Zen-Like

There was a period of general harassment when my older brother consistently woke me up with a slap in the face. A shrill laugh, such as his, let out by anyone to this day causes my heart to pound in my ears. He wasn’t skilled at nail clipping and sometimes cut me. I quickly ran out of excuses at school. It was embarrassing having those marks on my face; my skin tone was not the kind to camouflage redness. I became much less outgoing. My mother tried her best to stop it, but at the time I didn’t want my problems to contribute to her depression. She suggested showing as little emotion as possible after receiving a slap or any sort of torment. I tried my best to take that approach but it was difficult. I was emotional at that age. I had aspirations for a zen-like presence, but I was failing.

I had a fidgety, homeschooled friend who often listened to my problems on his back porch. He suggested I keep a hammer or some sort of weapon underneath my bedsheets. 

I only saw my father every two weeks or so. I brought up the issue out of desperation as he drove me to the record store. He always drove barefoot. It made me uncomfortable even before I knew better. He was instantly set off and expressed the ways he’d like to harm my brother. I advised against it for my mother’s sake, then asked what he thought of her idea. He said it could work but didn’t seem to believe in it. 

I remember feeling that my brother was much more handsome and athletic than I was. His hair was longer and thicker, his eyes lighter, and his teeth whiter. But I understood things about the world that he didn’t. 

On a very wet and dark morning, I grabbed the arm that had repeatedly slapped me and quickly pulled myself out of bed, aggressively kissing my brother on the mouth. It was difficult matching his strength, keeping my hands clasped around his head as he screamed into my throat, struggling and hitting me. I finally let go without a trace of a smile. No violence followed, on that day nor any other. Our relationship became something different, and I felt that I had something over him from then on. I made sure to never abuse it. I don’t believe that my mother knew exactly what had happened, but shortly after, she told me how proud of me she was. 

Jack Uppling is a writer and music teacher currently living in Phoenix, AZ. He graduated from The Motion Picture Institute of Michigan, and shortly after spent several years recording and performing with bands in the Midwest and Seattle. His writing has recently appeared in Blood+Honey.

A Song for Jack