A Closet Sexist Essay Research Paper My
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A Closet Sexist Essay, Research Paper My brother was the tallest man alive seven years ago. I know this for a fact because it?s not true now and humans notice what surprises them. I rarely look at Jose Luis now but when I do, I am sometimes startled that he does not stretch looming above all for seven feet as he does in my vague memories. When I was very young and only the members of my family had a place in my consciousness, I was extremely proud of my strong, tall brother whom was on the surface, the family?s pillar of strength. Esther, my older sister, and me would sometimes absurdly pretend to be his mother, she remembers though I no longer have those memories; we would play and giggle on my mother?s bed. Today, Jose Luis and I are separated by deep bitterness that is more an unspoken tradition and the residue of an old fight than anything else. We live in the same house though I rarely see him and never speak with him. Somewhere along the road for reasons I can only vaguely remember and which have in importance with time we stopped talking and it is not at all the five-year age difference that caused this change. I felt a deep resentment for him that has faded today but now it no longer matters. My young mind formed hurtful perceptions and eventually it seemed to as that the root of all my problems was my brother. We moved to our second apartment when I was eight years. My father separated with a thin wall the largest of our two bedrooms to allow for my sister and I to have a room of our own. I hated the cramped space that had to fit the small lives of my sister and me; hated how it always seemed that my brother was preferred. His tiny room was all the less tiny because of the sister he didn?t have to share with and it made so little sense to me that two existed in the same space occupied by one. It also seemed that while my sister and I were neglected of our parents love, my brother was showered with it as well as concrete representations of that love. My father who could not understand or particularly like his quiet daughters after the age of six bestowed all love and attention on his tall laughing son. When my sisters and I received dresses, he received stereos and new TVs and his own illegal cable box. I know my brother paid for some of these things on his own as, to my mother?s exultant pride, he worked a few hours each week at a supermarket. Esther and I had only the option of fighting for the TV in the living room as my brother guarded jealously from his sisters everything he owned. We always wandered to Jose?s side when he was not home. My sister would stretch comfortably in the bed and I would sit stiffly at the very edge in paranoia. If the front door was opened and slammed as it always was by the adults of our house (my brother included), we would turn of the TV and run to our sides. My sister reluctantly and with straying glances at the bed and I hurriedly angry at my brother just for being home. It was not in m sister?s nature to hate and she did not feel as keenly as I the feeling that we were like beggars. My brother was 11 when we emigrated from Dominican Republic and half of his life had been lived there whereas mine began the second we departed the airplane. He had memories of names and places that I did not and these common experiences endeared him to my parents. They could share letters and phone calls of news with him while I couldn?t remember any of them. But what most separated my brother and I was simply that he was a boy and I was a girl. In the distant world that my family lives in men are the very essence of gods. And we were always trained to serve him. I did not understand why my mother cleaned his room and served his food when she laughed in annoyance if we requested the same. My father directed all complaints about domestic affairs to the women of the house. My brother did not take turns washing the dishes with my sister and I.