She Inspires Me, This Girl I Hate

The woman who inspires me most is a woman whom I have often professed to absolutely despise. Dear readers beware! This essay is no heart-warming tale about a valiant old grandmother or selfless missionary worker. This is a story of jealousy and competition, a twisted cycle of hatred, love, and inspiration that has been a part of my life since I was born. You see, I have the great privilege -- and deep misfortune -- of being the brother of a prodigy.

My older sister entered the world a year and a half before I did, the first of many races in which she would emerge the victor. Of course, it wasn't a contest then. She was not yet Robyn the Prodigy, whose accomplishments eclipsed my own. She was only Robyn, my sister and playmate, my guide and my protector. My earliest memory of Robyn is of her stroking my hair and reading me a story. I sometimes wonder if she, too, remembers that moment. I hope so. It's nice to remember that before we were rivals, we were friends -- that there was a time when she would read to me and stroke my hair with tiny hands.

I am me

Being the brother of Robyn Thom is something like walking around with a large bird on my head -- it is impossible to forget that she is there, even if I cannot see her. It is inevitable, on the first day of a new school year, that at least one of my teachers will glance at his or her attendance list and say, "Thom....hmm...you wouldn't happen to be Robyn's brother, would you?"

Said teacher will then proceed to rattle off a list of Robyn's achievements, which include winning the international science fair, inventing a new type of plastic, swimming competitively at a national level, achieving a near-perfect score on the SAT, and, most recently, gaining an acceptance to Harvard University. I will then smile and suppress the almost irresistible urge to smack that teacher with a binder. No, I always want to say. My name is not Robyn's Brother. My blood may whisper her name, but I am not only a shadow. I am me.

Intense competition

When I was seven years old, I overheard my father say, "Yes, sir, my daughter is born to do great things." Someone replied, "What about your boy?" My father just laughed. At nine, Robyn was already a winning competitive swimmer and figure skater, straight-A student, and an excellent pianist. I was a skinny little boy who was bullied by his classmates, and had to be pushed into the water before I would learn to swim. It was that moment, I think, that I began to hate my sister. She was everything I wanted to be -- someone my father was proud of. That was when I promised myself that I would surpass Robyn -- that someday I would be the child everyone looked at admiringly, and she would be the child that everyone pitied.

The next nine years were an intense competition. Every time I studied for a test or played the piano, every time I went to a swim practice or a music festival, I did it not for myself, but because I wanted to beat my sister. Each effort was in vain. Robyn threw herself into any activity with a ferocious determination and a raw talent that was almost frightening at times. My report cards unfailingly received straight As, but hers would be in the high 90s. I would win a local music competition, but she would get a gold medal at a national swim meet. Our rivalry would often erupt in vicious fights over things like who would set the table for dinner, fights which could result in us not speaking to each other for a week.

When sister comes home

Our last, and biggest, argument was less than a year ago. I don't even remember how it began. We screamed the most horrible things at each other; I remember telling her that I hated her. That I was glad she was going to Boston for university because I couldn't stand living with her. She told me that I was worthless. A local newspaper had recently printed an article detailing her achievements, and I ripped it to pieces. It was over, I thought. I was through with trying to prove that I was just as good as my famous sister. I was through. For a moment, there was this feeling of tremendous triumph, like I was free of an enormous weight. And then I just felt empty.

Now that she's gone, her absence is palpable. I feel as though I've lost something, which is funny, because really, she's still all around me. Her collection of medals still jangles proudly in our living room at the slightest breeze, her trophies gleam mockingly from the mantelpiece. At school, people still come up to me and ask if it's true that Robyn will compete in the next Olympic trials for swimming. It's as if, now that she's no longer living with us, I can suddenly see more clearly: I can see that I need her. I can see that it is my struggle to prove that I am as good as she is that has inspired me all this time. It is her fierce determination; her will to dominate and succeed that has been reflected in me.

When my sister comes home for Christmas, there are some things I would like to tell her, but probably won't because they are too awkward to say. Somehow, though, I think she'll know what I mean. They are: I resent you. I love you. You infuriate me. And most of all, you inspire me.

Tomorrow: How to survive the drunken uncle at your holiday gathering.

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