Making my little brother John laugh on my front porch steps in Cleveland, OH, in October 2023.

Poem below.

I’ve wanted a little brother since boyhood.

I asked my mother recently, and she confirmed this to be true.

I didn’t want a replacement for my older sister Emily. I just felt something was missing.

There was something magically appealing about sharing lessons gleaned from life’s challenges (even in those early days).

To be a source of care, a beacon of resilience, a guide. What would I say?

“Don’t listen to them when they call you a fag.”

“Don’t pay attention if dad rolls his eyes when you put gel in your hair or chastises you when you get emotional.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you!”

“It’s okay to cry.”

“Let’s have a sleepover, I’ll make sure nothing happens to you tonight.”

“It’s okay to be scared when they’re shouting.”

The potential to protect, preserve, comfort, and uplift another boy felt like a prize to be treasured.

What better way to navigate life’s tumult retrospectively than to help a younger boy avoid the same frightening moments, mistakes, bullies, heartaches, and betrayals?

A special ilk of leadership and intimacy, a bond of true knowing and unconditional loyalty.

Brotherhood.

An immutable, monumental concept. One that I am amazed I grasped and desired so firmly from such a young age, despite never seeing or experiencing it firsthand.

This craving led me to be outspoken and overeager, to idolize and to invest heavily in other boys — with no thought to gauge their capacity for reciprocity or proclivity for the same trust, sensitivity, and longing I felt.

Of course, I was let down time after time. Each experience in broken boyhood bonds was its own unique, fierce, stinging heartbreak.

Such grief it caused - grief that was inarticulable, for its very presence evoked guilt, shame, fear, mistrust in myself, homophobia, rejection.

Emotions so intense they shaped my world, hammered and chiseled in stone the belief that something was wrong with me.

“I’m not like other boys. I’m not enough like my dad (he has men who admire and respect him. Men who have died with him, for him, in his arms. Would kill for him. I could never.)”

Yet the yearning for connection with other boys was more powerful than these thoughts and feelings.

My soul-compass remained steadfastly pointed towards brotherhood.

The journey was long and turbulent, and at times the needle faltered.

There was oscillation, emotional death, periods of mourning for what could or should have been.

Self-doubt, loathing, and grief grew the size of mountains, weighing on my small boyhood frame, my adolescent shoulders, and eventually the back of my young man’s body.

The boyhood yearning persisted still. It never left, despite periods of dormancy.

It took 21 years for me to meet my little brother.

At first, I was skeptical. I kept my distance. The teenage boy I met was large, athletic, confident, and likable. Jealousy and even disdain flared up.

Admiration, too.

Suspicion that he “fit” so many molds of boyhood and manhood; physical, mental, and social prowess that I didn’t have. He was accepted by other boys and young men alike, in ways I could only dream of.

But as our relationship evolved and my life progressed, so too did my heart open to this boy, this young man.

I learned that behind his soft brown eyes existed a childlike joy - one he felt inhibited from sharing. A joy that had been bullied and discouraged by the men who should’ve been his protectors and champions.

The pain I could see in him, the core wounding of male betrayal, was so resonant that it echoed in the fibers of my being. So I looked harder at this young man.

I learned that his character was that of a natural leader, one who was humble, kind, and service-oriented. A born helper, a fixer, a change-maker.

I began to continuously marvel at his growth, the tenacity he applied to all realms of his life.

Unsurprisingly, a fondness for and fierce defensiveness of this young man ignited in my heart, and its flame has grown brighter year after year.

Despite his wounds and clear reason to mistrust any love coming from another man, he trusted in me and opened himself up to the possibility of yet another hurt.

I found my little brother.

One of the greatest joys of my life has been to mutually heal with him. To carve a permanent place for him in my heart. To watch him grow. To counsel and console him. To offer him affection, support, and intimate care in ways I see he has been deprived. And in so doing, he has also been a great teacher of mine. A source of love and candor, accountability and clarity.

I have discovered more about myself, and reveled in the kindred, parallel qualities we share. The admiration I felt for my little brother was a reflection of how I felt about myself.

I have found new fires that exist only so I might walk through them for my little brother.

Who would’ve ever imagined that my little brother would be my namesake?

Thank you to my little brother John.