As I thought about writing this post, I tried to come up with something funny and clever that would reflect the teasing and cynicism that’s inherent to the relationship of a brother and sister.

But I couldn’t.  The older I get, the more I realize that there’s nothing funny or cynical about my relationship with my brother.

Because true love?  Is not funny.  And it demands more respect that can be offered by sarcastic quips and cynical commentary.

The way I feel about him is true love in every sense of the word.

We are soul mates.

We belong together, so much so, in fact, that God chose to bind us by not only our hearts but our blood, as well.

On this, your thirty second birthday, dear brother, I will tell you (and the Internet!) some things I have neglected to say until now.

I will set aside the role of elder sibling and replace sarcasm with truth.  No jokes.  No teasing.  Because everybody deserves a little unadulterated truth on their birthday, at the very least.

You are caring, humble and wise.   You are loving, sensitive and kind.  At the same time, you are strong, unafraid and ambitious.  You are a rare combination of all the traits that make me proud to be a human being.

Sibling rivalry?

No.  I could not rival you.  I could not rival your utter endurance for life.  I cannot fathom the courage you have had to employ to become the person you are today.  You represent a personal standard of achievement in many ways for me.

At my absolute darkest moments, you are the person that I seek.  You are the one who I know, no matter what, will understand me.
At my most glorious moments, you are the person I call.  You are the one person who will truly appreciate the extent of my achievement.

And every day, though you are not here, I need only look into the mirror and see your eyes looking back at me.

At that moment, I know… you are here with me.  Always.

And?  Yes.  This is your present.

Adorning our lives,
Our hearts, our hopes,
Shimmering in our souls,
Jewel of jewels, darling Nola Lily

Welcoming this life
Carry our light with you
Glowing in my heart
Light of lights, precious Nola Lily.

Flower of New Orleans
Soft, sweet newness,
Springing upon us,
Dearest of dears, our Nola Lily.

***

This past week, MBTD and my dear friend, Traci, who happens to be married to him welcomed a beautiful baby into this world.

May she grow to be wise, strong and good.

May the world and its people praise the day she came to them.

May she always know that she is loved and cherished.

May we, her family, always remain worthy of her love and respect.

Insh’Allah, Ameen.

I think I’m giving people the wrong impression.

See, a blog, to me, is a place where I can discuss things that don’t come up in the course of regular conversation.

Whether it’s political, social, or personal, I like to go with the flow of a conversation rather than direct the topics chosen.  Most of the stuff I discuss here, I wouldn’t bring up in the course of a conversation.

My childhood or my parents don’t come up a lot in every day conversation unless someone else has specifically brought it up, or it’s relevant to the conversation at hand.

As I said, on my blog I feel that I can discuss whatever or whoever I like.

The problem is I run the risk of leaving people with an inaccurate representation of who I really am… or who the people I’m talking about really are.

I need to tell you something.

Yes, my parents are flawed.

But no more than me, you or anyone else.

Yes, I care a lot about what they think.

But not simply because they’re my parents.

My parents are truly extraordinary people.

I care about what they think because they deserve it.

Not because I’m neurotic.

Not because they brainwashed me or mentally tortured me.

Not because they placed huge expectations upon me in an effort to prolong my dependence upon their approval.

But because they deserve it.

The United States, 1974.

They didn’t know anyone, save for some friends of friends.  A typical immigrant story?

It’s not.

My parents weren’t your typical “huddled masses” immigrants.  They were from wealthy, educated and highly respected families.  When they came here, they didn’t bring any of that money or status with them.  In fact, in a way, they didn’t even bring their educations with them since foreign degrees aren’t automatically accredited.

So, they left much more behind than what they gained in America.  They started over.  With less.

Part of the reason my father left was because of he felt stifled by his family’s status.  He wanted to live a life that wasn’t encumbered by expectations and visibility.  You might not get that, and I didn’t for many years.  But, that really is the reason.  His life, other than this particular detail, was better in Pakistan in every way.

My mother came here because she was committed to making a life with the man she had just married.  And I suspect because she was most likely a little too strong willed and accomplished not to encounter some sort of opposition in a mostly male dominated field in a male dominated society.

They moved from fairly opulent households where they had never had to wash their clothes, clean up after themselves, or go grocery shopping into a one bedroom apartment somewhere on the south side of Chicago.  Most people they encountered initially in America had never even heard of Pakistan.

My dad, who was a lawyer, worked in a bottling factory as a foreman.  My mom, a neurosurgeon, became a housewife.  At least, until she passed accreditation exams and got a residency in Florida.

I can hear people wondering why they would leave wealth, status and power behind for a humble existence in a foreign land among people who spoke a different language, looked nothing like them and, for the most part, didn’t care to know much about them.

