A tribute to my siblings by Jenne-Wil Visscher

To my dear sisters and brother.

For some reason, having 6 siblings sort of becomes an identity marker at a place like UCU. Which is odd. But when somebody asks what it was like, I usually tell them about one of three things. 

1. It was never, ever quiet in that house. 

2. What is privacy? My room didn’t even have a door.

3. The bathroom.

Sharing one bathroom between two ‘grown-ups,’ five antsy teens who are always down for an argument, an unhinged 8-year-old, and a bratty 6-year-old (it is I) could be tricky at times. In those ‘golden days,’ during the time it was still ‘the seven of us,’ we had a rule that no more than three people could be in that confined, musty space at the same time. We’d bickered and jabbed each other with so many elbows and greasy fingers in there that Mother was sick of it. This rule was law. Not that I had to juggle this task for long. The oldest left for university when I was 6, and no. 2 when I was 8. It's funny how a time I have so few memories of is a part of ‘my past’ I long held to be sacred. Even into my young adult life, I persisted with this belief. It haunted me, knowing that I was left with only a few scraps of ‘memories’ to nibble on for the rest of my life, because of sheer bad luck in the birth order! 

During Sinterklaas celebrations, the one night I looked forward to all year, I relished in the unadulterated nostalgia when the poems made an entrance. The poets would turn in their graves, surely, but it was the most anticipated part of the evening. We would cackle until our bellies ached and our cheeks were flushed, and my bedtime was distant history. On those particular nights, Mother would make hot chocolate, and we got to enjoy a rare and exorbitant luxury of huge chunks of almond-filled pastry from an actual bakery. For that annual occasion, the two eldest would not return to their sad excuse of a student sublet, but would stay the entire weekend. We would end up having to brush our teeth simultaneously, some trying to access the sink, two sitting on the bathtub rim, one on the toilet with a Suske & Wiske comic book on their lap, the others leaning against the washing machine. The bathroom was a lively mess, and I rarely felt happier. 

At 9 years old, that lovely old bathroom would become my sanctuary one night. And my eyes wandered off to the grey-ish tiles, with their black veins spreading, distracting me from the screams and thunderous fists. And when it went quiet, the fear relented. And the dark crept in, and the washing machine stopped rattling against my back. But sibling no. 6, still my archenemy at the time, tiptoed to the door to hand me a clementine and a book. You offered me a small escape, which I greedily clasped onto.

I remember when no. 2 got married, I bawled like a baby on the couch that morning, holding her photograph, feeling like it was the beginning of the end; our family was at the edge of the abyss with her officially leaving the nest, our ‘matrie’. Our fortress. The wedding itself is mostly a blur in my memories, although I can still recall the 21-year-old bride crying in our smelly bathroom the night before, and His phone ringing – and Him answering it – while they were exchanging their vows. I was ten, wore shoes with Velcro, my teeth and hair were the same color, and I had yet to go through ‘the talk.’ I was blissfully unaware of how deeply fractured our family already was at that stage. In fact, it was already too late. Too late for me to solve the Problem. And for years, I was convinced I could.  

One day, when I was 12, I came home from school and rushed straight to that trusty old bathroom. That day, when nos. 1 & 2 were barely around anymore, my life had changed. I remember silently undressing, putting the blood-stained skirt in the washer, and doing what I had watched five of you do in that bathroom countless times. I didn’t know exactly what a period was, but I sure knew how to deal with it. Thank God I had 5 sisters. I wasn’t scared, but determined to move on and keep it a secret. Then, several days later, no. 4 saw me change pads, and you did something I will always be grateful for. You bought me cake, we celebrated, and gave me a present. It was a ring with a heart-shaped gem. Just for me. 

For years, I felt betrayed. I felt so, so angry about all of you leaving me behind, never coming to visit, when no. 6 and I had no one to fend for us. I used to think I was owed something. An explanation, at least. Perhaps even an apology. It is a lonely kind of grief, mourning people who are still alive. We shared something so rare, so special. Why did you run away?

A few weeks ago, I graduated. Sort of. I walked onto a stage, in a packed theater, all dressed up with a pretty smile plastered on my face, and they gave me a fancy scroll – without a diploma. Anyways. 

When I looked at the crowds in front of me and heard the loud cheers of hundreds who came to support their loved ones, I couldn’t help but think: I wish 6 of those seats were filled with your presence. Instead, I only met the eyes of one, our history as archenemies long forgotten. I never reminisce about ‘the golden days’ anymore. Because they never existed. It was some illusion of nostalgia I had constructed in my mind, just to have something to hold on to. Sometimes, I do feel envious of my younger self. She could easily wander off to faraway realms and mute her surroundings, like floating underwater. For some, the truth can simply be unbearable. I know you were scared and believed it best to keep your distance. I had to learn this the hard way. It was wrong to expect help from you, mistaking you for adults, while you were just kids – like me.