Content warning: this post makes references to sexual abuse and incest

I have been thinking about writing this for over 2 years, ever since I started this blog. Every time I thought about it, I shied away because of how painful it is to think about. This is about the most impactful person in my life, for better and worse. This is about my brother, and all the things he meant to me: protector, abuser, elder, tormentor, rival – all of the above. To reveal all sides of him is to look at him as highly imperfect and a product of his environment. Which is another way to say that hurt people hurt people. I cannot talk about my loving older brother without also mentioning his abuse of me. I cannot talk about his torment of me without also mentioning his protection of me, serving as a firewall against our parents. James contained multitudes: some of them good, some of them insufferable.

It’s hard to know what my first memory of James was, but I’m pretty sure it was when I cut pictures out of his children’s encyclopedia, for which he hit me. I was 3 (he was 8). Or maybe it was that same year when I broke his microscope that he was given for Christmas. Whichever it was, it wasn’t positive for either of us. For most of our childhood, James was kind of absent – either buried in a book or doing some other quiet activity alone, away from me – definitely away from me. We didn’t interact much, and when we did neither of us found it particularly enjoyable. As we got older, and I became “human” that changed somewhat, but not always for the best. I remember screaming matches at various times, like when we were in the car waiting for our parents to come back with groceries, and I only stopped shouting at him because I noticed passersby looking at us disapprovingly.

I also remember each of us witnessing the other get whipped by our father, as one of us would lie still, not daring to move, while we listened to the other crying out in pain. As much as we both resented our father, James was the chosen one. He was the smart one. He was the “heir”. Of the 2 of us, he was the one who most closely resembled our father: the arrogance; the moral certainty; the condescension. James was the one destined to follow in our father’s footsteps in the ministry. I was the slow one. The one that everyone worried about because I talked late. I walked late. I was perpetually in James’ shadow. But I did have one thing going for me: at least my eyesight was good. James needed glasses from the age of 8.

Puberty was a very difficult time for James, and he wanted someone that he could take out his frustrations on (this will become more clear later). I was a pretty convenient target at the age of 8 or 9. Sometimes he would start undressing in front of me so that I would “be quiet”. At other times, he would trap me on the floor and give me back massages that seemed… weird to me at the time. Sometimes he would undress to show me his erect penis. Sometimes he would ask me if I wanted to “look at sperm under a microscope”. This continued for about a year, until one day when our parents came home during such an episode (James hid before they could see what he was doing), and I blurted out, “James keeps running around naked!” They were astonished and asked him why, and all he could come back with was that it was the only way to get me to “stop bothering him.” It stopped – until much later.

James also had difficulty making friends, and it didn’t help that we were basically hermetically sealed in a bubble of our parents’ creation. It also didn’t help that we moved frequently due to our father taking on new positions in different churches every 2 or 3 years. Eventually, they took us out of the local public school when we were 8 and 13, respectively, and started a Christian school to keep us away from the heathens and the atheist, godless schools. In their minds, we needed to be protected from the abortions, the gay agenda, the teaching of evolution, and other manifestations of secular humanism. In short, we needed to be schooled under God, where we could pray in school without persecution. And as long as we remained in this hermetic bubble, we were fine. We never had to worry about what the outside world thought of us. This is the environment that led James to profess that he, too, would lead a life as a paster, a “warrior for God”. This is the world where our Father would be unchallenged in his rule over our house, and where he could beat us however often he pleased. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but as I write this, the word that comes to mind is “claustrophobic”. Our school was tiny, starting with 6 students in the first year, and then ultimately growing to 15 at its largest. There was one other boy James’ age and none my age. James and I both tested high on academic assessments for our age, which came as a surprise to me. We always knew James was smart, but until that moment, I never considered the possibility for myself. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but looking back, I can’t help but notice that we were the perfect little examples of God’s goodness that our parents were only too happy to use for their purposes. It was awfully convenient that they could start a new school and shine a positive light on themselves on account of our academic excellence. And since we believed that good things happen to those with the strongest faith, it must have been true that God was blessing us directly.

