chapter 12 - my brother's keeper
We had all called our sleeping spots, arrived at the camp site, and it was time to arrange our sleeping bags and personal belongings for the weekend. John insisted on taking my spot. He didn’t claim that he had called it. He didn’t ask me if he could have it or if we could trade. He just took my spot. I was not interested in getting physical with him, first and foremost because it wasn’t how we were taught to resolve differences among ourselves. Ironic as it may seem, we children were absolutely prohibited from getting physical with one another. More bizarre yet is that politically and socially and spiritually, my parents nurtured us to be non-violent and oriented to pacifism. “Do as I say and not as I do”, my father said on more than one occasion, albeit rarely in reference to matters so weighty. We would get slapped or beaten if we got aggressive with one another.
There was no negotiating with Jack, no talking sense into him. Ultimately, my only option was to tell on him. Being a tattle-tale was not a negative thing in our family. My parents were very strict and very restrictive, and were always looking for ways they could police us more closely and to make sure that we didn’t infringe upon the rights or privileges of the favored ones. I went and told on him, and was sent back with a message from my father to tell John to move his stuff. He didn’t.
I told again. Same message. He didn’t.
I felt I had no choice but to tell again. Knowing my father as both John and I did, there was no mystery as to what was going to happen next. Yet part of me was hesitant, confused. I felt like an unwitting pawn in some sick and twisted game. What, pray tell, was going on in John’s mind? In any case, I couldn’t let John, who was already prone to bullying and teasing and similar obnoxious behaviors, get away with summarily pushing me out of my space. Whatever strange dance was going on, I was now a full partner. My father followed me back out to the camper.
We almost never got beaten because of what we did to another sibling, unless of course that sibling was the Golden Boy. Those beatings happened frequently, because of his place in the household and how difficult it was for us to avoid displeasing His Highness. I think those beatings were my step-mother’s favorites, since she was certain that they were well-deserved and necessary to maintaining proper household order. I think she believed that we were jealous of him and would mistreat him for fun. Those were downright righteous beatings.
The reality is, my siblings both knew better and we dared not. We knew better in the sense that we knew very well the difference between his behavior and theirs, between him and them, and were smart enough and mature enough not to confuse the two and to take their behavior out on him. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t be able to say that with a straight face, that it would have been impossible for that to be the case, but I cannot recall one instance, minor or major, of another sibling expressing jealousy toward him verbally or behaviorally. I know that I was extremely careful not to let myself confuse the issues, and it appeared that my siblings were as well. Sure, we would talk about how he was favored; it would have been hard not to. That’s not the same as holding him responsible for their behavior, or taking their behavior out on him, or even wanting to be treated like he was. In terms of the special treatment he got, I am naïve enough – and know my siblings well enough – to believe that none of us wished that for ourselves because we saw how it impacted the rest.
My father pulled John out of the camper and started berating him while pounding on him and kicking him all over the yard. He beat him mercilessly, using his fists and his feet, and it seemed to go on for hours. I was unaccustomed to being complicit in the beatings of others. At the same time that I knew what was coming, I was also completely mortified and racked with guilt. I could hardly bear the knowledge that I had John’s blood on my hands for that one.
I arranged my bed and belongings as I listened to John’s screams, and then I went back outside. Hiding behind a corner of the main trailer where I could see into the shadows, with every blow and kick my father landed I found myself wanting to offer myself in John’s place. Look at what I had done – was doing – to my brother! How could I live with that?
I was torn up inside, at one point taking a step forward and then taking another step back. The one thing that kept me from running out there was that I was absolutely terrified of what my father would do to me if I did step forward, especially in light of the fact that in his twisted mind he was beating John at my behest. Finally my father was spent, and he stopped. I hurried back to the camper before John could collect himself and get back there. When he came in he seemed to have an eerie calm, peaceful, satisfied air about him.
I was afraid of my father well into my twenties, if not into my thirties.
