I caught the movie adaptation of the classic novel Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, on television this week. It is one of those stories beloved by generations of readers—so beloved the makers of the film dared not stray from the core of the narrative. This is not a story of epic proportions. There is neither great tragedy nor grand adventure. It is not a story of limitless imagination. Rather, it is a story of the day to day, of family, friends, and relationships.
In one of the story’s pivotal moments, two of the four March family sisters at the heart of the story share a final moment. Beth, who has always been the sickly one, turns to the sister who has always been her champion—Jo, the wild tomboy, the one with strong opinions and dreams about writing stories that will stir the passions of her readers. “I never had grand dreams like you, Jo,” Beth explained. “All I ever wanted was to stay at home.” When Beth dies, the family shatters for a short time. The quiet, shy one – she was the calm voice that kept the four sisters together. Their parents were protectors and advisers. But Beth, she was their glue.
Glue
In every group of people, there is a person who is the glue – the one who keeps people together, the one who somehow finds the time to make sure relationships stay strong. They are the connectors. They are invaluable in business and critical in politics. We love them and hate them. They force us to pay attention to all the things we sometimes forget. They demand we forgive when we are still angry, move forward even when we are still hurt. Without them, families and organizations would fall apart. In organizations, this role is often played by the head of the human resources department. In families, it is less clear cut.
My earliest memories include her. Almost before I could properly hold a writing implement, I imagined how to draw her face. It was a very simple face: chubby cheeks, a button nose, a ready grin, eyes stretched to slits by her wide smile, porcelain skin, black hair all askew. Of course, I always ended up with a circle topped with squiggly lines, a semi-circle smile, and two upside down crescents for the eyes. But I always know who that was. She was my constant companion, my friend, my nemesis, my sister.
This week is her birthday. She will spend it at work opening a branch of one of the chains she manages. The rest of us, her friends and her family, will find some way to get to wherever she is. Because, like it or not, she is our glue.
Roles
I am the first child of an eldest child. In my paternal family, I was the oldest of our generation of cousins. To everyone, I was Ate Maya, eldest sister, with all of the burden and authority that entailed. When we were with cousins, and even friends, I was Ate Maya. But when it was just us, the siblings, that got shortened to just “Mai.” There are many explanations for this but, I suspect, it comes simply from the fact that that is what she called me. She was the sibling who somehow kept our motley group balanced.
She is the second child in the family, born a scant 15 months after I was. Like most middle children, she spent much of her childhood in competition with me, routinely dreaming up schemes to make sure that in the two sisters against one dynamic that is almost unavoidable in a family of three girls and a youngest boy all born within 17 months of each other—which was our family dynamic for the 13 years separating the two boys—I would be the one against the two which she led.
I was the bookworm. She was the performer, the natural dancer. I was the plain one. She was the pretty one. Our middle sister was the quiet one, the one who looked like our mom. She was the baby sister. The boy—well, he was special. There was never any comparison.
Labels
I never rebelled against the shorthand labels that the people around us gave us. I felt it was easy. That was who I was. I couldn’t be bothered to think about what to wear or what to do with my hair. I had two left feet and being good at mathematics somehow did not help my rhythm any. Sure, I could hold a melody but I was never comfortable in front of an audience. She was the colorful, social child – the one who made friends easily. She was the one who had an entire gaggle of girls following her around. I was the child sitting in a corner, absolutely amazed there were people who knew I existed. And while I knew some teachers liked me because I did well in exams, there were almost an equal number who despised me because I corrected them in front of my classmates and drew pictures and read storybooks while they were lecturing.
But it was at home where the world became really uneven. In our household, my father was special. His job kept him away most of the time so the few times we actually had him home was special. We had this in common with the March family. And I was his favorite. My brother was special, of course. He was the boy. But I was the one my father talked to. I was his eldest, the one he engaged, the one he entrusted with his nuggets of wisdom.
Balance
My sister, she balanced me. She challenged me. All throughout her childhood, she made it her job to learn everything I learned and beat me at it. And the few times she couldn’t, she found something else she could be better in.
And as much as she competed against me, she held me close. She knew all my friends and kept track of them. And she made sure I knew all her friends. She butted heads with me about everything but told me all her secrets.
When we were very little, I used to call her the Social Welfare Administration. She routinely gave entire loaves of bread to children who looked hungry. Every beggar who knocked on our door were given everything she could lay her hands on. As she grew older, she tempered here decisions. But she is still always the first one who looks for the good in people, even those who hurt her.
In our family, the girls are in Manila and the boys are in California. My brother and she always joke that they each have a younger sibling to nurture but I am the one they both run to. That’s not really true. She is our glue. She keeps us together.
In a world that is constantly trying to tug people apart, people who are connectors, those who find ways to strengthen relationships—they are invaluable. In our family, she is the one. I don’t often tell her, but she is one of my heroes. Happy birthday, Enya!
Readers can email Maya at [email protected]. Or visit her site at http://integrations.tumblr.com.
