Envying My Kindergarden Brother

My brother is eight years younger than me. And although it seems laughable to envy a kindergartener, I truly do. But who in 11th grade wouldn’t long for the carefree life my brother lives? After resisting the urge to fall asleep while I do my homework, I trudge downstairs for a bottle of water only to find my nine-year-old brother spinning Beyblades, completely absorbed in his imaginary battles, rooting for one of the two to emerge victorious. Meanwhile, every sentence out of my parents’ mouths seems to start with the word “college.” But with age and maturity, some things are inevitable, and some benefits go unnoticed. After all, we always want what we don’t have.

One Saturday afternoon, I tried to teach my brother math. We sat at the living room table, with the fraction workbook spread open between us. Soon I found myself attempting to explain to him why dividing by a fraction was identical to multiplying by its reciprocal—alas, it was all in vain. After pretending to pay attention for barely one minute, he began laying down in his chair, feet pointing upward, completely distracted. When I asked him to sit up, he instead wandered away, stating that he didn’t care what the correct answer was. Perhaps he was right that the answer didn’t matter to him; after all, it was years away from the time when learning would actually impact his life, when grades and competitions would directly affect his future opportunities, nevermind when he would actually have to apply any skills in a job. But as I listened to my brother barge through his blatant mistakes while practicing the piano, or watched him write random answers on his homework without understanding the questions, I knew that as much as I envied his untroubled life, I would never want to be him. You can only be carefree if you believe your actions don’t matter, but with age and knowledge comes direction and purpose, which one can’t simply give up. And just as I envy the simplicity of my brother’s life, he seems to envy the responsibilities and freedoms of mine. Naturally he doesn’t admit it, but it’s obvious from the way he constantly reaches for exposure to topics far beyond his reach. The way he constantly tries to outmatch me, despite knowing he is almost certainly destined to fail. As my parents interrogated me about college one day, my brother claimed he wanted to go to Princeton—why? Because it was number one. What do you do in college? No idea. Another day, he came up to me with a Khan Academy calculus question and asked if I could solve it. The smug look on his face disappeared after I took out a pen and paper to do so. Yet instead of conceding he claimed the question was simple and proceeded to try for ten minutes to solve it with algebra. His envy also shows whenever he’s looking for more privilege, like asking why he can’t have a phone, or why he can’t decide how to manage his own time (and play video games before doing homework).

In the end, you can’t force a child to grow up—nothing will stop my brother from falling half asleep when I tutor him on algebra. Nor could you force me to become my brother. What seems like freedom from responsibilities comes with many strings attached: reliance on parents, with no way to achieve your unrealistic dreams (save for being some child prodigy), and no clue nor care for the world outside of our house and school. Maturing is the process of reaching adulthood, but it’s also about embracing the inevitabilities in that process. You begin to see further than the house and school you grow up in, through exposure to the news or social media, if not in person. It is a slow process of learning, becoming aware of everything from personal responsibilities to the impact world events will have on your life. When you overhear your parents discussing bills tens of thousands of times more expensive than the toy you bought using all of your allowance, that is maturity.

Maturity is inevitable and irreversible, and so for all I envy my brother, I know that he is merely living the life I once lived and left behind. Even as I long for the time when I could build Legos for six hours straight, I also recognize the cost of raising a child that my parents sustain, and the aspiration I have to achieve something meaningful. And so I nudge my brother, urging him to learn and mature, knowing deep down his carefree life is not one I would choose to live again.