Twenty-eight years ago yesterday, my parents, leaving for the hospital, asked me if I wanted 'an Andrew, or a Jessica'. I responded 'neither', and assumed the matter was settled. The next morning, when Nana informed me I had a new brother, I believe I nodded and asked what was for breakfast.

Things I remember about our first meeting: the room was yellow, there was the tiniest tube of toothpaste I'd ever seen by the sink, and the chocolate Tootsie Roll Pop I'd left in Papa's car for safekeeping melted by the the time we got back to it.

We shared a room, briefly, right after he was born. I remember waking up one night and shouting "MOM! THE BABY'S CRYING!" at the top of my lungs to indicate my displeasure, which looking back, feels almost adult. I was disappointed - in my parents, for bringing home this squealing piglet, and with the piglet itself. Late night wailing? Really, baby? Aren't we better than this? (To note, my brother was a delightful baby who slept through nights almost immediately, so this was probably one of the few nights I was inconvenienced, but I'm an asshole, so of course I remember.)

In Abington, I asked my mother what she thought he'd sound like when he talked. It seemed like it was taking forever for him to talk. He pulled my hair. He splashed in the tub. Baby brothers were not really doing it for me.

I used to charge him hourly rates for playtime. I shamelessly cheated at every game we played, stealing Monopoly money right out of his baby-banker hands, kidnapping newborn children out of his plastic car (there are no Amber Alerts in the Game of Life), quitting as soon as he threatened victory. When it was his turn to hide for hide-and-go-seek, I would sit in the living room and read, occasionally calling out 'Where are you? You've hidden so well! I might never find you!' Which, little dude shouldn't have bought any of that mess, considering he was ALWAYS hiding in the fucking hall closet.

Pretty typical evil big sister stuff, made more-than-a-smidge meaner by my brother's sheer adorableness - that was one cute little kid, all big eyes and bowl-cut, chubby-limbed, then charmingly gangled, with a heart so full of gold, goodness just radiated out of him. Years later, when anyone would laugh about my childhood cruelty, I'd claim my brother had been born too good for the world - someone had to toughen him up. Which is true, I suppose, but truer is what my father would tell us whenever we'd get into a bad row: "It's just you two. You don't have any other siblings if this goes bad. You only have each other."

And it was true. Overall, we had a pretty idyllic childhood - the kind I'm scared kids don't get anymore - bike rides to the playground, half-assed plans to sell lemonade or rocks to all the people that didn't walk down our street (we had some minor success with the lemonade, but only because we set up in the outfield of a baseball game that was about to start, and the coach bought out our supply just to get us off the field). No cable, no internet, no cell phones, remember all that? We played two-person baseball in the front yard, watched Indiana Jones movies and the same weird Stephen King miniseries over and over, invented Roller-Kickball in the playroom (Don't play this if you value your coccyx.). And it was - just us. Occasionally we wished for another one to hold the other end of the jump rope or shag fly balls, but that was about it. 

When I was 21 and he was 18, we both happened to be in relationships with people at the same college, a four hour drive away. So we drove up together. I'm not sure exactly when, but some time after perfecting a really ill duet sing-along to 'Midnight Train to Georgia', we stopped being merely brother and sister, and started being friends. I doubt I'll ever have a better one.

My brother is the reason I love hip-hop. R&B and I have a relationship that goes back lifetimes, but it was AJ that got me into hip hop. I did indeed rock the Mobb Deep mixtape he made for me until it popped, sometime in the year 2000. He introduced me to Rawkus, to Rhymesayers. When I was on my way to see Atmosphere at the House of Blues in New Orleans, he asked me who was opening. I checked and said 'Brother Ali'? My brother said "Make sure you get there in time to see him." And, sure enough...

My brother's the reason I don't have more black eyes. (Okay, the transition between these two paragraphs makes it sound like Brother Ali punched me in the face, which DID NOT HAPPEN. I just became obsessed with his music. But that made me laugh so hard, I'm keeping it like this.) This might be somewhat shocking, but I can actually (usually) catch things when you throw them at me. I can make difficult catches! This is because my brother is merciless, and has been throwing things at me for years. 

My brother made all the Real Talk live. So I've mentioned before, our dad really encouraged the talking. But Andrew made it practice. As I've also mentioned, one of the things I miss most about living together are the monthly 'let's drink all the wine in the house and rip butts and cry until 3am' nights we used to have. I mean, it was mostly talking and watching music videos, but still, my brother can make me cry faster than almost anyone, and I'd bet it works both ways. We've got all these feelings, son!

My brother is the reason I accelerate into turns. I only do two driving-related things with consistent proficiency: turning, and parallel parking. My brother taught me the turning one. It's also a pretty excellent metaphor for life. If you're doing something, get in there, all the way. It may seem scary and counter-intuitive at first, but it'll make the transition a lot smoother. 

My brother got me to throw my scale out the window. He may not remember this, or realize it, but it was him. And of course, I just threw it out my bedroom window where it languished on the backyard concrete for a year, but I reserve the right to post-adolescent dramatics. It was a big deal, sort of. He would get it. I've never owned another one. 

My brother continues to remind me that people can surprise you in the most delightful ways. Watching someone grow up is the craziest, right? I mentioned this to my parents last year, and my mother noted 'Your brother is older than you now.' And it's true! He is! And it's so fucking cool! Job-and-school-and-fantastic-lady-and-awesome-dog-and-house-and-couch-that-you-bought-from-an-actual-store cool. Seriously, three years ago, this kid was consuming two Steel Reserves and half a bag of Lay's Barbecue potato chips for dinner with some regularity. He accelerated into the turn, and it's been really fun to watch.

My brother is my context. Siblings can have their own special world's - language, phrases, that weird richness of private jokes and  immediate understanding, all the way back to your soupiest childhood memories. It is the most particular kind of context. And I think it's something you only get once. Siblings know it all - where you came from, what it was like, how it made you. If I ever need to remember who I am, I have no further to look than him.

So, Andrew, on your twenty-eighth birthday: thank you for being the best baby brother a girl could've had. I am so happy Moms and Pops refused to exchange you for a new stuffed animal. Thank you for putting up with me, and my crazy, and for letting me see yours. Love you, Beets. 

Love, 

Your Big Sister

ps: I still have your 'Reasonable Doubt' CD. It is in pristine condition. I somehow snapped 'Capital Punishment' in half, though, so I owe you that.