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The sight of my 11 year old sister’s training bra scares me. It reminds me of her growing up, and I’m scared of how, in her time, she will handle the trials that age brings. Every time I think of my sister now, I ponder on how many good “older brother” moments I’ve had. In truth, when she was still being talked about as the “new baby”, I’d vocally wished for a little brother. My disappointment of not having that wish fulfilled set the tone for how I treated her. I haven’t been the best or most supportive kuya, I think. Most times when praise was given to my sister, I was jealous. I envied her brilliance and the accompanying pride that was painted on the faces of all my relatives. I won’t deny that I bullied her, as I did with my other little sister, but when I look back, my words were harsher, more severe in tone and in general, much more hurtful. My actions were unjustifiable, but in my head, it was fair game; my overlapping emotions found them right. She was deserving of my berating. As I grew older, I learnt by virtue of my mother and by my understanding of the standards of society to stop, or more appropriately, lessen the torment of my sister. The ignorance of her presence was my punishment to her, and the pain that I think she felt was worse than when I had teased her as a child; for the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference, and from my actions, I was practicing this to its core. My sister is turning 12 soon, and maybe in a few months time, her menstrual cycle will begin its course, and I am afraid. As badly as I used to treat her, I still care for her; I always will. I am always proud of what she achieves, proud that the genius in our family bests the brightest minds in her school. When others try to even speak badly of her, I will always stand up to them, be they little girls or family members alike. For whatever I had done as a child, I make amends by being the best brother I can to my little sister. I love you Raya, please don’t grow up too fast. 
A lot of people I know are getting, or are at least strongly considering getting tattoos. I don’t know if my aversion to them is because they really wouldn’t suit my skin or I’m not creative enough to think of a design. I just know that if I ever end up getting one, something significant must have happened in my life.. and that I’d end up with a smack in the face. Skull and crossbones, hardcoore.
Flashdancers. Ahohoho.
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