Black Like Me

by Jayson Scott Musson

When I was young I wanted to murder my older brother. I had it all planned out. I was going to break open the brakelight on the back of his Suzuki Samurai and run the wires into the gas tank so that when he started his car, it would explode—an idea I got from TV.

The only problem with this plan was that my bedroom was right above the garage, meaning I’d also die in the explosion meant to kill just my brother. So he stayed alive. And he used this reprieve to deliver his regular brotherly beatings and verbal abuse. Put simply, my brother was a real cocksucker.

Since my father was “no longer around” (as they say in sad books), my brother took it upon himself to become the authority figure in our home.

As he was a rather portly fellow, one of his favorite pastimes was pinning me to the ground while I was watching cartoons. He’d sit on me for the duration of the program and laugh at all the funny parts and say, “Jay! Aw man! I can’t believe you’re missing this! Fuck, man! DuckTales is hilarious today!”

After a half-hour or so of this punishment he’d get up and tell me it was time for me to do my homework. I’d argue that TaleSpin was on next and since I’d missed DuckTales, he should let me watch it. But he’d just pin me down again, his breath smelling of Elio’s pizza, and yell at me for questioning his authority.

Further requests would only get him more angry and earn me a beating along with one of his many stupid-ass monologues: “I’m the king of this fucking house. You think mom runs this shit? Nah, I do, and no fat fuck [that’s me] is going to question me in my fucking house!”

My mother, charged with the burden of raising three sons without a patriarch, was out in the world breadwinning. Out of respect for her day, I never brought up the various abuses my older brother laid against my younger brother and myself. Beaten by her work day and life-draining daily commute, what audaciousness it would’ve been to barge into her bedroom after work—this woman’s only time to herself—and begin listing the things a 13-year-old thought unjust.