Every school day we would start by pledging allegiance to the American flag as well as the Christian flag. The curriculum was “Accelerated Christian Education” or “ACE” for short. It ticked all of the right-wing Christian nationalist boxes: the earth was 6,000 years old; McCarthy was a misunderstood anti-communist hero; gay bad; and of course, wait until they put a ring on it. Like any quasi-cult setting, as long as you don’t think too hard about the outside world or venture out into it, life seemed fine. And for a teenager who didn’t know any better, James seemed fine, until he wasn’t. There were many nights where James would be crying for reasons I didn’t understand. All I could hear were vague references to not abiding by God’s principles. I couldn’t say for sure, but looking back, this was probably related to his inability to square his sexuality with our biblical teaching. Our world came crashing down when James was 16, and our father suffered a mental collapse, leading to his resignation and the eventual loss of our house. The next fall, we transferred to a larger Christian school for James’ Junior year, where, for the first time since 7th grade, James had classmates his age and gender. I know he had difficulty fitting in, but at least it was in the same “moral universe” with the same ACE curriculum that we had used previously, giving him at least some sense of familiarity, as terrible as it was.

That change was nothing compared to the following year when we moved – yet again – to our mother’s hometown, and James had to endure his final year of high school in a full-on public school. We went from hermetically sealed christian nationalism with very few friends of our own age, to all the trappings of a traditional American high school, with proms, football, and, of course, bullying. It was a whirlwind. While it was unsettling for me, it must have been tragic for James. Within 2 years, he went from being on a path towards the ministry, which was the ultimate calling in the only world he knew, to having the rug pulled out from under him. Everything we thought we knew – everything that had been important to us – was now gone. I know James had a horrific senior year in school. I would often see him standing alone, biding his time during lunch hour and waiting for class to start again so he could go back inside. He did have some positive moments, such as when he acted in the school play, something that wasn’t possible given our previous school’s tiny size. But those moments were outweighed by the craziness we endured.

The reason we had moved back to my mother’s hometown was because her family still lived there, and her dad, our grandfather or “pawpaw”, had an auto parts business with a warehouse and an unused storefront. They also had an unused trailer home in their yard, where we lived for the first year we were there. The warehouse came in handy, because after our father resigned as pastor, we were left looking for a way to make money. Despite many other options – our mother was a licensed hairdresser, and our father had a bachelor’s degree – they decided it was best to start a craft furniture business. For the previous year, we made do with a small living space and equipment wherever we could fit it. Once again, it was awfully convenient for our parents that James and I were capable and handy, useful for the next great adventure our parents undertook. James proved useful at cutting wood that our mother would hand-paint, and I proved useful for sanding the rough edges off of said wood in preparation for decorating and painting. As an 11-12 year old, my fingers were small and nimble, which was perfect for the job at hand. At 16-17, James was able to learn on the job well enough for us to make passable products for sale. It was a family operation, and James and I were brought along for the ride. No one stopped to ask if this was a good idea – this was the path laid before us, and this is what we did.

That was James’ junior and senior year – veering from one extreme to the other, fulfilling one more obligation of our parents’ will, without consideration of the impact it had on us. Eventually, it came time for James to go to college, and he was only too happy to go somewhere far away, about a 6 hours drive. But of course, there would be one more episode of drama before that could happen. Our father was unhappy being the “helpmate” to our mother’s business and somehow got involved in a relationship with our local pastor’s wife. I swear I’m not making this up. I’ll never forget when our father dropped this bomb on me and James the summer he graduated from high school. He told us they were separating and would probably divorce. Both of us spent the rest of the day crying – it was probably the closest we had felt to each other.

