“Remember when Susie chokeslammed you because you put all of her thongs on your head at the dinner table?”
“Okay, but she deserved it.”
Us four Krasniqi girls (yes, there are three more of me, I’m sorry or you’re welcome), admittedly a little Kardashian on the outside, were more Fight Club than Full House. For not having a single boy in our midst there sure were a lot of headlocks and left hooks being handed out, some days out of blissful childish enjoyment and others when one sister dared to make a McDonald’s trip and didn’t bring anything back for you “because you were sleeping.” To this day when I’m asked if I’ve been in an after school/bar fight, the answer remains “only with my sisters.”
When you grow up forced to share space and almost everything you own with little people you didn’t choose to do any of this with, you become fiercely overprotective of what is left that is just yours - of what identity you have that isn’t tethered to them. Without any hyperbole, the day I found out my mom was pregnant with my first sibling was maybe the worst day of my up-until-then perfect toddler life. I was so appalled I drew out of the lines of my coloring workbook. I liked my space. I enjoyed the quiet and solitude of being an only child, of having my mother’s undivided attention. Even as a 3 year old I knew the minute my little sister arrived those days would quickly be over. I’d have to share my crayons. I’d have to let her get her sticky hands all over my Barbies. I felt it in my tiny bones, I just knew my mother was going to dress us in matching Macy’s outfits. And I was right.
My mother, upholding the time honored “you can go only if your sister goes with you” tradition, ensured that all of my experiences became shared ones. Being bound to these mini-me’s was my own personal teenaged angst hell. How totally uncool to have to bring along your kid sister to what should have been your first show at Webster Hall, not hers. Dating? Sure, as long as one of your sisters could go too. Gotta hand it to mom- genius of her to save money on babysitters under the guise of “quality sibling time”.
As bad as having to be trailed by those ankle biters was, it paled in comparison to the hell that would break loose once we could fit into each others clothes (didn’t take them too long to catch up to me since, like all eldest daughters, I am the little big sister at 5’1). Every night was “fight night” for four girls eyeing the same pair of Steve Madden platforms. It didn’t matter who owned them, you fools. All was fair in love and war and waking up early enough to snag the chestnut Uggs from underneath your sister’s mattress.
Christ, we had to fight for everything. In our defense, any four girls sharing one bathroom would be driven to violence. We were allotted 5 minutes to shower. By minute 6 someone was ready to yank you by your Herbal Essence’ed hair (my father would joke that this was his experience at Rikers Island too). If this was some kind of Y2K version of the hunger games, the odds were stacked against you and never in your favor.
I moved out as soon as I fucking could. Left my home, left my town, broke up with whatever boyfriend I had. Threw my shit in a truck and waved a middle finger to the north Bronx and that godforsaken bathroom we shared. Happiness was just across the Triborough Bridge, freedom was somewhere down by the Verrazano. The solitude I had yearned for, the silence my central nervous system desperately needed was waiting for me. If I could just figure out this fucking Ikea bed-frame, I could finally get some rest.
Four hours and one six-pack into a losing battle with Swedish ingenuity, I broke down. I called them.
“It’s me, what’re you watching, Jersey Shore or Law & Order: SVU?”
“Sam & Ron broke up again. Wait, shouldn’t you be busy living your life?”
“I am, you sluts. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t crying yourselves to sleep without me over there.”
I’ll deny it if this ever got back to them but... I was beginning to miss them.
That first week living alone, walking in to no one and nothing hits hard when you’re used to a home full of a special brand of dysfunctional love. The hallways no longer echoed with arguments. Or laughter. Or shared memories. You have to start creating that again from scratch, and for yourself.
Many years and some miles between us later, my sisters are my best friends for real now. We talk almost daily. “You’re spoiling the girls too much, mom is driving us crazy, oh and what dress did you want to borrow for that wedding?”
Black eyes, nasty four letter words hurled at each other across the dinner table, sabotaged date nights and ruined favorite tops notwithstanding- those are my sisters. The only women I have ever wanted to kill. And the only women I would kill for.
Hi Sudana, I love reading what you have to say and how you say it. Even though I'm an old man now, I remember. I think I told you in a previous comment that I have two grown daughters who I watched grow, who I reprimanded constantly, who I worried about endlessly, who I threatened when they needed it, who I loved (and still do) with every fiber of my being - and automatically hated and was suspicious of every boy they were in love with temporarily. You bring back those memories for me and I thank you for that. And I thank God, they love each other to this day. Appreciate you. - Jim
This shall be required reading for my 4 girls.
Also, gonna need some sorta hotline to call when they get into the knifing stage. When’s that, 12? 13?