I Am Your Sister

Sometimes the smallest boundary can carry years of history.

It was only a Coke.

That is the irritating part.

A red can in a grocery cart,

something so small

it should not have been capable

of opening anything.

But my niece tried to stop me.

We don't need that.

And suddenly I wasn't standing

in a store with my niece.

I was younger.

Watching my sister decide

what was reasonable for me.

Her cinnamon gummy bears were reasonable.

Her Sour Brite Crawlers was reasonable.

The things she wanted

were simply things she wanted.

Mine required review.

Did I need that?

Should I have that?

Wasn't that ridiculous?

Somehow,

without anybody holding an election,

she had become the authority

and I had become the person

whose choices could be overruled.

Even though I was older.

Even though I was an adult.

Even though I never remember

agreeing to any of this.

So I put the Coke in the cart.

And later I put three cans in my room,

more protective of them

than twelve cans of soda

could possibly deserve.

Because sometimes

you aren't protecting the thing.

You are protecting your right

to have the thing.

Then came the ice cream.

My father asked me to buy it.

Everyone heard him.

Drumsticks.

Regular ice cream.

Everyone had a Drumstick.

Later,

I finally got a bowl.

Three spoonfuls.

About a cup.

Nothing towering over the sides,

nothing requiring structural engineering.

And my nephew watched me.

Make sure you don't eat it all.

That's too much.

Save some for tomorrow.

And there it was again.

That feeling.

Someone younger than me

standing over my choices

as though I need supervision.

As though I am not quite

one of the adults.

The strange thing is,

food was never completely neutral

in my family anyway.

My grandfather could take

one scoop of rocky road ice cream,

then another,

then another,

great grandfather-sized scoops,

until half the carton

had mysteriously changed ownership.

My dad could find a treat at night

and by morning

there would be nothing left

but the archaeological evidence.

So somewhere along the way

I learned:

If you want some,

get some.

If you want it later,

save some.

If it matters to you,

you might want to put yours aside

before someone else decides

they wanted it more.

And now,

after growing up learning

to make sure there was something left for me,

I am being told

to make sure I leave enough

for everyone else.

That irony would almost be funny.

Almost.

Because this isn't really about ice cream.

And it isn't about Coke.

It is about a phone

taken from my hands

after I said no.

Children laughing,

holding it away,

pretending to give it back,

then pulling it away again.

Me saying,

Give me my phone.

And discovering that somehow

my no could become part of the game.

What hurt wasn't only

what the children did.

Children test boundaries.

Children tease.

Children learn.

What hurt

was looking toward their mother,

my sister,

and not feeling her say,

Enough.

Give it back.

She said no.

Respect her.

She is an adult.

She is my sister.

Maybe I should have said more.

Maybe I should have drawn

my boundaries in thicker ink.

I can own that.

But I also wonder

why I was the only person

expected to draw them.

Why didn't my sister help teach

her children where I stood?

Why didn't she show them

that Aunt Danielle wasn't

another kid in the room,

another sibling to tease,

another person whose no

could be negotiated?

Because children learn relationships

partly by watching them.

They notice who gets listened to.

They notice whose objections

can be laughed away.

They notice who is treated

like an authority

and who is treated

like someone to manage.

And that is the wound

beneath all of this.

Celeste,

why can't you see me

as your adult sister?

Not someone you have to correct.

Not someone whose choices

need your approval.

Not someone you need to manage,

dismiss,

explain,

or quietly outrank.

Your sister.

An adult beside you.

Different from you,

yes.

Sometimes frustrating to you,

probably.

Sometimes wrong,

certainly.

But equal in the simple dignity

of being allowed

to make my own choices.

I don't need your children

to be afraid of me.

I don't need a title.

I don't need authority over them.

I don't need them to pretend

I'm always right.

I just need the ordinary respect

that should come when one person says,

That's mine.

Give it back.

Please stop.

Don't monitor what I'm eating.

No.

And perhaps that is why

a Coke can hurt this much.

Why a bowl of ice cream

can open a door

I thought I had closed years ago.

Because underneath

We don't need that

I still hear:

You don't need that.

And underneath

That's too much

I hear every old question

about whether I can be trusted

to decide what is enough for myself.

I can.

I am not asking permission anymore.

I am not asking anyone

to approve the Coke,

measure the ice cream,

or certify that my wants

are sufficiently reasonable.

I am asking for something

both smaller

and much larger.

When I say no,

hear me.

When I make a choice,

let it belong to me.

And when you look at me,

Celeste,

please stop looking for

the sister you think

still needs to be managed.

I grew up too.

I have been standing here

beside you

for a very long time.

I just wish

you could see me there.