Big Brother Is Watching
How the annual school fitness test changed a family dynamic.
With everything feeling so heavy in the world right now, and with the resurgence of the presidential fitness test in our schools, I decided to share a humorous story of my childhood experience with this fabled ritual. Feel free to laugh with or at me. I’m just happy you’re laughing. Please share your experiences with this yearly rite of passage in the comments section.
I’m the youngest of four children. Long before I knew of Orwell’s 1984, I’d heard the expression, “Big brother is watching.” In my youthful naivete, I took the phrase literally and believed my older brother was always watching me. Turns out there was a bit of truth to my theory.
When I was a little girl, I looked up to him and desperately wanted his attention, approval, and inclusion. If I’m being honest, that desire lingered well into my teens and beyond. His words held great weight in my life.
Whenever he came to see me perform, whether it be a concert or a play, he always cheered the loudest and the longest. Part of the reason may have been to embarrass me a bit, but I didn’t care. He was there supporting me. Mind you, the second I’d come offstage and reunite with my loved ones, he’d resume overt teasing. But for one brief, loud moment, he was proud of me. The whole auditorium knew it (and possibly anyone else within a three-mile radius).
I get nostalgic when I see other younger sisters with their older brothers. One particular memory comes to mind. I believe it was in the fifth grade. We were preparing for the annual gym class humiliation (also known as the fitness test).
I must digress here for a moment to discuss something I never understood regarding that bizarre ritual. Why in the name of all that is sacred did they insist on having a rope climb? This wasn’t boot camp. It was a suburban elementary school!
I often imagined that weeks ahead of time a small band of gym teachers were dispatched to scour the countryside on a quest for the coarsest rope. Their goal clearly was to ensure maximum burning of our flesh as we would inevitably slip, slide, and squirm our way in a crazed attempt to reach the promised land of duct tape wrapped near the top.
For some reason, this annual degradation always seemed to occur on the hottest day of the school year. Well, perhaps it wasn’t so much the temperature that was the problem. In hindsight, maybe it was my inner embarrassment manifesting as ferocious, unrelenting, nervous flop sweat coupled with a gym devoid of air conditioning. It was the seventies and early eighties after all.
You need to understand two pertinent facts before I proceed: 1) my brother was very athletic, and 2) I was not. I was neither quick nor agile, and I lacked decent hand-eye coordination.
I was tired of looking so lame in front of my classmates. My brother, in his infinite wisdom and profound generosity, decided he was going to train me. I don’t remember the specifics of the regimen, but I do remember being sore in places I didn’t even know I had. He was dedicated to the cause and so was I.
He might have had his own motives for being so engaged. We have two older sisters. When our mom was pregnant with me, my brother was hoping she’d have a boy. Can you blame him? He already had two sisters. What was he going to do with another one? I’m sure his emotions were mixed when the folks brought me home. But to his credit, he tried to make the best of it.
As I grew from infant to toddler, his hopes must have soared. Surely my little sister will be like me. His older sisters would have catches, play wiffle ball, basketball, kickball, and run around with him. There’s no way his little sister wouldn’t do the same.
We all know how that story ends. Let’s just say my skills were more suited for the stage than a sports field.
He’d endured years of attempts at tossing the ball around with me. Whichever ball we were using eventually ended up either going over the fence or injuring me. I had limited aim and fielding abilities. There were times he would stand there slowly shaking his head, unable to fathom how I could have missed a ball thrown directly to me. I was a bit baffled myself. There were nights I’d fall asleep wondering How did I miss that catch? or How did I manage to hit it over the fence five times in a row?!
Yet now with this fitness test looming, the fickle winds of fate had shifted in his favor. Here was his chance to help his little sister do something quasi-athletic. Redemption was possible. He was all in. I felt special, important. Through his drill sergeant sessions, I started feeling I might just be able to wash away the stain of my past shame. If I could achieve this one thing, then maybe other healthy goals would be possible. He believed in me, so I did as well.
Did I reach the tape and return a conquering hero?
In my memory, I absolutely did. At the very least, I know my performance improved. I couldn’t wait to tell him all about it. It was probably the longest he ever listened to me without interruption or sarcasm.
Sarcasm, interruption, one-upmanship--these are hallmarks of the big brother-little sister dynamic. It’s important to note, however, that it is a two-way street. As I got older, I learned how to give as good as I got. Sometimes the saying is true: it is better to give than to receive.
We’re both well into adulthood now. Yet sometimes when we’re together, it feels like we’re back in his room making silly tapes (audio cassettes because we’re that old), acting out skits and bantering.
If he were to have a motto to describe our relationship, it would probably be, “I can pick on my little sister. And I will. Loudly and often. But you can’t. You come near her or hurt her, we’ll be having a little chat.” It’s comforting to know he’s always got my back, and not to just stand behind it and make silly faces.
Until next time, stay happy, stay healthy, stay in the know.
Look forward to hearing from you.
-Kat