But, I don’t wonder.

I know why.  Because of me.  And my brother.

And that’s one of the reasons I care about what they think.

I know what they gave up for me.  They deserve for me to care what they think for that reason alone.

And, yet, there are more.

When I was growing up, my father sat with me almost every day after school and tutored me.  In math.  In history.  In politics.  He asked me to read passages from different books and then write one page essays about them.  He never returned the essays.  He never corrected them.  He always looked them over and said in heavily accented English, “This is very good.  Are you sure you didn’t copy this from somewhere?”

A deep sense of pride would well up inside of me and I would say, “No, daddy, I wrote that myself.”

And he would say, “Wow.  Even people my age cannot write this well.”

I know there were grammatical errors on those essays.  I know there were spelling errors.  But he looked at those papers and said, “Even the people who write for Reagan cannot write like this.”

I was eight.  He was lying.  But he made me feel like the smartest person in the world.

When I was seven, my father’s younger brother died in Pakistan of a heart attack.  He left behind a wife and five children.  My father went to Pakistan to see to their affairs.

He has visited them every year since then to make sure that they were alright.  In a patriarchal society like Pakistan, a widow with five children is in the position of being under siege in the social and financial sense.

I remember resenting my father for the time that he devoted to my aunt and my cousins, but, now, I get tears in my eyes as I think about how if that were my brother’s family, I would do the same.  No questions asked.  Besides the fact that my brother is generally awesome, I think part of the reason I care so much for him is because I witnessed how much a person can, sorry, how much a person should love their brother.

I care about what my father thinks because he deserves that much from me.  And more.

Even casual readers of my blog know something about my mom, I guess.  But they know what I’ve written about accomplishment, respect, reservedness and calculation.  And about how her and I are very different.

I’ve written that, sometimes, I feel like I’m not good enough to be her daughter.

What I haven’t explained is that I think she’s amazing.  Sometimes, I don’t think anyone is good enough for her.

My mom is not just a doctor.  She is the woman who will leave her home with sleeping children at two in the morning so that an eighty year old woman who is breathing her last breath won’t have to die alone.  She is the one that holds that woman’s hand, and whispers, “It’s alright, I’m here.  You’re going to be fine.”  She is the one who does not get paid to do that, but does it because it is good and right and because that woman is somebody to someone.

This hasn’t just happened once.  I have witnessed this dozens of times.

I feel like people should know this before they decide who she is.

I feel like people should know this before they think I respect her only because she’s my mom or because she’s a doctor or because she’s made a lot of money.

Those are such small parts of who she really is.

I care what she thinks because she deserves that from me.

My mother at the apex of her career made more than a lot of CEOs of smaller corporations.

All that time, she drove a used Toyota Camry and shopped at JC Penney.

Why?  So that when I went to college, I could graduate completely debt free.  She did the same for other members of my family, who were not her children, as well.

Once, my mom paid the tuition of a friend of mine for a semester.  She said that the girl was a good student and shouldn’t have to miss a single semester because the people in the student loan office couldn’t get their act together.

It was not a loan.  It was a gift.

A gift from a woman who has never bought make up from a department store, a designer purse or even perfume for herself.  (Luckily, she has me.)

I also haven’t mentioned on this blog that my mother tells me she’s proud of me all the time.

She tells me that she wishes that she could have been the kind of mother to me that I am to my child.  And she says these words without knowing that if I could inspire my daughter to a tenth of the greatness I see in her, I would consider myself successful.

She tells me that she loves me all the time.

If I tell her that she looks nice, she says, “Not as pretty as you, you are the most gorgeous.”

See, what I don’t tell you on this blog is that if I think I’m a disappointment to my parents it’s not their fault.

It’s because I see them.

I see them for who they are.

I know a lot of people thinks their parents are wonderful.

But mine really are.

They didn’t just build an entire life in a brand new country out of nothing.

They did that, preserved the life they had in the country they came from, and improved the lives of hundreds of people in the process.

I don’t like to think about their passing, but this I know, there will be hundreds of people who will cry for them.  Who will think it’s unfair.  Who will wish it didn’t have to be them.

I will be just one.

I would care what they thought even if they weren’t my parents.  In fact, I would probably care more because I wouldn’t be encumbered by the feeling that I was somehow selling out by caring too much.

At any rate, please don’t misunderstand why I care.

A lot of people care what my parents think of them.  And for good reason.

Because they deserve it.

I’m lucky that they’re nice people.  Loving people.  Even wonderful.

The truth is that as soon as a person gets the title “in-law” attached to their familial identifier, they go a little crazy.

Nobody is immune to this law of nature.

Not even me the daughter-in-law or sister-in-law.

