There are some people in my life who are so
easy to write about. In my Writing for Young People workshops at Antioch, I
find myself writing to or about my brother so easily. A lot of that is probably
because my workshop leader has asked us to write about our childhood. I would
really love to write something for every person in my life that I love. I think
that's the best way for an author to get their feelings out. I've written poems
about my brother, Tanner; Haley, Claire and Grace the girls I babysit; and my
aunt Karla, although I'm not sure they've all seen the poems. I've also written
non-fiction pieces about my dad, his dad and a trip I took with my mom's
family, mostly focusing on my Grandma, but I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready
to show that to anyone. I really want to write something for my mom, but I
don't know how. Here's what I wrote for Tanner in my June 2012 residency during
a workshop free write:
Tannie,
Remember how, before mom and dad got divorced,
we used to dress in dad's coveralls, rolled at the bottoms and sleeves, to go
out to the farm and cut down a Christmas tree? We had to stomp through snow
drifts in the field to find the perfect tree. This isn't a real memory, but I'm
sure if you chose a tree, I probably said it was ugly and picked a different
one. We would pick out the tree that would perch in our in our dining room
beside the fireplace. You and I would decorate the tree together each with our
special ornaments.
Remember that last year mom didn't want to get
a real tree so we tackled her on my bed and poked and tickled her and
threatened to fart on her head until she said we could get a real tree?
Remember how I used to make footprints in the ashes in the fireplace so you'd
think Santa came? I don't remember believing in Santa, but it meant so much to
me for you to believe.
That was before there stopped being snow on
Christmas.
Remember in the summer going out to the lake
and building sand castles for our toads? I don't remember this, but I probably
stole all of your toads and smashed your castles. I'll never forget how you
once told me that there is something in every man that just really wants to dig
a really deep hole. I loved when we used to bury each other in the sand,
feeling the weight of the sand on my chest, wondering how much sand it would
take to crush me. I don't remember feeling this way, but I know I was awful to
you, so I'm sure I probably thought about sand crushing you or I probably at
least dumped some in your mouth or something.
"No boobs at the table," mom would
say when we came inside. "Hehehe mom said boobs!" we'd giggle, would
still giggle today if she said it. She'd mean your boobs, not mine in my bikini
top. You'd put on a shirt and we'd peel our sun burnt skin, meaning I'd make
you let me peel your skin.
Jenni told me I chased you with a butter knife
once. I don't remember that. Do you? I seem to have blocked that out. You
probably wailed like a fire engine when I did that. I do remember your crying.
How could any of us forget that?
Sometimes I'm afraid I damaged you. All you
wanted was to hang with me and my friends or with me, Philip, Cameron and
Darby. I know. You had Scuba Ken. I promise never to tell anyone that. There
are plenty of boys who had Kens. I don't know why I didn't let you play.
Remember how I taught you to ride your bike.
On your fifth birthday I marched you outside and you learned in seriously,
like, 5 minutes. You rocked. You probably don't know this, but I had training
wheels forever. I remember having my bike out at the cabin and Grandpa took off
my training wheels and I couldn't get it! So, go figure, I got pissed and threw
my bike down and went off to pout. You complain that I pick everything up so
easily. It's not true.
You probably don't remember what happened that
night Mom and Dad took that picture of you that everyone loves, the one of you
butt naked looking out the front window with the cat watching the streets
flood. I do. It was one of our family bike rides. Mom, Dad and I rode to Hy-Vee.
You were in the children's seat on the back of Mom's or Dad's bike. While we
were getting our groceries, rain started pouring down. We tried to wait the
storm out, but it wasn't stopping. So, we peddled off. People were splashing us
in their cars as they drove by. When we got home, we were soaked. We were going
to take warm showers, but you escaped to have your famous pose which all of our
family members have hanging on their refrigerators, your bare ass, I know, it
sucks. You were kind of cute, I guess, from the back--don't get me wrong, you
grew into a great-looking adult, but when you were two I had some reservations.
After you were clothed, we ate popcorn and Mom and Dad told us stories because
the satellite dish wasn't working in the rain.
I know you remember playing Slap Jack on Mom's
bed on nights when Dad was at the Firestation. Watching Baywatch?
We used to save games for weeks. After the show was over, we had to go to bed,
but we would save our stacks of cards.
I hope these are the things you remember. I
hope you remember us reading Harry Potter and us making
cookies and sharing beaters and how the only food we both hated was those awful
sugar-free popsicles that made your tongue feel fuzzy.
Always remember that I'm proud of you. I don't
know if you remember when Carrie and I told you how to not be a douchebag when
you got to junior high (because we apparently only hung around douchey guys),
but know that I've never worried you would be that kind of guy. You are one
decent human being, my dear Tanman. Remember that.
I wrote this about my brother during my yoga
and writing retreat free write:
All of my early memories of my brother are of
him crying, wailing, like a fire engine. Tanner, red-eyed and mad, throwing a
boomerang at my forehead. Tanner crying with mud stained teeth because Philip
threw a clod of dirt at him and hit him in the mouth. Tanner, bawling about me
beating him at a game of hoops.
I don't remember most of what I did to him.
Selective memory. But I must have been awful because he was always crying.
