Yesterday I spent the day at Ohiopyle with my big brother. Ohiopyle sits along the Youghiogheny River in central Pennsylvania, and you can spend hours on the bike trail in the lush woods beside the river. It’s become an annual tradition for me to meet John Michael there and spend the afternoon speeding in the dust.
We’re both well over 50, but we fall into established big brother–little brother patterns immediately whenever we get together. JM always rides ahead of me, and he always pays for lunch. JM drives himself hard on his bike, just as he does in life. He earned a Ph.D. and an MBA before he was 35. He exercises every day at 5am. He runs a company, excels at being a father and a husband, and he can talk to anybody and make them feel heard. As his little brother, I ride in his wake, and focus on keeping up.
It’s been this way my entire life. JM, can I tag along with you and your friends? JM, can we do your paper route together? JM, will you coach my Little League? JM, mom says you have to take me bowling with you.
In high school, JM got me a job in the cafeteria where he worked in Boston. He basically ran the place, even though he was only 17. All the staff loved him, bosses and cashiers alike, and I made sure people knew I was his little brother. I’ll take whatever reflected glory I can get.
Walking to the bus after work one day, I asked him how he got to be such a good person. (No, I didn’t usually say things like that to him, but I was struggling with depression, and feeling more and more desperate for answers.) I asked him about it because he wasn’t always that way. He had dominated me and my sisters when he was younger, taking what he wanted, and doling out a pounding if need be.
But something changed between 10 and 17. I wanted to know what changed him. I was basically asking Why did you stop being an asshole?
His answer: he had learned about altruism at his Jesuit high school, and he had decided he wanted to be there for other people. In every interaction, he would ask himself, What would help this person right now, and can I give that? Even if you couldn’t always give the person what they needed, it was asking the question that made all the difference. He told me I should do the same.
I am not JM. I don’t have his drive. I can’t throw a ball the way he can. I can’t even bike as fast as he does. But what I’ve come to cherish is that I am JM’s brother. I get to witness his life, and sometimes, if he asks me for help, I can give it.
