Understanding
I read the lines of a poem – the brother, the one you called other, who came to your rescue when no one else did – and the words twist themselves around in my wired, wicked brain.
I understand the younger sibling syndrome that is convulsing my country. For some years now, you have been patted on the head, kept in your place, brought out to display proudly, but kept in your place. Your Big Brother, the one who hides his inadequacies and impotencies behind a charade; your hero, who keeps you from straying, from rebelling, from thinking. When you are young, you accept the truths and the untruths that you are fed. In turn, you are grateful and eager to please, even turning against your mother to keep Big Brother in his rightful place – in the right, in the light, the sermons raining down from up high. After all, if you do no wrong, how could Big Brother be proved right? Right?