There's rumor I chased him with a butter knife. I remember the satisfying
thwack of my six year old palm smacking his white, duckling-feathered baby
head. He's maintaining a 3.0 GPA so it seems I didn't do too much damage to his
two-year-old brain.
Only I could make Tanner cry though. When
Riley bit him at school, you better believe Riley ate a mouthful of playground
rocks from Tanner's big sister. His protector. When Mom or Dad sent him sobbing
to his room, I'd crouch at the vent in the office next door, changing my voice,
telling him I was Chipper his favorite stuffed dog come to life and that
everything would be OK.
These were the nice things I did for my
brother. Beat the crap out of him every day and then put him back together the
second someone else tried to hurt him.
And I taught him how to ride a bike. The day
he turned five, I said it was time to lose the training wheels. I marched him
out the back door. His bike was small and spray painted black. A hand-me-down
like almost everything else he and I owned. We went to the retirement hom
behind our house. The Meadows had a private drive with few cars. This is where
my dad had tried to teach me to ride without my training wheels. It took years
for me to get it. I'd throw down my bike in frustration and stomp away. With
one hand on the back of Tanner's seat and one hand on the handlebars, I ran
beside Tanner and pushed until I knew he was ready for me to let go. He learned
to ride his bike in less than 20 minutes. Today Tanner complains about how I am
good at everything from the start. He probably doesn't realize that is because
I want to cry and give up whenever I'm not.
I didn't cry when my mom told me she was
leaving my dad. I did cry when I told her he was cheating on us. She told me
that she was kicking him out before she did. He stayed. Legally he could stay
in the house for three days. On Monday morning before school, before Tanner was
to walk across the street to fifth grade, I walked into the kitchen where
Tanner sat on a chair at our kitchen table, set for four soon to be three, eyes
flooded and red, my dad kneeling before his son holding his hands. Tanner
yanked one hand away from my father's and motioned for me to come over.
"I know," I told him.
Tanner stood. I held him. I held him as his
snot stuck to my shirt--I was a freshman, snot should have pissed me off.
Instead I glared at my dad over Tanner's head. "How could you have told
him now?" I asked. "He has to go to school."
"Are you mad at me, honey?" Dad
asked me.
Duh,
I thought. You cheated on us. I
didn't say it out loud. Tanner didn't know. My ride came and I had to leave. I
left my brother to walk to school alone.
I was a sophomore in college when my grandma,
the rock of my family, died. My aunt Sara threw our laundry baskets in the back
of her SUV and picked me up from the gym. No shower. We were on the road in
less than an hour from the time she called to tell me. My mom wasn't answering
her phone. Was she OK? Where
was Tanner? Did he know? Who was there to take care of them? How would they
drive the three hours to Lexington?
My mom had to go back to her classroom of
twenty preschoolers after taking a phone call that said her 70 year-old mother who
worked out six days a week had a heart attack. Mom finished out her morning
class and then drove to the Senior High to pull my brother out of class. He was
scared. What was she doing there in the middle of the day? She told him our
grandma died in the center of the high school commons area at lunch with all of
his peers bumming around. My six foot-five brother hit the ground with his
tears. I wasn't there to pick him up. I was only there for him to lean his head
on my shoulder through the funeral while he wept and I couldn't find a single
tear.
Being the one of the smallest Class A schools
in Nebraska, the only sport Norfolk Senior High is consistently good
at his boys' basketball. In freshman football, Tanner's 6 foot 2, 120 pound
frame was horribly awkward. Somewhere during his freshman basketball season,
Tanner found a way to grow into his hight and our name, Gesell, and find the
grace in movement that everyone asked why he didn't get from me. My four years
of undergrad, Tanner's four years of high school, he, Mom and I ate, slept, and
breathed high school boys' basketball.
No more crying. No more family pictures with
Tanner's bloodshot and glassy eyes. Here was a boy with confidence and drive.
Still awkward sometimes--I'd grab my mom's arm and attempt
to shield my eyes whenever my giraffe boy tried to dribble on a
breakaway. It was like a bad reality TV show, though, you couldn't look away.
But he shot with assurance, lead his team, set picks and dunked the shit out of
the ball over a D2 recruit from out most hated Omaha Creighton Prep foes (who
have yet to beat Norfolk--suck it).
If I missed a game, he'd call, "I dunked
HAM tonight, Erin! You missed it! By the way I had to tell Mom what HAM
meant."
"Haha, can't be any worse than when we
had to tell Grandma what teabagging meant last basketball season."
"Word. You going to be at the game
tomorrow?"
"Of course. Love you, buddy. I'm proud of
you."
The last time I saw my brother cry was when
his team lost in the basketball state championship game to Omaha Central. I
couldn't find him anywhere after the game. I didn't know where to go or if I'd
even be able to talk to him. I left him. Our hometown newspaper had printed a
photo of Tanner and two of the other boys, heads hanging, arms around each
other's shoulders, and tears spilling down. I knew that was happening and I
wasn't there for him. But I am always the first one to have a huge smile and
wet eyes when he wins a big game or when I introduce him to my Omaha family and
people tell me what a kind, polite, and wonderful brother I have. I would give
my life to never see him cry in pain again. Damn I'm proud of that kid.