I would not arrogantly presume that I didn’t aim some crazy remark at Tariq’s parents or MBTD’s wife that made them think, Really? I can’t believe we have to be related to this psycho.

Anyway, for the most part, the in-laws and I have a great relationship based on mutual respect, genuine love and a good sense of humor about life in general.  In every way, I’d say our relationship is ideal.

As ideal as it can be.  (Don’t forget the parts of our brain that generally control empathy, sensitivity, ego stroking and general tact are somewhat diminished when we became a something-in-law.)

It helps that the in-laws and I share a very core value:  Family Harmony and Togetherness.

Being part of Tariq’s family taught me that no person’s ego, sensitivity or insecurity is bigger than the unity of this family.  While this may seem complicated and reflect inequity to the people who stand outside of this circle, I assure you it’s not like that on the inside.

Do they tell us what they think we should do?  Yes.  Oh, yes.

Do we tell them what we think they should do?  Yes.  Definitely.

And everyone takes everyone else seriously when they offer advice.  And everyone considers the advice and does what’s best not only everyone, but for them.  This isn’t just family.  It’s friendship, too.

Does anyone stomp their feet and hold their breath and stand in the corner and say, I’m taking my ball and I’m going home because you guys are losers for not listening to me?  No.  Never once in front of me, anyway.

My in-laws are also very fair people.  They have never taken my loyalty for granted.  And they have my loyalty because they’ve always been loyal to me.

They have shown me generosity and acceptance, and as a self described fair person… I owe it to them to do the same.

So, yeah, people freak out when I say they’re coming for five weeks.  And, I understand why.  But, they don’t need to freak out.  We’re going to be fine because of all the things I explained.

In the end, we’re committed to each other.

In this marriage, we both knew we were marrying each other’s family.  We knew that there was going to be a lot of compromise, and that it might get tough every now and then.  In our own ways, I believe we gained a lot by approaching it that way.

Plus, if it the next five weeks gets really hard?

I have an additional strategy planned as backup.

What about you guys? How often and for how long do the in laws come to visit? Is it fun or is it like swallowing large shards of glass with a rubbing alcohol chaser?

I love my parents.  I respect them.  I even admire them.  Love, respect and admiration have been accurate descriptors of how I’ ve felt about them, well, since I was a kid.

Actually, I don’t remember being a kid.

I’ve heard people discuss how their parents never argued in front of them, or how they never heard their parents speak ill of anyone, and certainly not of each other.

That is so antithetical to the way that I was brought up.  Sometimes, I have a hard time believing those people are telling the truth in the first place.

Could it be?

That some parents don’t fight about money, extended family, or work in front of their kids.

Could it be?

That some parents understand that when you diminish the child’s other parent in front of them that this same child will feel so much… less about who they are.

Could it be?

That some parents understand that their children will take time to grow up.

That children don’t magically fall into the strength of adulthood.

That childhood is an emotional journey that must be, above all, facilitated by the parent.  By both parents.

It’s funny that, after all those years, my parents get along pretty well, now.

They don’t remember that decade or so of my childhood when our family was in a constant state of crisis.

They shake their heads at our insolence and I think they wonder whether bringing up their kids in America wasn’t a mistake, after all.  They want to blame everything and everyone for the distance between us and them.

It’s just that they’ve forgotten that … they never treated us like kids.  They treated us more like… a much younger brother and sister.  I look at photos of myself and my brother as children and see so much wisdom in our eyes.  Too much wisdom.  A child shouldn’t know what “walking on eggshells” means until they’re… well, not a child anymore.

We had to know our place in terms of family hierarchy, yet we were expected to play emotional spousal substitute for them as they saw fit.

It was painful.  It was difficult.  It was unnatural.

It’s made my relationship with my parents fairly awkward for the most part.  When they try to ask me how I’m feeling, or give well intentioned advice about how I should raise my daughter, I don’t know how to make them understand that their decision to start acting like parents is just too late.

If we weren’t children then, we certainly aren’t now, either.

As kids, MBTD and I were expected to handle anything without complaint.  This doesn’t mean that we didn’t complain.  Actually, I did. A lot.  But the emotions behind those complaints were never treated as justifiable.  They were treated as weaknesses, not as the normal childlike reactions that they were.

My childhood?

I remember being a negotiator.

I remember being a reluctant therapist.

I remember being a reason to fight.

I remember being a reason to endure tribulation.

I remember being a weapon used to hurt someone.

I remember thinking I should be stronger.

I remember feeling like I wasn’t enough.

I remember thinking if I were just a little bit better, I could make them happier.

I remember never being able to assume that either of my parents would unconditionally be on my side.

I remember being extremely cautious about who I really trusted.

I really don‘t remember ever just being a kid.