Let's talk about my brother Mark, please. I was going to write this for his birthday, but that's long past now, so I'll just write it for the heck of it. This is going to be entirely about my brother, but let me state now that I also have a sister who I adore. I have a thousand things to say about what she means to me, but this particular piece is reserved for Mark. Let's discuss him.
My brother, you need to understand, is an enigma. If a person can fail a personality test, he has failed them all. He always lands right down the middle of every category. He is all personalities and no personalities. He is person. A few months ago I asked him what category he thought his personality fit into. He said, "Whichever one is where you're happy except when people are stupid."
Since we can't examine test scores to learn about my brother, let's take a look at his actions. I'm his sister, so I can only see him as his sister. I have to write what I've experienced from my position, not what I imagine his friends, wife, colleagues, kids, etc. experience. Let's start at the beginning.
My parents say that my brother cried without ceasing for the first three years of his life. He would not be cuddled or comforted. They suspected that he had some kind of health problem, perhaps digestive, so he underwent all kinds of tests and went on a gluten-free diet in case it was celiac. Nothing helped. He outgrew whatever it was before they could diagnose it, so my bedraggled parents never found out what caused his three years of wailing. Whatever it was, I like to think that I cured it with my arrival.
When I was born, Mark was immediately fascinated with me, the new baby. He would pat my head every time he passed me. No matter how they tried, my parents couldn't get him to quit patting my head, so they taught him to pat gently. That's the way it was, and that's the way it stayed.
Mark and I were buddies from the start. One of our favorite games was Trip and Fall, which consisted entirely of Mark tripping and falling for my amusement. We built snow forts and rode bikes together. I followed him everywhere. (I'm 32 years old now, and I still catch myself following him around the house.) I remember one time when we played out in the snow for as long as we could stand it. I was five years old at the most, so Mark must've been about eight. Snow had crept into my mittens, and my hands were freezing. I had just learned about frostbite, so I was terrified that my hands were going to fall off. Mark took me to his friend Adam's house, which was closest (our own home was a distant three houses away), and asked if we could come inside to get warm. He wrapped my hands in blankets, and I watched him play Sorry! with Adam until I thought that my limbs were out of danger.
When we got a little older, our roaming range expanded. We moved to an air force base in Oklahoma, which was just about as safe as could be. We were free to go anywhere we wanted on base. Every Saturday was the same. Mark would come in and wake me up (surprise, surprise, I slept later than he). Then we'd plop on the floor and watch cartoons together, stopping only for a small cereal break. If you learn nothing else of Mark, know this: he is, and has always been, the king of cereal. After cartoons, we'd put on play clothes and shoes and just leave for the day. In the summer we'd go to the pool. In other seasons we'd ride our bikes to the general store and play arcade games or pick out toys. For lunch we had two slices of Anthony's Pizza (pepperoni) and two Clearly Canadians, always. Mark paid for my food and arcade games out of his lawn mowing money. After that, we were off to the bowling alley or dollar theater, both a short bike ride away. I saw Jurassic Park with him at that theater—his second time, my first—and that was my first PG-13 movie at a theater.
Friday nights were movie nights for us at home. "Which one is it gonna be: Indiana Jones, Back to the Future 2, or Hook?" We saw the drinking contest at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark, but we didn't understand alcohol or drunkenness. We just thought they didn't like the taste of whatever it was they were drinking. We didn't like the taste of grapefruit juice, so we figured we'd have grapefruit juice drinking contests. We never seemed to get loopy like the people in the movie, so we kept drinking until we were full and sick instead. Then we'd walk it off outside for an hour or so. We did this many times. I don't know if my mom was exasperated that all her grapefruit juice was gone the day after she bought it, or happy we were getting fruit juice and taking walks. Maybe both.
Mark saw Rookie of the Year before I did and came home and described it to me scene for scene. The entire movie. I loved it.
Mark has never been a particularly silent or chatty person—like most of us, he falls somewhere in the middle—but every time he has spoken, he has spoken his
mind. When he was about twelve years old, he famously told a girl he
didn't like to "Quit calling me! I hate you!"
Our bedrooms shared a wall, so we had secret knocks to say "goodnight" and I love you."
We hid behind a chair and eavesdropped when our mom and grandma (Mama Jo) got into a fight, which was the only time we heard grown-ups really arguing. It was like sneaking a bite of birthday cake before the candles have been lit.
Mark got me through middle school. It was a lonely, nasty time for me. Our sister was away at college, so I relied on Mark more than ever. I was 13, 14, and uncool. Mark was 16, 17, and if not cool, at least well-liked. He had his own life and friends, and he was out of the house a lot more, but he still included me. He still played games with me. We made up a game called Porch Ball, and we look forward to dominating at the Olympics as soon as the committee adds it to the games. Mark gave me rides around town. He watched movies with me and introduced me to The Simpsons.
Mark stole my milk at dinner every night. He'd watch me until I wasn't paying attention, then he'd switch my full glass with his empty glass. Sometimes he'd drink straight from my glass. Sometimes, if he could get me to lock onto a story he was telling, he would pour my milk into his empty glass while I was looking straight at him. He had to keep his hands steady and confident and his voice impassive, but he got really good at it. Those were his great victories.
When he was trying to get up the nerve to ask a girl to a dance, we rolled a ball back and forth to each other in the upstairs hallway. Occasionally he'd go over to the phone, pick it up, and set it back down, then come back to roll the ball. We talked a little bit about the girl and the dance, but mostly we just rolled that ball. We did that for hours.
I cried when he left for college, but he left a note for me under my pillow, listing all our inside jokes. I keep it in my box of treasures, of course.
That's basically the last time we lived in the same house. I think he moved back home and commuted to school for one semester of college, or maybe that was a summer, but things were different at that point. I was happy in high school and was out of the house with my friends a lot. Mark was a grown-up, or at least as much a grown-up as he'll ever be.
So let's examine Mark's personality now that we've seen him from childhood to adulthood. There's the brutal truth-telling part of him. That's harsh, but I can't exactly fault him for that. You don't have to wonder where you stand with Mark. But behind that, or rather in front of that, there is great kindness, gentleness, and fun. He still loves to make up games. He would still trip and fall for children if he thought it would make them laugh. He recently lamented to me that a gigantic snow pile had formed in the middle of his office's parking lot last winter, but he couldn't convince anyone to dig a fort with him. Twice he has flown me out to visit his family, at great expense to himself and without a word of regret or bitterness. As I've said before, he sent my husband and me on a trip out of town, complete with sailing charter, when I had a miscarriage.
I do not know what his personality is, and I suppose I don't care. Throw away the tests. There's porch ball to play.
