City Kid by Nelson George Read Free Book Online

too, except she had no interest in sharing the toy with me. One day, right around the time of the photo, we were crawling around on the floor, and a battle over the Mickey Mouse phone ensued. I wanted to play with it too, and she wouldn’t let me. I pulled at the receiver and, with surprising force and quickness, she slammed me between the eyes, nearly knocking me out. Then Andrea laughed triumphantly.
    I’ve never forgotten the Mickey Mouse battle, not because of the small knot I received, but because I felt it spoke to the dynamic of our childhood relationship. I was the older brother, trying to be in control, and failing, while my sister was bold, had little fear, and was often reckless.
    When I was around seven or eight, and just beginning to understand that I was growing up in a tough neighborhood, bullies would try to intimidate me. They’d try to steal my Pensy Pinky rubber ball, cheat me at games, and ask for money. Out of nowhere my little sister would show up and challenge them. “Don’t mess with my brother!” she’d demand. After chuckling a bit, they’d either leave me alone or mock me, saying that my sister had more balls than I did. I told her to stop; I could fight my own battles. Sure it was a sign of real love, but it was damned embarrassing, and it made me seem more bookish than I already did in a neighborhood where that was perceived as weakness. Maybe I was just more than a little jealous of her fierceness.
    But she could be playful, too. Christmas 1970 is one of my favorite memories of our childhood. We were Jackson 5 fanatics, and for the holiday season Ma had bought us The Jackson 5 Christmas Album . Bonded by the Jacksons singing “Little Drummer Boy” and “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” we danced around our living room with giddy energy. We were just in the moment together. She didn’t try to act cool. I didn’t try to boss her around. We were equal in the joy of those records. It was funny, in retrospect, that we both loved “Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” so much because, despite its candy apple cuteness, there was something melancholy about the notion of our single mother getting kissed in our living room.
    From the time of her birth until we moved out of Tilden in the midseventies, Andrea and I shared a bedroom, a closet, and a dresser. As a result, our bedroom became a physical and psychological battleground. We had one room and one parent, and that became too much for two siblings to share comfortably. There was an invisible line between the two beds, so toys and clothes had to be placed on the proper side, or yelling and fussing would ensue. Who got more dresser or closet space was a constant battle.
    As we got older this forced intimacy grew even more complicated. I began masturbating seriously around age eleven, so I’d have to time my self-pleasing for when I was sure she was sleeping and/ or had her body turned away from me. It made an uncomfortable, clandestine activity feel even more risky and embarrassing. Every now and then I’d catch her giggling as she watched from under her covers.
    That sense of sexual discomfort cut both ways. I remember a summer afternoon when we were sitting watching television. Suddenly Andrea stood up looking shocked. She made a small animal sound, and then ran into the bathroom. She started calling for our mother, who quickly followed her in. I heard a lot of anxious whispers, but I couldn’t make out any words. After a while Ma came out and walked over to me. Her eyes were sparkling and her voice amused. “She just got her period,” she whispered, but not quietly enough. Andrea opened the door to yell in a rage, “Don’t tell him!” She was angry at Ma for betraying her sudden secret, and at me for the undoubtedly silly smirk on my face.
    Ma finally got us out of the projects when we were both adolescents, liberating us from the tensions of sharing a room. I had