James’ college years were no less dramatic. He started out on a scholarship but quickly lost it by the end of his freshman or beginning of sophomore year. And from there he went downhill pretty quickly. Losing the scholarship meant needing to work to pay for school, which meant less time for studying, which meant spiraling further into an abyss of depression and anxiety. It was during his visits on vacations that the next episodes of abuse began. In the middle of the night, I could feel him touching me. When I woke up, he would reel backwards, pretending to have been sleeping. Or when I was taking a shower, I could see him peering beneath the door, looking at me. This happened several times, and I never said anything. I didn’t want to cause any trouble, and besides, he was already having a tough time, and the last thing I wanted was to be the final source of condemnation for him. I knew our parents would use this against him. As his grades and prospects for graduation spiraled, our parents decided that he needed a change of scenery, and thus he began his military career at 21. After he left home that last time, he never abused me again.

For the next couple of years, I didn’t see him much. He was eventually stationed in Germany, where he stayed for a couple of years. I graduated from the same high school as him and went to college. During my junior year, I went home during a break, and James and I had a heart-to-heart conversation for the first time in years. He told me he was gay; that he had been for as long as he could remember; and that he had tried to suppress it for years. It all made sense – the nights spent anxiously crying over God’s principles; the gap between his sexuality and his upbringing; the need to take out his frustrations on others, namely me. It had been at least 5-6 years since the last episode of abuse, and I hadn’t thought about it since the last time. What he said next deeply troubled me – after telling me he was gay, he mentioned that he did some things to me that “weren’t cool, bro”. Again, I hadn’t thought about any of this in years. I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t know what to say. Whenever anyone talks about how sexual abusers can re-traumatize their victims when they apologize, this is what they’re referring to. Whether I was healthily coping up to that point is anyone’s guess, but after hearing this, I definitely wasn’t coping well. After I returned to school, I immediately sought out counseling to help process what I had relearned. The summer after junior year, I attended an exchange program in Germany. James picked me up at the airport, and we spent time together at the army base where he was stationed. This is probably the best time we ever spent together. I loved getting to know his quirky army buddies, and they all seemed to genuinely care for each other. I had never seen him happier. I think that was probably the last time I ever saw him in a state of joy.

At some point over the next year, he was transferred from Germany to Texas because he wanted to complete his computer science degree, and there was a promotion on offer. He was also under suspicion from the army of being gay. This being 1994-1995, it was still the era of “don’t ask, don’t tell” and your fellow military personnel could turn you in, often because they themselves were under suspicion. He and another member of the Army, a lesbian woman, decided to enter into an arrangement of convenience. They would be together to thwart suspicion of both of them. To really sell it, they decided to get married. I learned of this during my senior year, and the wedding would transpire over Christmas break. We still have photos: the cutting of the cake; the tuxedos; our smiling parents (hers didn’t bother to show). Having spoken to him beforehand, I knew everything. My job was to be the best man and to not say anything. He needn’t worry – the last thing I wanted to do was make our parents angry. Having successfully convinced everyone that this was, in fact, a real marriage between a man and a woman, I returned to school to finish my senior year.

The next few years get a little fuzzy, and we didn’t stay in touch very much. But one thing that definitely happened is my brother’s wife, who was also an addict, took James’ money, ran away, and left James with no ability to pay the rent. In debt, he was also discharged from the Army, but I couldn’t say why – did someone rat on him? I don’t know. All I know is, he was desperate, had no money or job, and called our parents. And then the truth came out. This was 1996, a little over a year after the wedding. I remember an angry call from our father, “Did you know about this the whole time???” he demanded to know. I responded as calmly as I knew how. I think I mentioned that Jesus and John were probably lovers, and he didn’t like that suggestion at all. From there, the talks and visits grew further apart. He came out to my wedding – of course, he was penniless and had no means to get from the airport to our location. I remember getting a mysterious page and calling the number, where he answered from an airport payphone. (1997, y’all!). I picked him up and drove him back, and I relayed the most recent drama from our parents – 1 week prior, they decided they weren’t going to come to the wedding. And then, days later, they changed their mind again and decided to come anyway. I mentioned this to James and wondered why they were having such an issue with my wedding. I’ll never forget his response: “Because you’re living in sin with a Chinese girl, and you’re getting married in the gay capitol of the world, where your gay brother is coming to visit!” It honestly hadn’t occurred to me, but I had to agree. Looking back, I can see another reason – they were probably still in a state of shock over James’ “sham” wedding and were skeptical about my relationship. That thought didn’t occur to either of us. As far as we were concerned, that was ancient history and not something we even considered.

