, but I do think that he expects a little something from me. Attention, perhaps, or maybe a question or two about his life.
I try to pay attention to him when I am home, but the unavoidable pull of my own bed, my pets, my rooftop, allows room only for self-centered "me time." My mother tells me to ask him about girls because she no longer knows how to stalk text messages on his iPhone. My father tells me to "go talk to your brother" so that perhaps I could convince him that getting good grades leads to fun in the future, not just the inconsequential as of the present.
So Charlie, these few paragraphs are for you.
My brother is hilarious. Everyone says that about his brother, following up this statement with, "Oh, he's just so crazy." Well your brother probably is in school plays and acts out the role of slapstick comedian. I could care less about your brother. My brother, my 16-year-old king of impersonations and imitations will beat your hypothetical brother in this imaginary competition of hilarity and wits.
My brother is confidently and unashamedly crude. Dropping every "bad word" under the sun in a matter of minutes, he manages to make even my well-mannered mother laugh. Straight-faced, he shouts out obscenities that, despite their inappropriate nature, define a moment better than any other description. He knows what nerves to hit. Unlike my sister who hits sensitive nerves to get my attention - and if she sees fit, to hurt me - my brother hits nerves that make me laugh. He knows what different people consider funny and he tends to their needs. He makes my bad days tolerable because they can be laughed away with the perfect joke.
My brother is popular with the opposite sex. Unlike high-school-Connelly, Charlie has had a number of love affairs. I use the term love to mean "crush" or "thing," but I doubt the girls he has said things with feel that their relationship with my brother is anything less than a full blown romance. My brother is not nice to girls; he ignores the ones he could care less about and he is mean to the ones he likes. But he smiles, shakes his head and says "baby" and I know they forget about all his past grievances. My charming brother does the same thing to me. He drops "but sis," winks and all is forgiven.
My brother knows every player in the NFL. My brother knows every word to every Lil Wayne song. My brother knows that my sister and I love him, even if we sometimes forget how to show it. My brother has an outer shell, a defensive wall he puts up to protect against all things that hurt him deep down. He has a tender heart, like my father, and for all of his jokes and his pretenses, I know that he really just wants to be liked. I like him just fine and I can't wait for him to make fun of me for publicly singing his praises. I know deep down he'll be touched.
Connelly's column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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