He is Not a Hero – He is My Brother

In the past few weeks, I have introduced you to two of my brothers. I feel as if I have done an injustice to my second oldest brother. So tonight, you get to meet a person who I look up to each and every day. However, it is very easy to overlook this gentle giant. He is caring, compassionate, kind, and full of joy and love. He is optimistic and looks for the good in each and every person that he meets. I have yet to meet a single person who thinks ill of him. So tonight, I will introduce him to the world.

My brother was born pre-mature. At his birth, my parents were told that he probably wouldn’t make it. He proved them wrong. Then it was suggested that my parents put him into an institution since he would never have a very good life, and he probably wouldn’t make it that far into life. My parents proved them wrong. They brought him home and attempted to treat him no differently than the rest of us. He is now 53 and leads a productive life. He continues to prove those who doubted him that the experts are not always correct.

While my brother cares for each person he ever gets the chance to talk with, I have heard people, who have never met him a retard, a dummy, an idiot, and so many other names. They called him this before ever getting a chance to know him. They call him this because of his looks and speech. They call him this because of their own ignorance. So, yes, my brother is mentally challenged. He has the mentality of an eight, possibly nine year old. But, more importantly, he is a person.

I would love to say that I treated my brother no differently than the others. I will not lie. When I was very young, it was not easy for me to understand why he was different and how to deal with him. I knew that every morning he had to take medicine. As a little kid, I thought that it kept him alive. I found out later that it was to help keep him from having seizures. When I found out about his issues, I then had a fear that when we did things, he would end up on the floor and I would not know what to do.

I do remember that he like to play cars and such. Sundays we would sit in the living room playing. Even though he was older than me, he didn’t care – he just wanted to be with people and to play. He didn’t care who played with him as long as somebody gave him some time. This worked out well in our first neighborhood since everybody played together. It didn’t always go smoothly. Sometime he didn’t understand the instructions. Other times, he had to sit out the game due to my parents worrying about him getting hurt. Skating and playing hockey was a definite no. I didn’t play either, but that is because I didn’t want to do. He wanted to. He would have given anything to be part of it.

It was that not being able to play that has always made me look back with sadness for my brother. While my brothers and I got to ride my bikes, he had to ride a large three wheeled bike. This was fine until the ramps came out. We marched in parades and played music. My brother had to walk along the side with my parents due to fear of the heat and his seizures. He wanted to be part of life.

Now I am happy to report that things changed as we got older. I hate myself to say that there were times in school when I turned corners when I saw him. I was a horrible brother because he would get excited to see me in the hall. He would often want to hug, and I allowed my fear of the cliques to make me turn away from my brother. But we did get better.

Once we moved to my Nana’s, my brother’s dream came true. In the basement, my dad installed a pool table. My brother became the pool shark of the neighborhood. He would play a game with any person who came into the house. I often that it was a good thing that a burglar never came in – my brother would have challenged him to a game. He spent hours in the basement playing. It was a nice place to hang-out since we had a stereo down there as well. The other thing that helped out a lot as he grew was that we found out he could, sort of, keep a secret. He never went home and blabbed about what we did. Now if somebody asked him direct questions, we were dead because he cannot lie. It helped that he could keep a secret because we started allowing him to do things that for years my parents wouldn’t let him do.

I can remember taking him across the street to our neighbors to use their swimming pool. We had to keep him in the shallow end, but we got him in and having fun. When we were younger, he was only allowed in if our parents were around and then just to stand. Marco Polo became second only to pool. I believe that his ability to stay quiet even prompted us to get him to take his bike over the ramps.

As we became older, we found that he was a lot of fun. He didn’t age mentally, so it soon was like having a bigger, little brother around all the time. Like big brothers, we introduced him to more and more.

After years of his watching us march, we finally convinced my mom to allow him to take the field and march with us. At first, not knowing if he could learn movements, we placed him the American guard. He took the place next to the flag with a rifle. He guarded with as much pride as a soldier in the same position. He even took up the cymbals and started in the drum line.

I think the best day was when I snuck him on a roller coaster. My heart was in my throat as we stood in line. The look on his face after the ride made all of that worry fade away. He had made it to the big rides after so many years of watching.

Now I want it known that my parents loved each of us the same. During the 60s and 70s, people were just learning how to deal with mentally challenged people. There were many unknowns and a lot of false information floating around. They did the best they could. I often wonder what it would have been like to grow up today with him.

I never knew how my brother felt about me. I had seen him show emotions. When our Nana passed away, it was everything he could do just to walk through the steps of the funeral. A big part of his world had been torn away from him. I cannot remember how he dealt with my dad’s passing. Even though I had witnessed his pain, I didn’t know how he dealt with those still here. That is until the day I was leaving for the Air Force. This may have been one of the hardest days of my life. I said good-bye to my mom and turned to just shake hands. He was crying so hard that I didn’t want to leave. I finally knew his feelings.

Today my brother still lives with my mom. He goes to work every single day, and he loves his job. He has a better work ethic than many adults that I know. It is a fight to keep him home when he is sick. He is a productive part of society and he does so with pride. He bowls every week on a league and competes like it is for an Olympic gold. He also performs with a local skating group – something he wasn’t allowed to do when he was younger.

I love going home to see my brother. I will admit that it is not always easy to have lengthy conversations, but if you find the right topic – bowling, Sabres, Buffalo Bills, and sports – he is in until the end.

The title of this post is that he is my brother, not a hero. I look up to my brother every day. He has beat the odds and continues to do so. He turns the other cheek time and time again – sometimes to the same person. He teaches me to look for the good in people. He teaches me that people are not evil. He teaches me to have fun. To some, he is a hero, but I still call him brother.

So at the end of the day, I would love to see people stop throwing around the word retard. I would like to see people who are challenged dealt with more respect. I would like to see these wonderful people put on a pedestal as to how mankind should treat each other. My brother and his friends would hug a person who just hit them. They would put their arm around the shoulder of a person who called them a name. They would forgive everyone.

I can only hope to someday be as good as my brother.

Thank you for meandering with me tonight.