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.