My brother and I always had trouble getting along growing up. At 18 he went off to the big city for a degree in ‘critical gender theory,’ and never looked back on our small hometown. We’ve been out of touch over the years, and whenever we crossed paths we always got caught in the same darned arguments. This year, our old lady passed on to the next life, god bless her soul, so my brother decided it would be good for the two of us to come together as we welcomed in the year of our Lord, 2025. He, of course, came out to my and my husband’s place—our boys would have torn up his little high-rise shoebox otherwise. I heard his knock on the door and said a humble prayer for things to go smoothly between us.
“Hey, I’m glad you made it. How was the ride through our beautiful country?”
“Not bad! The ride was long but not bad, we had to stop twice to charge up our new EV. We also stopped by the famous Trail of Tears Memorial Monument with the kids—figured we’d sneak in a little history lesson while we’re at it.”
He couldn’t go a second without mentioning some kind of woke crap! I pretended not to hear that mess about the Indians.
“What, are they making gas illegal up there now?” I asked jokingly.
“We just wanted to be a little more environmentally conscious, and the charging gave me time to catch up on some episodes of NPR I had missed. There was a great deep dive on the health benefits of alternative milks.”
“Well my boys are doing just fine with USDA whole milk. Now don’t stand out there in the cold, come on in.”
I sent his son out back to play with our boys while my husband and I gave my brother and his wife a tour of our place, rolling my eyes when they suggested we should plant “native wild grasses” to replace our beautiful American lawn.
I focused on getting dinner ready. I did most of the heavy lifting but my sister-in-law prepared some green beans. She handed me the bowl and I peeled back tin foil before closing it immediately out of instinct.
“What is that smell?” I asked, holding in a gag.
“That would be the rotten fish paste. My husband and I have been making an effort to decolonize our pallets. This recipe comes from the Holudu people of the Harkavia highlands.”
My husband jumped in, “Is that like some kind of Chinese?”
“Not quite,” she responded condescendingly. “But we find the unique flavor profiles help us to resituate our western perspectives and expose us to the beauty in other cultures. Each taste transports us into a blah blah blah…” (I gave up on listening).
“Well there are definitely cultures in there, but I don’t know if they’re the human kind,” I replied smartly.
“Give it a try and see if you like it.”
I feigned a smile, “I will see about that.”
When she left the room I quickly dumped the dish in the trash (outside of course). To get screwy with green beans during the holidays, I couldn’t believe it. We made it through the dinner itself without much argument. I kept things cool and held in my laugh when my brother toasted to his “queer theory book club.” We finished up our meal and moved to the den to watch the football game. Everyone seemed to be getting along until my twerp nephew spoke out.
“Dad, can we turn off this football and change it to RuPaul’s drag race, I want to see which of my favorite queens is slaying, and serving the most mother.”
As soon as the horror of what he said hit me, my brother replied. I completely zoned out in a state of shock, but I’m guessing he said something like: “You’re right my gender-neutral-raised child, football is all just toxically masculine men giving each other concussions. If you want I can put on the Sam Smith and Kim Petras Grammys performance on your iPad. I know it’s your favorite.”
I had to interject.
“Look here. I don’t care about all your racial justice initiatives or your intersectional brunches, but when you come for football…” I gathered myself. “Football is where our country’s story is told and retold, where the real men of America go to battle, earthly men touching the divine on 120 yards of grass. An insult to football is an insult to everything this country stands for.”
I could have easily continued my speech but I was interrupted by my little angel’s voice.
“Mommy, Dolly Parton is on for the half-time show!”
For the first time my brother and I spoke in unison: “I love Dolly…”
There was a pause, we looked each other in the eyes and smiled. Then all at once the whole room smiled and began to sing along to classic lyrics of “9 to 5.”
“What a great perspective on women in the workforce,” my brother said.
I turned to him, beaming, “Oh, you just shut up!”
A few days later my brother departed. While we still have our spats, and probably always will, at least I know now that he loves Dolly Parton like I do. If we both appreciate Dolly Parton, maybe we can learn to appreciate each other, and maybe this whole darned country can heal.
–R. Shivakumar
