Letters To My Little Brother: Misadventures In Growing Older (13 page)

As I reread this letter, I actually laughed at myself. My tone is intentionally serious, but I can’t help but chuckle about my know-it-all opinions. My writing seems to indicate that I know how to solve the world’s problems one at a time. Let me be the first to admit that I don’t. I sometimes wonder if I’m a male chauvinist because I hold doors for girls and feel the tug to pay on a date. I debate whether or not I can say the N-word when I’m singing along with Kanye. I know some people would say I don’t have the cultural or ethnic background to be “allowed” to say it, but does that mean I can’t say it in the context of a direct quotation rather than a spontaneously spoken sentence? (And yes, I use the term ‘N-word’ because I don’t feel comfortable saying the actual word.)

You will have to come up with your own means and methods to confront the world around you. While I’d certainly like you to have the same views as me, I can’t force them on you. Your views are, well, up to you. What I do ask, however, is that you at least attempt to love the world without a stern stare. I wrote earlier about my Muslim brothers and sisters. This is a notion I hope you’ll use, especially in the wider sense of our world’s fellowship of brothers and sisters, because at the end of the day we are all in this life together.

Love,

-Matt McKinney

CHAPTER Fourteen:

How to love your friends

Dear Squirrel,

At one of my summer camps I remember singing the words, “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.” Friends were too transient to me at that age for me to fully understand the lyric. Between moving city to city and switching school to school, I didn’t know many kids for more than a year or two before never seeing them again. At the time I wondered why the song demanded I put a value judgment on which friends were better. (I believed gold was obviously better than silver because both pirates and Olympians preferred gold to silver.)

As I began to age and develop deeper, more meaningful relationships, however, I finally understood the essence of the song: to occupy talkative, annoying children like me at summer camp. The whole part about how old friends share rich experiences with you, forming a tighter, thicker fabric enmeshing your lives was (and is) totally lost on me. I don’t make new friends, and thus all my friends are gold. It’s a benefit of being an introvert who prefers to be alone. The downsides, though, include social isolation, chronic moping around, and debating whether to watch the many re-runs of
Hawaii Five-Oh
(and not the classic version).

              I have a friend from college, for instance, named Huddy Buddy. You may know his name because he started my blog, LetterTag, with me. I loved the guy from Day One of college orientation. Our conversations struck a balance between inane and profound. Like we would sit outside during lunch and make up stories about the people who passed by. There was the Girl With Low Self-Esteem, for example, who always slouched and walked pigeon-toed. And there was the guy who wore high waters and ran from class building to class building in an eternal struggle against lateness. We’d talk about our dreams and how, despite our other talents, we both wanted to invest ourselves in the creative arts. Hud eventually learned guitar and I began writing. We’d sit and talk about movies and their meanings and their craftsmanship. We’d debate whether to move to Hollywood together or we’d argue about the best type of hot dog toppings or we’d count down the days until the winter thawed and Sundress Season began.

After graduation, a full year went by before I saw Hud again. The last time I had, we were at a Friday Night Magic the Gathering Draft in Raleigh, North Carolina. It was held at a local hobby shop, which used to be an animal hospital before it went under. Now the space has fire-breathing cartoon dragons painted on the walls and a lot of accidental drop-offs for the animal crematorium. The event itself was nothing new to us: Hud and I have been to numerous tournaments together, racking up wins and building 20-pound libraries of trading cards. Hud even took me to a pre-release tournament on my birthday a few years back (arguably the fourth best birthday present I’ve ever received).

So, a year after finishing 1st and 3rd (we hit each other in the semifinals) in Raleigh, Hud and I reunited in San Jose for another Magic tournament. Hud actually moved to California a few weeks beforehand, but I'd been too busy binge-reading Harry Potter 3-7 (symptom #1 of depression) and avoiding cleaning my bathroom (possibly symptom #2 of depression, possibly symptom #1 of laziness) to visit him (definitely symptom #3 of depression). In my defense, I should mention that he lived a little over an hour away and I hate driving almost as much as I hate when people ruin trail mix with almonds and walnuts. I was also over-budget for the month already because Apple decided to stop supporting OS X Leopard, forcing cheapo's like me to buy their updates. (Well, that and I bought a medium popcorn and a Cherry Coke when I went to see the new 
Spiderman
 movie...in 3D. Fucking rip-offs, bro...).

For folks like you who read 
People
 magazine and/or use name-brand shampoo, Magic The Gathering is a popular trading card game that involves mana, spells, wizards, swords, half-naked elf ladies, faeries (with an 'ae,' not an 'ai'), trolls, goblins, hit points, and, yes, sometimes a 20-sided die. It's essentially the gateway drug of the fantasy-geek subculture, with cocaine being cos-playing (the 'cos' is for costume) and heroine being live-action role playing.

We planned out a wonderful Saturday afternoon for the Magic 2013 Core Set Pre-Release Tournament at Superstars/Channel Fireball in San Jose. Superstars is not only home to a number of professional Magic players, but it's also hosted a number of pro tournaments over the last two decades. People there take their Magic very seriously. They had booster packs of the original set, Alpha, for $800 a pop (in comparison, a booster pack of the new set is $3-4). The guy behind the counter told me that he'd once seen a dude buy 3 packs ($2400 without tax) at once. I'm telling you: shit's serious there.

