From toddlerhood to my pre-teens, I worshipped my big brother Glenn. Like many kids who grow up as the youngest sibling of a family, I copied my kin’s sarcastic tone, his movements, and the brilliant manner in which he negotiated with my parents.
Glenn was always one of the cool kids on campus. He played football, and he consistently had a plethora of girlfriends. When he was in grade school his classmates created “The Glenn Rowley Fan Club.” He was also responsible for showing me every R-rated movie under the sun, as I skipped around the house at the ripe age of eight. And the shenanigans this guy got away with in middle school and high school…legendary. They are too sacred to even print. But I will tell you a couple of his stunts involved propolactics, coffee cans, and the band Quiet Riot. Glenn didn’t know I was aware of many of his hijinks, but I was watching the whole time.
I believe I was about 10 years old when my desire to launch his ass into the lagoon in our backyard manifested with rage. Glenn was bigger and stronger than me, obviously. ( I got thrown into more snowbanks than I can count.) . And he was tremendously gifted at verbally assaulting me whenever the opportunity presented itself. (That’s what big brothers are for, I know.)
In some ways we live worlds apart now. I’ve roamed the country like a gypsy, relocating from one coast to the next for the past decade. Meanwhile, Glenn has built a home and a family in the same neighborhood, in which we played cops and robbers everyday, before Dad would whistle for us to come eat dinner.
I am grateful to my dear brother for being there while I was growing up, and for being home as our parents get older. He is present whenever our folks need help, and he is always more than willing to offer his ear and kinds words of advice when I call panicked over any personal crisis.
Because of our contrasting lifestyles, I have thought of us as drastically different people. But at the end of the day, we are our parents children, and we are very much the same. All of my nostalgic memories of the ’80s exist because of him. Just as many of my childhood battle scars are more meaningful because of him.
He was largely responsible for making me a fighter, for developing my character. And even though he has never said the words out loud, I believe he is one of my biggest fans. After all, I am one of his. Irrespective of any of this, he is my brother (and still the coolest guy in Bay City, MI.)
Comments on: "I Am My Brother’s Sister" (3)
I loved this blog about you and your brother. I hope one day my kids will remember each other with the admiration you have shown here. Your parents must be very proud.
Gald you enjoyed it, Rita! Thank you for your kind words:)
Hi. My name is Glenn Rowley. However, I am not your Glenn Rowley. I am much older than the Glenn Rowley you describe. I did not have any sisters, just brothers. I was never popular in school, I never was on a school athletic team, and I never had a fan club. But it was fascinating to your account of what is was like growiing up with my namesake.