static_abyss (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
static_abyss) wrote2018-11-16 01:47 pm
static_abyss) wrote2018-11-16 01:47 pm
LJ Idol Week 6: Claudia or Isabel?
You are not the first of my father's children I've met. You're not even the first daughter who has asked him for money. But, unlike them, you are a quivering middle, the foggy transition between your mother and mine. That we share a name just complicates things in ways that have taken me by surprise.
I like to think myself unwavering and strong in the face adversity. You should have been nothing but a ripple as we smoothed over your existence and transition into our lives. You were a pleasant surprise to our brothers, a confusing problem that our father had to figure out, nonexistent to my sister, and you should have been an easy friend to me. Our birthdays are, after all, only a year apart.
I can't quite figure out what it is. My resentment and anger are not your fault. I have been through this every which way, from every distorted angle and jagged edge. I've cut myself on the well honed blade of our father's mistakes and your mother's indifference. My mother played an unknowing hand in this, too, when she named me. So this isn't your fault.
You did me a kindness when you asked me to call you Claudia, or maybe it was luck that you preferred your middle name to our first. Maybe it was that your mother knew of me, through our grandmother or our father. Maybe she wanted to spare you the sudden loss I felt, when I heard our brother calling our name and found out he was speaking to you, not me.
You were born first, so I am the thief and my mother the unknowing accomplice. I have taken what was yours, the family you should have had, the brothers you were entitled to. If father had not doubted your mother, you would be where I am. You would know the quiet nuances of this family, the fragility of our brother's self-esteem, the quiet that means he needs to burrow under our blankets and let my mother comb his hair with her fingers.
That I have your name, letter for letter, makes it easy to slip you into this life. The middle names don't save us. We have the same forehead, the same mouth, the same shade to our eyes. We are our father's daughters. We are each other's sisters. So why can't I bring myself to say it aloud, to acknowledge the part you're to play in the rest of our lives?
I won't be able to shake you because our brothers want you in their lives. They've added you to their phones with my title. I was the contact they edited, the one brushed aside to make room for you. I was the one chosen to be resentful, the one they hid truths from, as though they really thought that of the two of us, I was the Ana who would come out angry.
That I am angry makes it worse.
You should have waited at least a month to ask our brother for money. You do not know how often our brother's been hurt by the people who he thinks are supposed to love him. By your mother. You don't know how he went quiet after you asked him, how when he asked me if he should give you the money, he was really asking if you even cared to speak to him. He didn't really talk to us for a week, after you asked for a loan you would never pay back.
I want you to know that I did not bad mouth you. As you might have already picked up on, this is not my first time in a situation similar to this. We are a large family with secrets that may surprise you. I have the long practiced skill of diplomacy, of being careful with words, because words have so often cut to the deepest parts of me. I am scarce with my criticism. I nudge. I don't push. I have always been able to handle these situations with calm and poise. But, for some reason, you test every bit of my composure.
Most of my anger and resentment are not your fault. I've learned the precise amount of anger to let out, careful always to reign it in, so it doesn't go over the clearly marked line on the sides of my resentment measuring cup. I weigh the marks against you, oh, so carefully. I can't go over the defined line, you see. There is only so much I am allowed to feel towards you, because our name is not our fault, so you don't deserve more than the clearly labeled dose of my ire.
Besides, you and I are connected by more than our father's half-truths, whether we like it or not. No matter how hard I try, when I compare myself to you, I don't see much difference. Is it the same for you? Do you, with my name and my face, look into a mirror just to see my reflection?
Tell me, Ana, have you asked yourself, which middle name is better, Claudia or Isabel?
I like to think myself unwavering and strong in the face adversity. You should have been nothing but a ripple as we smoothed over your existence and transition into our lives. You were a pleasant surprise to our brothers, a confusing problem that our father had to figure out, nonexistent to my sister, and you should have been an easy friend to me. Our birthdays are, after all, only a year apart.
I can't quite figure out what it is. My resentment and anger are not your fault. I have been through this every which way, from every distorted angle and jagged edge. I've cut myself on the well honed blade of our father's mistakes and your mother's indifference. My mother played an unknowing hand in this, too, when she named me. So this isn't your fault.
You did me a kindness when you asked me to call you Claudia, or maybe it was luck that you preferred your middle name to our first. Maybe it was that your mother knew of me, through our grandmother or our father. Maybe she wanted to spare you the sudden loss I felt, when I heard our brother calling our name and found out he was speaking to you, not me.
You were born first, so I am the thief and my mother the unknowing accomplice. I have taken what was yours, the family you should have had, the brothers you were entitled to. If father had not doubted your mother, you would be where I am. You would know the quiet nuances of this family, the fragility of our brother's self-esteem, the quiet that means he needs to burrow under our blankets and let my mother comb his hair with her fingers.
That I have your name, letter for letter, makes it easy to slip you into this life. The middle names don't save us. We have the same forehead, the same mouth, the same shade to our eyes. We are our father's daughters. We are each other's sisters. So why can't I bring myself to say it aloud, to acknowledge the part you're to play in the rest of our lives?
I won't be able to shake you because our brothers want you in their lives. They've added you to their phones with my title. I was the contact they edited, the one brushed aside to make room for you. I was the one chosen to be resentful, the one they hid truths from, as though they really thought that of the two of us, I was the Ana who would come out angry.
That I am angry makes it worse.
You should have waited at least a month to ask our brother for money. You do not know how often our brother's been hurt by the people who he thinks are supposed to love him. By your mother. You don't know how he went quiet after you asked him, how when he asked me if he should give you the money, he was really asking if you even cared to speak to him. He didn't really talk to us for a week, after you asked for a loan you would never pay back.
I want you to know that I did not bad mouth you. As you might have already picked up on, this is not my first time in a situation similar to this. We are a large family with secrets that may surprise you. I have the long practiced skill of diplomacy, of being careful with words, because words have so often cut to the deepest parts of me. I am scarce with my criticism. I nudge. I don't push. I have always been able to handle these situations with calm and poise. But, for some reason, you test every bit of my composure.
Most of my anger and resentment are not your fault. I've learned the precise amount of anger to let out, careful always to reign it in, so it doesn't go over the clearly marked line on the sides of my resentment measuring cup. I weigh the marks against you, oh, so carefully. I can't go over the defined line, you see. There is only so much I am allowed to feel towards you, because our name is not our fault, so you don't deserve more than the clearly labeled dose of my ire.
Besides, you and I are connected by more than our father's half-truths, whether we like it or not. No matter how hard I try, when I compare myself to you, I don't see much difference. Is it the same for you? Do you, with my name and my face, look into a mirror just to see my reflection?
Tell me, Ana, have you asked yourself, which middle name is better, Claudia or Isabel?
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