Growing up my siblings and I forced each other to grow some tough skin. Our nicknames were pretty cruel; my favorite was Man in a Dress for my tomboy sister. Our fights were vicious, too, most resulting in broken skin or bruised egos.
Since we were all adopted none of us looked similar – I mean, I’m black with some Swedish in me, my youngest sister is straight up black, my other sister is a black and white, my other sister is black and Indian, my older brother is just plain, ol’ black, Man in a Dress is black and Egyptian, my older brother is Italian, and my oldest brother was Hispanic.
Aren’t we fucking colorful?
Sometimes we’d compare how much our ancestors had suffered in order to get first dibs on the computer. Unfortunately, slavery is a trump card and we didn’t have any Jews.
While we were little assholes to one another I doubt any of us could have emotionally survived the blatant homophobia thrown at our parents. If some dumbass on the bus turned around and asked me how I could handle having lezzies for parents, he’d have boxes of chocolate milk dumped on him by lunch, compliments of my sisters.
And when we came forward with my older brother, who was seven at the time, having AIDS we’d all walk through the school halls, hand in hand while mothers were pulling their children from our classes.
I’m thinking of this because spring break is coming and I will probably get into arguments with all of my siblings. But thankfully we’ve all been fitted with some pretty tough armor.
The only time things really get heated is when one of my sisters and I are deciding who has the “good hair.”
(Obviously, I do.)
