Broheem

I’m big sis. I have two younger brothers—a 20-year-old (baby bro), and a 22-year-old (“younger” bro). This time, I’m talking about my 22-year-old bro. My broheem. That’s how I answer my phone when I look at my caller ID and see it’s him. “Wassup, broheem!”

Growing up, my younger brother was the classic misunderstood middle child. He was worst antagonist of the two brothers and the hardest to get along with. He wasn’t just annoying, he was tricky and sneaky. He would turn the faucet on hot in my parents’ bathroom to make the water run cold while I would be taking a shower in the main bathroom. He would jump out of dark corners to scare the living daylights out of me for no reason at all. Indeed, I could go on. Once puberty hit and growth spurts and such sort of put a halt to my ability to push him around, it got even worse (for me, anyway). He developed a football player-like hulkiness and began to dominate and hog everything. When he finally moved out, I honestly breathed a sigh of relief.

But weird things happen between siblings once they hit their twenties and become more independent. (Both of my bros have since moved out.) They grow up. They begin to look at one another as adults rather than as rivals. It’s finally happening between my broheem and me. Like, today, I treated him to lunch. We sat down and had a civil, entertaining conversation, and actually had a nice time.

Despite the antagonism of our years growing up, now, he got my back. And I got his.

“We cool?”
“Yeah, we cool.”