The next few years were a series of mishaps, as he lived near our parents in an uneasy truce. I suppose I should give them credit for not cutting him off entirely, but that’s a pretty low bar. He went through several episodes of depression, requiring medication. He had lived in Texas again, then spiraled through depression and despair. After getting treatment, he wrote me a lovely hand-written letter, explaining his situation, and how he was managing. He had been on his way to the naval intelligence academy after scoring high on entrance exams. But then that fell through because he hadn’t completed his degree. It was a terrible blow for a guy who hadn’t caught a break in a long time. He lived with our parents for the next few years, and then met his life partner and moved in with his family.

If I’m being completely honest, I was never a big fan of Romel. He was (still is) a Filipino diva. But once James and Romel came together, they never split. Over the next decade plus, they made a family. James, for the first time, experienced what a supportive family looked like. These was the sister, the nephews, and a cousin or two. For the first few years, there was the mother-in-law, and there was a large extended family. I would see James occasionally – he and Romel visited from time to time; he came out for my first child’s birth; we would call from time to time. Because he never quite caught up on his finances, I would get the occasional call from a collector. But his life seemed relatively peaceful for the first time in his life. Unfortunately, his health suffered, as he grew from 200 to 350 pounds over the span of 10 years, and nobody knew why. We all joked that it was too much lumpia.

Every now and then, James would call. He eventually moved to a location closer to our parents, which I always thought was a bad idea. James was the only person in the world who experienced the same craziness as me. He was the only one who was there that I could talk to. When I needed someone to vouch for the absolute insanity of our childhood, he would confirm my suspicions. “Wasn’t that crazy?” “Yes, quite.” We never talked about his abuse of me. That was a thing of the past. We would, however, talk about our parents’ hijinks. For example, I remember asking why they never planned or saved money. Or why they decided to buy a house and get a mortgage through an individual friend, and not a bank. His answer was pretty direct and matter of fact: “I think they were so convinced that the rapture was around the corner, that they didn’t see a need for any planning. They thought they wouldn’t have to worry about it.” James was very determined to keep a connection to our weird, dysfunctional family. I had grown further away, but James was the reason for me to come back.

In spring of 2014, our parents finally decided to visit James and Romel at their home. This was a first. I was surprised and a little elated. I remember thinking that maybe everything was going to be ok after all. Maybe our parents would actually grow up and become decent people. Observing from afar, over Facebook, I saw smiling faces, lots of food, and something that approached hope. Unfortunately, this would prove to be the last carefree moment of joy. One day, in August of that year, I saw a post from James on Facebook. He wrote that he most likely had cancer and would need help covering medical bills. I called him immediately and chastised him for making me find out on facebook instead of calling. He mentioned that they were still waiting for final results, but it was most likely cancer, and it was very likely late stage. The next four months were a blur. His cancer progressed rapidly, and he was already stage 4+ at diagnosis. His health was declining, and we didn’t know how long he would last. We – my family, our parents – all went to visit for Thanksgiving. James had lost his hair and had developed a cough that grew progressively worse. He couldn’t sleep at night. Despite that, I have fond memories of that visit. Smoked turkey. More food than the countertops would hold. Our kids were playing with their kids. Karaoke.

