Creative Non Fiction

I Saved My Brother From the Water

Bodies of water

We were on vacation.

My parents, my two sisters, my brother — was he 4 or 5? I can’t remember — and, of course, my 9-year-old self. Or was I already 10?

We were staying at my paternal grandparents’ house. Truth be told, it seemed more like a collection of small houses, all built one next to the other, as if they had added rooms as more kids were born.

We were in a small Mexican town, still very rural: almost no cars, stone-paved roads all around. Running water was not a given, so people would collect it in huge containers whenever there was a chance.

My brother decided to sit close to one of those containers. I think he enjoyed watching himself on the surface. If you make an effort, you’ll recall how when you were a kid, water held some sort of spell over you.

Luckily, most of us stayed safe, whether because we developed an instinct that told us the water was not always safe, or because someone kept an eye on us.

Too Close

It was a large rectangular container made out of concrete. My brother sat right on the edge. I have no idea why none of the grown-ups said a thing.

I was nearby, washing clothes by hand. In that small town, a washer was still uncommon. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my brother plunge into the water. The container was so big — or was he so small? — that he was completely submerged.

Then, as if in a trance, I watched myself reaching into the water to pull him out. The whole thing lasted just a few seconds.

Once he was safe, the grown-ups came and chastised him for not being careful. I was told I had done a good job.

No Mistakes

One good day, vacations were over, and we went back home. The four of us — my siblings and I — kept on growing.

You could say we were taken care of: there was a roof over our heads, food on the table, we had an education…and yet, we were not okay.

It’s hard to be okay when you are surrounded by violence.

We grew up knowing that mistakes were not to go unpunished. It didn’t matter what it was. Dropped some water on the floor? A beating. You haven’t learned how to swallow pills? A slap on the face. You got a B- instead of an A+? Then you were fucked…

We all had it bad…but it was way worse for my brother.

No, Mommy!

My brother was the baby in the family. That’s right! My parents went through 3 pregnancies and got nothing but girls. Then, in the fourth one, jackpot!

A boy…

I was only 5 when he was born, so I don’t have many memories of his early years. All I knew was that now I had a brother…and that was it. However, as he grew up, he soon joined my sisters and me in the battered-child club.

Still, it soon became clear to me there was an extra dose of cruelty for him. At first, I didn’t understand it, but then I got it. He was a man…therefore, he was supposed to be tough — un macho.

Whatever punishment my parents could apply to us girls would go double for him. Besides, there was a little something my brother was forbidden from doing. One could argue that, for my father, this was the worst offense of all.

He was not to behave in an “effeminate” way. To use my father’s words, my brother had to avoid acting like a marica. That’s the Mexican word for “faggot,” by the way.

My father made it very clear he would not tolerate that. The mere suspicion that his only son might be gay terrified him.

So, whenever my brother did or said something that made him look gay, he deserved to be punished. He was to walk, talk, and behave like a man. Whatever that meant…

Therefore, besides the burden of having to be a perfect son, someone who never screwed up, now he also had to be a full man; otherwise, a beating would come, sometimes by my mother, other times by my father. Worse of all, since he would cry while they were hitting him, this further “proved” to them he wasn’t manly enough.

Burned somewhere in my memory is my brother’s voice as my mother hit him with a belt. He kept on screaming:

No, mommy, no! No, mommy, no! No, mommy, no!

I don’t even remember what excuse she had for that particular punishment…in the end, it makes no difference. Nevertheless, whenever I think of my brother, that memory comes rushing back to me.

Ally?

I am, for the most part, estranged from my family, and yes, that includes my sisters and my brother. It seems that our brotherly love couldn’t survive this trauma intact. I think it is because we’ve never talked about it. I get in touch with them only when I have no choice. And, in those few occasions when we get together, the elephant in the room gets so big and heavy it threatens to smother us all.

So I prefer to stay away…

My siblings are still very much in touch with my parents. From what I can gather, they visit each other quite frequently. I have no idea what to make of it. However, if this makes them happy, I’m glad for them.

I sometimes watch my father’s social media activity. Not on purpose; some things just can’t be avoided. I find it amusing that he likes to share whatever is on-trend. Apparently, now he supports LGBTQ rights.

I have no idea if that’s true. I hope it is.

I know people can change, grow, get over their prejudices. Still, I wonder, has he really changed, or is he just trying to play nice? And, what’s even more important, did my parents ever apologize to my brother for all of the crap they did and said to him?

I doubt it…

Family Resemblance

My family was never the kind to have deep conversations. To me, that was always something that only happened in movies, not in real life. Therefore, I have never had a heart-to-heart with my brother.

I honestly have no idea what he thinks of everything that happened during our childhood. Still, I think of him constantly.

My son looks a lot like him. Almost the same eyes — my child’s eyes are a bit darker — similar hair and a very familiar attitude.

They say we all are condemned to repeat, one way or another, our parents’ mistakes. I know that, for a moment there, I almost engaged in very negative patterns when it came to raising my child. I would scream too much and lose my temper. However, as I drowned in anger, I would take a look at my son’s eyes and see my brother and all the crap that was done to us.

That was enough to make me stop.

I have talked about all of this with a few people. Some say, “that was horrible.” Others tell me I’m too harsh. “No one gets a handbook with this parenting thing,” they argue. No, we don’t, but we do get to choose what we do when we see fear and pain in our children’s eyes.

And yes, I think I can blame my parents for making brutal choices and, later in life, not taking ownership of their mistakes.

As for me, I can only say I tried to be a good daughter and, for the look of it, failed miserably at it. I also did my best to be a good sister, but, although I saved my brother from the water, I didn’t stick around to find out if there was more to do.

Bad daughter, bad sister…I hope this means I have plenty of room to be a good mother.

This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt Bodies of Water.

Other stories so far —

https://readmedium.com/our-queer-life-was-not-a-travelogue-fc5906a9c7ad