Family reunions, though often a time of joy, can sometimes dredge up uncomfortable memories. The onset of one such memory occurred about the time I had relocated to California in my early ‘30’s. When I first returned to visit family and friends, it was to celebrate a milestone birthday for my father so many of his long-time companions were present. One of dad’s friends, Hal, sidled over toward me wearing what appeared a wry smile that felt rather odd mostly because I could not understand its source having neither communicated nor seen him for years. Upon approaching me still smiling, he said: “Well Buzzy (my childhood nickname) are you still hitting your younger brother Andy?” He had apparently observed this behavior back when I was about 5 years old.
As he walked away, still smiling, his comment left me both stunned and hurt with an added sense of guilt. Moreover, my respect for Hal’s age and generation rendered me tongue-tied. Hal had hit a raw nerve by reminding me of my childhood relationship with younger brother. For years, I had been a middle child with an older and younger brother. My older brother, Benjy, the first grandchild, excelled in school and involved himself in many academic extracurricular activities. My younger brother, Andy, received a lot of attention having earned the nickname, “Dew Drops,” due to his dribbling on himself. Everyone thought “Dew Drops” was precious. I very well may have developed what has been commonly called middle-child syndrome, that is feeling a sense of perceived personal neglect. Looking back, I suppose I was jealous of them both and so the one I best could take out my frustrations on was my younger brother who was smaller than I.
My father, seeing that I was more athletic and not as scholastically oriented like my older brother, bought a ping pong table. Though he worked long hours, he managed to spend time playing table tennis with me that brought a special bond between the two of us. By the time I was 11 or 12 years old, I was beating him in ping pong. This period proved most helpful to my self-worth inasmuch as I became the city champ in table tennis during my three years in junior high school.
At some point, however, I may have been so disturbed by my birth order, that I pleaded to my mother, especially, to have another child. The wish was fulfilled with the birth of my youngest brother, Daniel. By then I was 9 years old. In an earlier blog, The Gift My Mother Gave Me, I pointed out when I entered high school, I ceased to pick on my younger brother, Andy. By then I had become president of Elizabeth Youth Good Neighbor Council, among other things, and so had felt good enough about myself to no longer need to fight with Andy allowing the two of us to become, not only brothers, but also close friends. Because Hal’s comment reminded me of a behavior in which I was not proud, it felt like a shot to my solar plexus knocking the wind out of me.
Subsequently, upon returning to the East Coast I would see Hal perhaps every 5 to 10 years. I found it most unsettling each time I encountered him. He would approach me with that mocking smile of Mephisto about to take the soul of Faust, and remind me of what I had done to my younger brother. When I was 51, I got an unexpected phone call from my older brother, Benjy, giving me the sad news that my father had died. My mother confirmed that Hal would be at the memorial for my dad. For the first time in all those years, I felt little apprehension at the thought of seeing him.
In essence, finally, I had formulated a response to what I expected him to say that was most predictable. Because I knew his time was limited as he, in fact, was older than my father, I did not want to verbally assault him and leave him with bad feelings. Inasmuch as he had been close to my father, I wanted to refrain from being vindictive. So, at the end of my dad’s memorial, I was delighted when he walked over toward me with that familiar smirk and before he could utter a word I said: “Hal I know what you’re about to say but before you say it, I need to ask you, when I reach the pearly gates of Heaven, is St. Peter going to hold it against me because of this memory you’ve etched in your mind about me hitting my younger brother. Do you think you can forgive me now, while it’s not too late?” To my surprise, his demeanor shifted. That grin of Mephisto, once so smug, softened into a much kinder smile. He replied with genuine warmth: “Bernard, you’re forgiven. I don’t want to be the one keeping you from entering Heaven.” In that moment, I had created a situation that allowed my decades of discomfort to melt away for Hal’s forgiveness, though lighthearted, was also sincere.
About a year later, my mother informed me that Hal had passed away. Knowing myself, I avoided incurring any further guilt but being harsh with Hal that may have been hurtful to him toward the end of his life. In the end, both of us found closure in a way that allowed us to smile—not with mockery but with mutual understanding.
Dr. Bernard F. Natelson 