Things I Call (And Refuse to Call) My Brother

When my brother Daniel was born I called him Alec for a solid week. It had been on the list of possible names my parents had come up with, and it was my favorite, so I just continued on like that was the one that they had picked. I confused a lot of people, though probably not Daniel who was too young to really tell the difference.  Somehow he found it in his heart to love me any way.

When we were in high school I called my brother Dork a lot. Almost always affectionately. My brother has a tendency to get carried away with the things he is passionate about, and before anyone realizes it, it’s 30 minutes later and you’ve learned more than you ever thought you would about Kanye West’s upbringing, or the differences between types of soccer cleats.

I called my brother THE WORST a few more times than I had any right to. Two teenagers under the same roof can be hard, and Daniel and I definitely clashed more times than I’m proud of. All siblings do, I suppose.

I call my brother Bud, for reasons I don’t even quite understand myself. It feels comfortable and warm, and kind of weird and jokey in a way that makes sense in our warm and weird family.

I called my brother “the boy” whenever my parents asked how we were doing. “I’m downstairs reading and watching tv, the boy is in his room playing video games.”   Growing up in a crazy, busy, house like ours, sometimes a simple descriptor is all you got. The girl. The boy. The dog.

I call my brother a superstar, though usually when I’m explaining him to someone else. It’s hard to describe Daniel without being impressed. He’s smart and funny and successful, and manages to do it all in a way that seems casual and relaxed, even when I’m well aware of how hard he is working.

I never called my brother Danny. Danny was reserved for the Kessler family, who seemed to insist on it, and basically no one else. When Daniel tried to switch over to Danny in high school, I never seemed to get the hang of it. It wasn’t out of spite, promise. I didn’t even make fun of him too much, when I heard his friends call you Danny in the hallways at school.

I call Daniel my little brother, even though that’s really true only abstractly. I might be the older one, but Daniel towers over me by a good 8 inches. This, of course, doesn’t so much mean that Daniel is tall as much as it means that it is really really easy to tower over me.  Also, it’s very possible we are reaching the end of the period of his life where I am allowed to refer to him as ‘little’.

I call my brother family, always. Even when I’m mad at him and even when he’s mad at me. Family isn’t a nickname that you can grow out of, it’s too solid to be broken and too fluid to be defined.

Today is my (not so) little brother’s 18^th birthday. A fact which seems almost impossible to believe. I haven’t seen him for almost 5 months now, which is the longest we have ever been apart. Skype dates are great, but I can’t pretend that I’m not counting down till I get to see him at Thanksgiving.

I love my brother a lot, and I am extremely proud of him.  He’s accomplished some pretty incredible things in the past 365 days, and I’m sure the next year will be even more amazing.

So happy birthday, Daniel. I love you lots, even if the nicknames I call you don’t always make it seem that way.