Walk of shame: Sibling edition

Weird punishments from my mother, and the most common miracle in the world.

My mother believed in two things: bringing back shame, and the absurd miracle of making up. This story is about both. And I’ll admit, sibling fights are nothing new, but how my mother punished us forever changed my brain chemistry.

My sister and I are 16 months apart, and joke that we are the Filipino version of the Witch Mountain Twins from the old Disney movie. But being that close in age means friction when you don’t have a fully developed brain.

I got into the usual trouble 10 year old little brothers do: jump scares, frogs in the bed, soap on a toothbrush, or convincing her that a well-aimed laser pointer on her camping tent was actually a sniper on the loose. My sister—God bless her—does not have a heart for devilry. She did however have an “elite muscle complex” that was later revealed by genetic testing, and a gift for giving dead-arms with a single punch.

For parents trying to raise well-adjusted adults, one could see how this might become a problem.

Yes we got grounded; my father had a spatula that would moonlight as “the spanking spoon,” but my mother was a particularly creative woman (At least 50% of my mischief comes from her. Ask me about her "chocolate chip ice-cream” recipe later). So one day when my sister and I were getting particularly feisty, my mother told us isolation and plastic cookware were not punishment enough. Instead, we were going to circle the block holding hands, all while singing to each other an old church song that repeated the phrase, “We love you with the love of the lorrrrrrd!”

To which readers might ask: couldn’t you have just walked around the neighborhood and you know like… not? But again, my mother was a clever devil woman, and instead of leaving us to our own devices, followed us around in her car, shouting things like, “If you don’t sing louder I’ll make you start over!”

As a child who frequently played outside with the neighborhood kids, this could not happen.

So I sang about love like my life depended on it. And somewhere along the route, perhaps about two choruses in… it worked. Our faces broke into laughter like sunshine breaks through storm-cloud. When my sister and I returned home, we were mysteriously—and through the magic of public song—friends again. All had been forgiven and I had witnessed the most common miracle in the world: when we forgive.

Because it is never surprising to us when things go wrong, it feels like the outlier in life when things go perfectly to plan. I talk a lot. It’s why I became a writer. Half the things that come out of my mouth are poorly timed and the other half feel designed to cause me trouble. But what a miracle to live in a world, and among family and friends, where we have the choice to heal and repair.

My best friend Taylor once told me, “Marriage is just deciding who you’re willing to forgive every day.”

We live in such a universe where no matter the loss, our hearts can pay the balance.

My parents have been wonderful parents, imperfect to be sure, but are splendid humans who raised splendid humans (and me). They were the exception to the statistics of divorce, having briefly separated during my teenage years, only to return to each other more in love than before. They say that a bone that breaks heals denser than before; the remade object less brittle, stronger even.

In their house, is a small wooden placard. It’s painted with worn blue lettering, and I’ve never asked them when or how it got there. It is not a centerpiece or a statement piece, it just rests in a corner. An unremarkable object in a house full of pictures and little plants, unnoticeable if you’re not paying attention.

It reads, “It’s never too late to live happily ever after.” And I often wonder how many times my splendid parents had to walk around the block to earn that truth? Did they sing about love like their life depended on it? Or was it the quiet and slow work of a lifetime, with no one there to follow them in a car. The truth was I was watching. I still am. And in a world that feels determined to pull itself apart, I am in awe of how they have done the heavy lifting to re-member their small corner of the universe.

Sometimes we witness the miracle. Sometimes we make it. What a gorgeous life to live, where we always have a choice.

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With love from the gutter,

Dakota

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Today’s post is a part of a series on memory. With my memoir currently in the editing phase, I’ll sharing different pieces and parts because I believe our stories matter.

Do you have a favorite memory with your siblings? Tell me a good story in the comments!