I came back after Christmas, and in that month, James’ situation had grown far worse. Romel brought him to the hospital on Christmas day, and he didn’t seem likely to leave. I remember talking to our mother before visiting him. She talked about how frail he looked and how she was worried that if they operated on him to attempt a last-ditch surgery, he wouldn’t be able to withstand the procedure. Even hearing her description, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when I made it to James’ hospital room. There lay a shell of the man I knew. A 46-year-old appearing in a 65-year-old’s costume. In between morphine-induced sleep and impaired cognition, he would have a few hours of lucid thought, and we took the opportunity to talk, as people often do when the end is near. He knew he was fading fast. He talked about how he needed me to take care of his affairs after he was gone. Originally, I was going to go back home before new year’s eve, but I had a feeling I would need to stay for a few days more, so I changed my return flight. Because it was the week between Christmas and New Year’s, it was difficult to find a doctor to talk to and get any definitive information. When I finally did talk to a docter, he took me in the hallway and assured me it would be a matter of hours or days, but not weeks. James’ liver and other organs were starting to fail. It would not be much longer. James wanted to fight until the end, even though it was fruitless. He was requesting information on emergency surgery, to cut out more tissue and possibly entire organs. He wanted to know more about new chemotherapy techniques based in DNA sequencing. On New Years Day, 2015, a doctor called all family members into the room with James for a meeting. As James went through an exhaustive list of things they could try, the doctor held his hand and firmly told him, no, he would soon be dead, and it would be pointless to try invasive procedures at this point. There was no going back now. This was the last call, the final hours. There was nothing they could do, and they weren’t going to try. Ever the arrogant know-it-all, even until the end, James protested and still demanded to hear other options, but to no avail.

Soon after that, the doctor left, and James and I were alone again in his room. Our parents had decided to drive back home, which was an hour away. James and I talked again, for the last time. He was heartbroken. Not just because he was dying, but because his greatest desire – to experience selfless love from our parents, and to be accepted for who he was – was never going to happen. All of his attempts to reconcile with them were in vain. It wasn’t going to happen. To watch someone come to that realization on their literal death bed, that their life’s central was not going to be fulfilled, is the most heartbreaking moment I have ever witnessed. I remember that conversation well. James talked about how our father’s visits over the past year were a nice start in a better direction, but they never came to a mutual understanding, and he never approved of James’ “lifestyle”. And then I said, “but there’s always mom.” He sighed, “She’s just as bad. She just puts a prettier face on it.” Up until that moment, I had always conceived of our parents in very simple terms: dad was the “bad one” and mom was the “good one”. Dad was the one who yelled and screamed. Mom was the one who softened the blows and evened things out. As soon as he said this – “she’s just as bad” – my entire worldview changed. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it, but once I saw, I couldn’t unsee. He was absolutely right. There was no “good one” and “bad one” – they were a team. Each enabled the other. It took me 41 years, but I eventually faced the truth. From that moment on, nothing would ever be the same.

Later that night, James’ blood oxygen level dipped below 80%, and they wheeled him into the ICU. That was the last time I saw him conscious, as he lay in his bed, gasping for air as they placed the oxygen mask across his face and wheeled him out of the room. We got a call early in the morning. They had tried to intubate James, but fluid came gushing out, he coded, and they brought him back, but he was unconscious. Romel and I went to the ICU. He was very peaceful. We each took a moment with him, told him we loved him, and that it was ok for him to move on. Soon after, he coded again, and we instructed the nurses not to resuscitate. And that was it.

James’ story is one of conflict, pain, and loss, but also survival and, ultimately, some joy. He was exasperating at times, like when he criticized my gumbo for not being “authentic”. Or when he would talk down to me because he was jealous. Sometimes he was just mean. But in the end, I forgave him. He had many faults, but he was always there, struggling to maintain a connection, to build family, even where one didn’t exist. Our relationship was complicated, but he was my connection to the family. Without him, there is no family to connect with. I always thought he was foolish to keep trying to maintain a relationship with our parents, but I can’t fault him for that. It meant more to him than anything else, and yet ultimately, his own flesh and blood, his biological family, failed him. They weren’t there when he needed them most. They never were.