This is my brother Joe

When we were kids he wrote an essay for school that started out like this;

“My name is Joe, just Joe. Not Joseph, Joshua or Jose. I’m Joe, short for Kojo because I was born on a Monday”

Everyone acted as if he was Shakespeare reincarnated or something.

Joe and I didn’t get along when we were kids, I thought he was bratty and he thought… well, I don’t really know what he thought of me then.

I believe our clashes was mostly due to our parents (yes, if you think about it hard enough, you can blame almost anything on your parents!). When my parents divorced, my dad got custody of Joe and I, except my mom fought tooth and nail to take Joe, even risked going to jail, but she left me with my dad. Granted, Joe was like six years old then, but for years I resented my mom for that and Joe to some extent. Anyway…. bygones – we have a much better relationship now that we’re both adults.

So Joe grew up to be a pretty decent guy and I sometimes have to remember that he’s no longer a child. He’s a man, who not only does manly things, but also independent adult things.

He has opinions and responsibilities. He cares about the planet – he took a Photovoltaics course this summer, next summer he’s going to try to build his own solar panel from individual components.

He’s militant about recycling and don’t get him started on his vision for wastewater as a renewal energy source.

He reminds me of my dad sometimes; my dad was a dreamer too. My dad was going build his own micro hydro system to generate enough power to run a farm, and make safe drinking water from rainwater; needless to say, we went seven years without electricity or running water. Joe purposefully works for one of the most socially responsible companies in North America.

Joe still remains my mom’s favourite, but I’m ok with that… years of therapy has helped me deal with it.

But what mother wouldn’t love a son more when he brings her orange roses?

What mother wouldn’t love the son who goes on walks with her more than the ones who don’t.

Who would you love more, the son whose work colleagues sends you flowers when you’re sick or the son who doesn’t even bother to call you after your mastectomy?

Last night it dawned on me that my mom raised a gentleman, and maybe it was all worth it.

When I was eleven Raymond gave me a copy of James Collier’s novel My Brother Sam Is Dead.

My mother took one look at the title and demanded that I immediately take the book back from whence it came from, my reluctance to do so was met with a stern reproach; “Is your brother Sam dead?” my perplexed mother asked. Years later she explained that she wasn’t being superstitious she just didn’t want the book around with Sam there, “I want you people to get along” she explained.

I haven’t spoken to my brother in almost half a decade and this worries my mom, so I tell her we’re friends on Facebook but that’s little comfort to her.

Sometimes I wonder if there’re other anomalies like us out there.

Sam and I never had a big fall out, or suddenly realize that we weren’t of the same parents. The truth is Sam and I never really know/knew each other and we’ve never tried. Most of the things I know about him were told to me by other family members.

I don’t think we’ve actually ever had a real conversation before… and we’re siblings.

Sam was almost eleven years old when I came around and was gone months after my eleventh birthday; of the years that he was around, he was either away at school, evangelizing or trying to parent me.

The only memories I have are of him walking me to school, and being in a play about the slave trade that he had written for my school. And one Christmas, a long time ago he had a party for the children that lived in my grandmother’s neighbourhood.

Last Sunday my mom asked me what Sam had ever done to me; I thought about it for a few seconds and said earnestly for the first time, “Nothing, I just don’t know the guy”

This made my mom weep, like she had failed us.

I told her she should have allowed me to keep the book, Sam and I maybe would have started a conversation over it.

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