Day 165: My Brother

Last night, I dreamed about my brother.

In the dream, he had become ridiculously wealthy and invited my sister and me up to his penthouse suite in a luxury hotel. When we headed back down, I discovered that he had taken my car (my sister’s Volkswagen Jetta that I had driven during high school) and given it a bright red coat, which dream me loved. I do remember thinking that I would’ve preferred a Ferrari, but hey, I’ll take the sick paint job.

More than five years ago now, my brother cut ties with my family and disappeared. It wasn’t exactly a surprise — for my entire life, he’d had an extremely difficult relationship with my grandpa and my dad. I guess I just didn’t expect to be cut off, too.

In the beginning, I was fairly indifferent. Our relationship had never been great, partly due to the seven-year age gap, and partly because our interactions were often challenging, like the times when I forgot something he had told me and he took that to mean that I didn’t care about him.

Looking back, I wish I had tried harder to understand him. He was entering his teenage years when the three of us got shipped off to America in ’98 to live with our grandparents since my mom was dying from breast cancer, and as the oldest child, he must have had an incredibly difficult time shouldering the responsibility and the stress of the changes.

For a long time, all I could remember of our childhood relationship were the times when he punished my sister and me by yelling “ko-ra-bah-gah”, which meant that we had to hold a plank position, except instead of supporting our bodies with our hands, we had to use our heads. It sucked, and we were only saved when my grandparents came home and freed us from the position. I resented him for torturing us that way, but looking back, I just see a young, suffering teenage boy.

Of course, we were just kids back then, and with time, our relationship evolved. When I think back to his college and post-college days, I remember just how generous he was. There was the time he surprised me with a Nintendo DS, which I obviously went crazy about. The all-expenses-paid trip to Seattle he took my sister and me on. The random excursions to try incredible sushi and tempura green tea ice cream in hole-in-the-wall joints and all-you-can-eat restaurants.

I don’t know where my brother is or what he’s up to. Is he married? Does he have kids? Is he alive?

It’s incredible how much influence he’s had on my life. I probably enjoy hip hop because of the times he blasted Nas’ One Mic in his heavily modded Honda Prelude. I probably wouldn’t have fallen in love with programming if I hadn’t been inspired by how much of a computer whiz he was, and how proud I felt when he locked my sister out of her computer and I had helped her get back in by telling her to try “password” as the password. My brother was impressed.

Sometimes, after washing my face, I look in the mirror and see my brother. I email him every year on his birthday, hoping that I’ll get a response but knowing that it’ll most certainly go unanswered. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, and that feels weird to contemplate, because deep inside, there’s a longing to have him be a part of my life again. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, I just hope that he’s happy.

I miss you, hyungah.