As soon as Hud and I walked in, the all-too-familiar sensation of being woefully out of place tingled down my spine. Aside from the fact that I am incredibly self-aware (read: insecure), I recognized this because:

1) I am 6'5". That immediately makes me the gangly goon in any room.
2) I was wearing jeans that came past my ankles.
3) I floss every other night. 
4) Hud's hair was long. Like, CRAZY long. Like, Pantene Pro-V, whip-your-hair-back kind of long. 
5) Hud was wearing a white, V-neck tee and some grey skinny jeans straight out of a hipster New York storefront.
6) You wouldn’t have described us as gremlin- or troll-like. 
7) We didn't wring our hands, we didn't laugh like John Wayne Gacy, and we didn't have skin paler than Nearly-Headless Nick (which is saying something because I spent a minimum 3 hours a day in a dark movie theater).

Aside from the fact that half these people probably have Googled "dead bodies" or bookmarked a Harry Potter fan-fiction page at some point in their lives (I'll let you guess which category I fall under), the atmosphere was relatively chill. Judges patrolled the room. Dads taught their sons how to play in some sort of twisted re-imagining of the last scene from
Field of Dreams
or
The Natural
. A few guys traded cards while one or two incredibly awkward girlfriends stood near them (I think I counted a 50:1 male to female ratio). The “thing” that sat across from me pleasantly chatted me up about the new cards while we assembled our decks. I say “thing” because it may have been male, may have been female. It had a haircut that could have been shaggy for some guys or ‘butch’ (not a word I like to use) on some girls. It had a thick chest so you couldn’t tell if it was a little overweight or just had large, flat breasts. The single earring didn’t help me decide either. Once it spoke, I guessed it was a 'he,' but I honestly had no clue. I'm all for supporting people who break traditional gender roles, as I've said many times before, but it's not often that you see someone straddle the line quite this well. It was like seeing "What's That? It's Pat" in real life. Props to this guy, though: I wouldn’t have wrecked kids at Magic without his advice.

Hud and I each finished 3-1, which is quite an admirable record, but overall the evening felt like reliving a modified memory, sort of like seeing Slughorn’s version of Tom Riddle in the Pensieve. I kept imagining the scene in
The Matrix
when Neo mentions déjà vu and everyone realizes that — while everything is still the same — some minor detail has changed. Hud and I were a little bit older, a little bit wiser, a little bit tougher, a little bit calmer. He didn’t jibe me about the Giants winning the Super Bowl and I didn’t nag him about his recreational activities. We talked about old times and reminisced about long-forgotten names.

Most of all, we talked about us. We talked about life. We might’ve wrecked twelve-year-olds at a trading card game too, but that was just a guise for discussing our dreams and desires, our problems and pains. We didn’t start awkward and slide back into friendship. We were still buds right from the start, and that’s the way it will always be.

I’m not trying to be sappy or profound, I’m just saying that if you know someone and you accept them and love them and work to maintain that friendship with them, then you will always have someone to walk with you to the ends of the earth and back. Or, at least, into the belly of San Jose’s nerdiest hobby shop, which is equally as trying.

It’s exactly this type of unequivocal, unconditional love that exemplifies the best that friendship has to offer. I really want to stress that, so don’t be afraid to read it again. You really learn the core of a friend, nay, a person by the way they share themselves with you. We can all demarcate between categories of friends, right? Acquaintances, people you see on the way to class, Facebook friends, real friends, good friends, friends you share your feelings with, friends you have lunch with, etc. But your best friends never stop giving.

When our grandfather died, my then-girlfriend asked what she could do for me. This was a girl I’d known for over 8 years. She said she loved me. After I said — quite justifiably I believe — I needed her love and her affection, her response was that she “had other priorities.” Other. Priorities. Didn’t call me. Didn’t come to see me. Nothing. I’ll let you decide what that said about her opinion of our friendship.

Meanwhile, a guy I hadn’t spoken to in over a year or two gave me a call out of the blue to give his condolences. I’m not a very emotional person when it comes to death and dying — I didn’t cry at either of our grandfathers’ deaths nor at our uncle’s — but I nearly broke down and cried on the phone with this particular pal. His act was pure kindness. There was no selfish benefit he sought to achieve. No goal he was working towards. He called because he cared.

And that’s the kind of friendship that you should treasure.

Love you forever and always,

-Big Boy

CHAPTER Fifteen:

How to love your Family

Dear Squirrel,

There are only two immutable facts of life: blood is thicker than water and Batman is the greatest superhero of all-time. The second part should need no explanation. The first, however, might.

When your back is against the wall, who is the only person you can count on to be there to fight with you? Me. (And Mom and Dad and Kimmie.) I might not be able to take down a bruiser — my rule of thumb is only to fight people still in braces — but you can bet your ass I’ll be there to hold his arms behind his back while you toss a few haymakers.

