Summer Slice

Ever since he was old enough to be left by himself (which was significantly younger than he should have been), my brother spent every free moment of summer down at the public swimming pool. It was his summer THING. In fact, his birthday gift from my grandparents used to be a summer pass to the pool. He always made good use of it.

The summer pass and parental neglect in the name of 'independence' meant my brother rode his bike to and from the pool. The adults viewed this as something he would enjoy. Fun. 'Exercise' would chime in the grandmother who was always on my ass about my weight. The fact that the pool was across town and a rough little haul on a bike was never mentioned. 

One time, someone stole his shoes while he was at the pool. My brother's bike was that kind with spikes on the peddles to give them extra grip. Despite that, he rode home anyway. His feet were not in great shape when he got here. 

I don't remember if they took him to the doctor. I remember them bitching at him. Why didn't he call them? Why didn't he ask for a ride from one of his friends' parents? Why didn't he make sure his stuff was safe? 

He couldn't answer any of that. He didn't answer any of that. I had no idea what to say at the time. But as an adult, I DO know the answer. 

My brother did not do any of that stuff because he was a CHILD. He was a child too young to be on his own at the park. He was a child who grew up poor, who hated asking anyone for ANYTHING. He was a child who was praised most often for his independence, a word probably most defined in his head as 'not being a burden' and this definition probably constituted the core of who he was. 

Would I have done the same thing? I would like to say no. I would like to believe I would have asked for help or called for help. I would like to believe I wouldn't have damaged my feet in order NOT to be a burden. 

It isn't true though. My grandparents and mother had us so twisted up about being burdens that one time when I was 18 and she abandoned us, I waited a whole week before I told my grandparents. 

I am older now. Older and still poor and disabled. I have to ask for help all the time. I have to ask for help in a myriad of ways. I never ask without that old shame filling me. I try to fight it. I try to reason it away. I sometimes go through whole days of feeling a lot of self-loathing. 

At the same time, the situation is what it is. It is, it is, it is. And I can't go through life with ripped up feet.