21. Sibling rivalry

What it felt like to grow up as the daughter who wasn’t the prince

Previously in this memoir: Cute Is Good Enough ❣️

You don’t need to read it first, but it explores body, love, and the quiet harm we inherit ~ threads that echo through this chapter.

Voiceover is mine.

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We used to tease my brother because he was such an ugly baby. He slept on one side in the womb, so when he was born, his face was smooshed. After Mom gave birth, Dad apparently said, “You gotta see your son.” This was followed by jokes about switching babies.

Throughout childhood, we’d crack open photo albums to look at Larry’s baby pictures.

“Hey, Larry! Come look!”

“Wow. Look at that face.”

“What a mug.”

… Yeah, you can stop feeling bad for him ‘cause he’s totally good-looking now.

Dad wanted a girl, and Mom wanted a boy. And can I say I love him even more for that. Who wants a girl? Ever? Okay, maybe after you’ve had too many boys. My point exactly, a small percentage of the world does, that’s who!

When we were going through the delightful ordeal of getting Mom’s Thai citizenship, we had to travel over 900 km from her hometown to where she met Dad because the first official document said, “Hey, I exist!” was her marriage certificate.

Thankfully, at school, Larry was a few years behind me because he was smarter and better at everything. He found it annoying that everyone always asked, “Your Lani’s brother, right?” but at least he could bask in the pleasure of knowing that I was average, at best, and unremarkable.

In the 6th grade, he was cast as Thomas Jefferson, the only Asian Thomas Jefferson that I know of, and a snapshot of the school play with his picture ended up in the local newspaper. I was jealous and would have to wait until I was in college to have my photo from a school play put in the local newspaper, but I was no Thomas Jefferson, I played Death. You see the difference?

Halloween, year unknown.

Meanwhile, I was out there collecting failures like merit badges. During my junior year in high school, I got the harebrained idea of running for class vice president and lost miserably. I vaguely remember standing on stage in the bright sun in front of my classmates giving some sort of speech. It was alarming, really, how I jumped into these kinds of things. I’d end up adding it to my list of failures. Yes, I wrote a list, but I also added what each faceplant taught me.

I took a lot of risks in high school from auditioning for musicals (can’t sing) to Shakespeare competitions (chose a man’s monologue ~ and for Romeo and Juliet, I auditioned for the Prince) to asking boys out to the proms (they all said no).

Larry, on the other hand, took up photography and ended up taking photos for the local paper and yearbook. He lost his virginity to a beautiful young woman. He ended up MC-ing for a Japanese festival and becoming some sort of honorary member of their fancy club (We’re not even Japanese!), all very inexplicable and highly exasperating.

He could sing and dance. I was thrilled when I was no longer in the house to experience his greatness. But long after we had graduated, I spoke to our drama teacher, Mrs. Abrigo, and I asked about the difference between Larry and I.

“You’re both funny, but in different ways. Your humor came quick and snappy, while your brother’s was said unexpectedly, after a long pause from the back of the room.”

College only widened the gap. He was accepted into one of the oldest universities in America where he took up ballroom dancing and debate. Meanwhile, my extracurricular activities involved inhaling out of three-foot water bongs, desperately trying to lose my virginity, and gaining weight.

I know every child tells their mom, “You love so-and-so more than me,” but in my case, I had compelling evidence, and I truly believed it, which is basically the same thing. My brother got the pampered prince treatment while I struggled to cut my own steak.

Knives are not a part of the regular dining experience in traditional Asian households. Nobody taught me. I simply tried to mimic Tim, but ended up sawing and hacking through my meat with the finesse of a barbarian. These days, I’m slightly stronger, but my lack of skill means I basically rock the table back and forth. It’s embarrassing, especially when you dine with the British who are so posh and fancy with their fork and knife.

“Who invited Genghis Khan to dinner?”

I’m three and a half years older, so maybe I was expected to do these things. Maybe Larry was incapable of doing his own laundry because it was too complicated. I just remember one day Mom said I had to do my own.

Or maybe this is one of those cases where I felt inequality and injustice when there was none. After all, the perks of being the older sib meant I sat in the passenger’s seat, had control of the radio, and later inherited the old Isuzu Impulse.

But the clincher was when we were in the car having an animated discussion when suddenly Mom said something about Larry’s college fund.

“What!?”

Silence.

“How much money have you saved up for Larry?” I pressed.

“Not much.” My mom’s eyes suddenly focused more on watching the road.

“How much?”

Another pause.

“About 2,000.”

“Two thousand!”

“How much money have you saved for me?”

Larry slid back from sitting between the two front seats and became invisible.

“I can…” Mother began.

“You mean to tell me that you have been saving money for Larry’s college, but not mine?” I was furious. “Larry’s not even going to school for another three or four years! And I’m going this year!”

“Thanks,” I spat out. “What am I supposed to do?”

We rode the rest of the way home in silence.

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Obviously, I knew what I was going to have to do—work.

One of the sucky things about having an under-educated immigrant mom was I had to figure out a lot of things on my own. Financial aid for college was one of them. I went to the library and tried to learn about all the ways I could get money for school. I was in tears trying to figure it all out. I wasn’t the right kind of minority to receive money. I wasn’t Latino, Black, or a super smart community-saving Asian. I was very average and thought school was a waste of time. Not exactly the kind of student that scholarships and grants wanted to give to.

But because Dad died while serving the military, we were eligible to receive money from the Veterans Administration. This money didn’t cover all of my expenses, but I was shocked and then really grateful for the help. I was keenly reminded that despite the flaws of my government, it helped me achieve something that I desperately wanted to do.

After I graduated high school, I put away my pride and went to community college while all my close friends went out-of-state. I focused on getting my grades on track and learning English and math, both subjects I was behind on. I saved money and worked at Little Caesars Pizza, because damn it, I dreamed of going to college in rugged Colorado.

It was my dream ever since the end of my sixth grade year when we drove from Barstow, California to Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I was the girl in the backseat of our Isuzu suddenly stirred back to life, noticing the steep inclines of the mountain passes and looking out the window daydreaming of cowboys and horses.

Where are we?

Colorado.

My brother ended up going to New Jersey. Isn’t that where they had chemical plants spewing toxins into rivers? Wasn’t that like a dump? Just so he could be in a good school?

Bah!

I chose a no-name college because it had a good archaeology program and was in the state of my girlhood dreams. He chose a big city. I chose a small town. He chose a proper university with an NCAA Division I football team. My school’s football team didn’t return after winter break because they failed their classes.

His school is rich in tradition, chartered in 1766, while mine is often confused for a small military base in Washington. Its nicknames were Fort Leisure and Fort Loser. The school’s unofficial motto was, “When the snow flies, so do the students”.

But I’m not knocking down, not for one minute, the COLLEGE I went to. I loved it.

“A liberal arts college? Oh god, Lani. Really?”

I was too embarrassed to ask what liberal arts meant, but I made up my mind to find out as soon as our phone call was done.

“What? I like it here. It’s a good school. It’s so beautiful here.”

Larry laughed.

“How was last night’s drum circle?” More laughter.

We were raised in the same house, but we could not be more different except when we were together. We share the same strange sense of humor, which I’m sure was born out of necessity from living with my mother. There’s no one else in the world that makes me laugh harder. We cry from laughing so hard.

My sister-in-law remarked on this.

“He’s different when you’re around.”

“How so?”

“You make him happy.”

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