He was the best of brothers; he was the worst of brothers. Unfortunately, he was the worst—for a long time before I thought otherwise. In short, Mike did not fit my image of the ideal older brother. He was not a friend. Instead, he was my enemy, my nightmare, a bully from whom I could not escape. Just the thought of our horrible childhood encounters makes me cringe.
I can recall the nightly “pounding sessions” that left me screaming for my parents, and my parents screaming at Mike. In fact, it seemed as though they were always focused on my brother, usually for something he had done wrong. My friends’ older brothers were their mentors, their protectors, their idols. Not mine. The only interaction we had consisted of physical and verbal abuse. Needless to say, there was not much affection between us.
I can’t remember exactly when I discovered I was smarter than my brother, but it was early on and it afforded me the chance to gain at least the intellectual edge. I took great delight in bringing home better grades, beating him at family games, and winning our verbal encounters. I usually paid the price, but at least my pride stayed somewhat intact.
Two winters ago, my family took a ski vacation to Colorado. Many of our school friends were there, as well. We skied, we ate, we partied. I tried to avoid Mike as best I could, but when we were together, he never missed an opportunity to torment me, especially in front of the others.
One particularly frigid morning found my brother, a mutual friend, and me perched tentatively (at least I was) atop a narrow, plunging slope. Trees lined both sides, and the sun had yet to make any impact on the ice-encrusted snow. Mike went first. He made two turns, lost his balance, and began to careen downhill, clearly out of control. Our eyes widened as we saw him veer left and disappear into the forest. “Mike!” we screamed several times. There was no sound.
I could feel a churning sensation in my stomach as we quickly made our way down to the spot where we had last seen my brother. The forest was dense and dark, and it swallowed our frantic cries without reply. I had already kicked off my skis and begun to tread through deep snow in the direction of Mike’s tracks when I saw him. He lay motionless between two trees, and I was sure he was dead.
“Get a doctor!” I pleaded with our friend. As he skied away, I approached my brother, terrified. “Mike,” I repeated several times as I stared at the bloody scrape above his left eye. He did not respond, but I was almost sure he was breathing. I knew not to move him, and the only thing I could think to do was keep him warm until help arrived. I lay at his side and tried to cover as much of him with my body as possible without any weight.
That’s when my mind began to race. I had wished him dead so many times and now that it seemed a distinct possibility, somehow I felt responsible. I was actually afraid that it might happen, and feelings began to surface that had been lost or repressed for as long as I could remember. My whole body heaved and shook. As I found myself praying for Mike’s life, I began to question my role in our relationship. In my mind I had always been the “victim,” the innocent object of his wrath. I had never accepted any responsibility for our lack of closeness, but suddenly I realized that I had played a major part as well. I was a master at infuriating Mike; I knew the right “buttons to push” and enjoyed seeing him and my parents fight. I delighted in the frustration Mike felt when I brought home scholastic awards and straight As. My brother was the perfect foil; and in some twisted way I actually owed him a great deal, for he was the inspiration for much of my motivation and success, a reverse role model.
Suddenly I didn’t seem so innocent, I had used Mike as he had used me, and our relationship was the real victim. I truly felt compassion for him and wondered if this new and strange sensation was “brotherly love.” As it turned out, Mike had a concussion, no broken bones, and had to sit out the rest of our vacation in bed. I finished the week a slightly better skier and a brother who had found a new level of understanding about accepting responsibility, and one who had rediscovered some long-forgotten emotions.
A year and a half later I am happy to report that our relationship is much improved. We still don’t have a great deal in common, but we do have a newfound respect for one another; and although we still bicker and fight, I sense a growing connection between us. Mike called home from college last week and asked to speak with me. We actually had a meaningful conversation, and it felt wonderful.
From The Best College Admission Essays