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 webmaster@db.asucla.ucla.edu