In elementary school, our sister Kimmie and I fought these two numbskull brothers after getting off the school bus. I’m not even sure why we fought, but I remember kicking and punching these two dolts because I had to protect her. (She was the one who started the fight. Obviously.) One of them even threw a shoe at me, striking me in the head, but I didn’t care. It was us against the world. I would’ve taken any punishment for her. I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a winner or a loser in the fight, but for my ego’s sake I’ll say we won.

I eventually picked another fight on her behalf when one of her high school boyfriends cheated on her. Sure, it was high school and it didn’t really matter, but I couldn’t let someone treat her like that, especially since she was acting like he hadn’t done anything to betray her. She so readily forgave someone for hurting her, something I could never do. What’s worse is that she forgave him even though she knew he didn’t have her best interests at heart.

Hotheaded and headstrong, I pulled my pocketknife on her boyfriend. I didn’t know what I would do once I rattled that three-inch blade at him, but nonetheless she yelled for Mom and Dad. They intervened. I got a year’s worth of punishment from them. They thought I needed anger management or sociopath rehabilitation simply because I’d stuck up for her. (A few years later, he appeared at my high school dance and tried to act all buddy-buddy with me. Unfortunately no knives were in the vicinity.)

And you know what the worst part about that story is? I still don’t think I did anything wrong. I’d do anything for her (and you as well). I still keep that knife on my nightstand.

I think the takeaway is that even when a family fights amongst itself, they still love each other more than the outside world. I feel like it’s a movie when some bully calls you/me/Kimmie a loser and the rest of us stand up and say, “Yeah, but he’s OUR loser!” God knows I have fought Mom and Dad like no other. You’ve developed the strategy of letting them rant at you and allowing their words to pass one ear out the other. I was never that clever. I’ve always been antagonistic. I would fight with them on principle. Sort of like:

Dad:
Matt, did you do your homework?

Me:
You dare ask me that? I won’t stand for it!

Dad:
Prepare for mental and emotional annihilation!

Or:

Mom:
Matt, please don’t swear so much. And try eating more. You look frail.

Me:
You dare tell me that? I won’t stand for it!

Mom:
I didn’t raise you like this! *cries*

And yet they’re always the ones to stand by me in my weakest moments. Dad flew out to California to pack me up and drive home. Mom moved me into college at the start of my sophomore year when I wasn’t talking to Dad. You went to lunch with me every time I was down and depressed, which is how you developed the single greatest technique for adding condiments to fries by drizzling ketchup on them and then shaking them around inside the paper bag they came in.

Dad has also been a, well, enabler to my love life. In high school if I ever needed money to pay for something — a movie, dinner, whatever — I’d simply tell him I was going with a girl. His wallet would pop out a crisp $20 bill faster than you can say, “I should feel really guilty about lying to my dad and taking advantage of his generosity.” I remember my discussion with Dad before my senior prom when he advised me who to take as my date. It went something (aka nothing) like this:

“Who’s the village bicycle?” he asked.

“What on Earth do you mean, Father?” I responded.

“The girl that everyone gets to ride.”

“I don’t know. What a misogynistic question, which definitely did not make me laugh till my sides ached. Angela, maybe?”

“You should take her.”

“But I am neither romantically nor physically interested in her, dearest Papa,” I murmured.

“Matt,” he said with a sigh, “you’ve got to be thinking ‘pregnant’ at your prom. You’ve got to think that you’re gonna get her in the back of the car and get her pregnant.”

I did not ask Angela to prom nor did I get laid in the back of a car on my prom night. Dad even let me take his fancy sedan for a spin. He cleaned it and everything. He probably thought I needed the help. I did. Quite frankly I’m not sure I would’ve known what to do if Angela (or any other girl) had somehow fallen into my lap. It was the thought that counted in this case. Dad wanted to help me become a man. He would’ve murdered me if I’d gotten a girl pregnant, but he was well intentioned nonetheless.

Friendship always came easy to Mom and I. We’d post up with some ice cream and a few episodes of
NCIS
and share each other’s company. But that bizarre advice-giving relationship is how Dad and I bonded over the years. He started giving me “rules” to life when I was a kid. They weren’t necessarily rules as much as truisms, but they still helped shape me into the man I am today. Among others there were:

“Only lonely women go grocery shopping on Friday night.” (Which, as a massive generalization, is surprisingly accurate.)

“It only gets bigger.” (This is in reference to the size of a person’s tits/ass/thighs/belly as they age.)

“Marriage is like horse breeding: it’s all about the genes.” (This goes along with the previous one. It’s also a corollary to “If you want to know what your girlfriend will look and act like in 20 years, just look at her mother.”)

“Men with small dogs…” (That one was always an implied ending.)

Even with all of this warped and demented guidance spilling into my ears like a swill of orange juice into a mouth of freshly brushed teeth, I still came out alright. Well, sort of. I’ll let you decide that for yourself. That’s what family is like, I guess: suffering through a horrible taste in your mouth because deep down you know you need it. You might enjoy the taste of sugar or the spice of wasabi, but that burning, shocking, tooth-decaying sensation of family is the way you were innately primed to enjoy. It’s masochistic. It’s messed up. But it’s family. You can’t change that.

Love,

-Big Boy