When I was in the first grade, I entered a Reading Rainbow picture book contest with a piece titled "My Little Big Sister." I ended up winning third place for it, but back then I didn't realize that it was only because I captured the pity vote by writing about my older sister, Allison, who has Down syndrome. My mom actually encouraged me to write it--this sweet, innocent story about how even though Allison looked different and was shorter than I was, she was still a great big sister--knowing full well that within years, everything I thought about my sister would change.
Of course, at the time I wrote the story, our differences weren't so apparent--she hadn't been put in Special Ed. yet, and I hadn't started my whole "Gifted and Talented" rigmarole. But as kids get older, they tend to get meaner too, and once they started teasing Allison I began to notice that some parts of her were "off." She talked weird, she had a lurching, jerking gait, she couldn't jump rope, she never dressed like the other girls. She only had two friends, and one of them was me.
For a couple years, I was my sister's playground protector, trying to deflect the jeers coming her way with a glare or stuck-out tongue. If I saw a bully walking toward her, I would get my friends to rush over to her with me and start up a game of Concentration, beating the bully to the spot as if to say, "See? Allison can be normal too."
It wasn't always easy: as I grew older I became increasingly shocked by how mean-spirited elementary schoolers could be. Once when Allison and I were getting off the school bus, the worst bully, Chris, put his foot across the aisle and made a "retard face" at Allison, and wouldn't let her pass until she picked her nose. I was terrified of this boy twice my size, but I somehow summoned up the courage to say "Take a picture, jerk, it'll last longer" It was the snarkiest remark I could come up with, and apparently one that Chris found hilariously pathetic and laughed in my face for. I only vaguely remember kicking down Chris' leg and pulling Allison off the bus by her hand. But I will never forget that burning-in-my-throat-tears-in-my-eyes feeling of realizing for the first time that there would always be people who mistreated my sister for the way she was born, and there was no way I could get them to think differently.
Allison and I were separated for middle school so she could be in a special program, which came as somewhat of a relief to me. I was tired of having to stick up for her constantly, and with her at a different school I could just pretend she was getting on okay without me. Sure, she still liked Pokemon when all the other girls were talking about their crushes, but she never complained to me about anyone bothering her. When we were put back together for high school, I still never saw any blatant harassment and so I assumed she didn't need my help anymore. She never seemed to want friends; she was content to just sit in front of her laptop watching movies for hours. Of course, she never told me how she felt, because she wouldn't be Allison if she did. To this day, she remains unable to discuss her emotions, and I have no idea what's going on in her head.
Now she's in college (yes, real college, albeit a tiny one with very lenient admissions) working toward an associate's degree. She comes home Every. Single. Weekend. She finds sitting alone in her room all day long better than staying at school, trying to socialize. I can understand her fear, but I'm scared she's becoming too attached to home: last week she asked to come home a day earlier than usual, insisted on going back to school at the last possible minute, and Skyped my mom once she got there. It's driving me crazy!
Sometimes (actually, all the time) I wish I could have a sibling that I wouldn't have to worry about for the rest of my life. One who could just call me up to talk about her problems, get over them, and then move on without needing her parents for support. Who knows what's going to happen with Allison? She could become so attached to home that she drops out of school, for all I know. And after my parents die, is my home going to be the one she comes back to when she has a problem? Will I be in charge of reading her feelings, of making sure she has the appropriate care? I'm not sure I'll want to do that....
One extra chromosome sure carries a lot of weight.
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