A Letter to My 5-year-old Niece on Brothers

I’ve been thinking about men a lot lately. Thinking about what it might feel like to be walking around with an XY pair in 2017. What it might be like to be male in a time when pay gaps are acknowledged but not solved, when employers can still discriminate based on ones reproductive health decisions, and "smile beautiful" is still too often defended as flattery.

We've gotten good at calling out the unacceptable ones. Our president, that coworker, that guy on the street who said that thing not worthy of repeat.

But what about the other ones? The men standing with both feet firmly planted in the land of feminism, the land of equality. The ones (like, for example, Reid Hoffman, and Mark Ruffalo) who support, who stand up. The ones who aren't afraid to step outside their own culturally expected gender roles and never shrink in the face of strong women. The ones who consider their words because they understand how language shapes behavior. The ones who think and listen and consider and love and care.

And what about the men who, even growing up in this new time, understand the deep roots of all this? The ones who don't point to successful women as proof that gender inequality no longer exists, but instead knowingly understand those are women who succeeded despite working in system that was neither designed for nor by them. The men who know those are women who fought hard — for their salaries, their promotions, their voice, their lifestyle, their respect. The men who know that those are women who persisted.

I’m grateful to know many of these men. And when I think of them, I think also of my 8 year old nephew, growing so fast. This sweet, considerate boy who treats his little sisters with such big respect. This boy who is already setting their expectations around how boys treat girls, how people treat people.

Our sibling experiences shape our worldview. And I know how much nephew’s example will matter to his sisters because I know how much my own brothers example mattered to me.

Brothers. The boys who see us at our best and worst and always look us right in the eye. The boys who aren't afraid of the box of tampons under the shared sink. The boys who fight fairly with us and support our collective fight for fairness.

In honor of all our brothers, below is a letter to my young niece, Hadley. The things I want her to know about the value of her own brother, Aiden.

—

We impart what we know. I’m raising my son to be a feminist because he will be a better person for it. Instilling the value of gender equality from birth means that he will support his sister, his friends, and his daughters, should he ever have them. It means he will never be threatened by strong women; rather he will be emboldened to be a better him when challenged by an equal of the opposite sex. —Elyse Hogue

Dear Hadley,

Eight years ago, on a day much sunnier than this one, I woke up to a text from your grandma: “Sarah’s in labor. He’s coming.”

I bolted out of bed, threw on clothes, and went straight to the airport. I got on the first flight home and made it back just in time to meet the most remarkable dark-haired boy I’d ever seen.

You probably know by now that your brother was a very unexpected surprise. The most wonderful, life-changing, family-changing surprise I have ever known. He’s a gift to all of us. A gift to you and your sister, too.

Just like Aiden, my dark-haired older brother (your Uncle Nick) was the first boy I ever knew. He lived across the hall from me for the first sixteen years of my life.

Truthfully, for most of those years, we didn’t get along very well.

It might be easiest to explain in list form.

Growing up, Nick: Went to the School for the Talented and Gifted; could do complicated math problems in his head; never complained — especially not about food or the texture of food; played the saxophone and sang in choir.

Growing up, I: Went to regular public school; couldn’t figure out the answer to blue divided by green; wouldn't drink milk/touch mashed potatoes/eat anything green; was tone deaf — even the best music felt scratchy to my ears.

Because I spent most of my youth wearing boys clothes and having a boys haircut, strangers often thought your uncle Nick and I were brothers. But even as brothers, our commonalities didn’t align. He had plenty of soccer gear but was without any good NBA jerseys. I didn’t wear his hand-me-downs because I liked my clothes baggier and button-free. I did a middle part, he did his on the side.

Nothing bothered Nick. Everything bothered me.

So we grew up doing different things different ways. And we grew apart.

Then, four years ago, in our late twenties, something magical happened.

Nick and I planned a trip to Mexico at the same time. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year. And for years before that, only for brief blips of time during the holidays. We didn’t talk on the phone. We weren’t in the habit of keeping in touch.

Nick walked through the door of our villa and, for the very first time, instead of seeing the brother I had always felt so separate from, I saw myself.

I noticed his hands were shaped like mine. His shoulders and calves and feet — like mine too. Our eyes matched. Our cheekbones matched. (His nose has a nicer, super-straight viking-like slope, and my hair has always been about twenty shades lighter than his, but still, structurally, pretty same).

It turned out we were reading the same books. Eating the same specific foods. Interested in the same strange things.

We spent that week together — drinking coffee, collecting sun, running on the beach. He was fast and light. Naturally athletic. Curious. Questioning. Whatever was in his blood, I recognized that I had some of the same. I was glad.

Your uncle Nick is kind, through and through. He’s smart and considerate and a little taller than me. But he never fit the protective older brother mold. He didn't throw the football less hard on my behalf. He didn’t slow his pace. He knew I could keep up, knew I could hold my own. He didn't tell me who I should or shouldn't date. He never tried to fight my battles for me. He recognized I was capable of doing things for myself — and he cheered me on as I did them.

It's already clear that your brother is the same.

You two look alike — definitely more than either of you look like your sister Emerson right now. But your personalities could not be more distinct.

Aiden is methodical, analytical, a precise problem solver. You are driven by how things feel, you’re a hurricane, you make your own rules. I wonder what your dynamic with him is going to look like as you get older. Probably, hopefully: it will change and grow and change and grow. Nonstop evolution.

Whatever path your relationship takes, however close or far apart you find yourselves later in life, know this (which I can tell you for certain because I know it in the most embodied way):

Your brother respects you. Not because it’s an obligation or an expectation. Not even because you share a widows peak (you can thank your dad for that). He respects you because you are you. Because you are strong and you are sure and you are your own wild and true self.

The reason he treats you as his equal is because he knows that you are. There is no question. He’s supportive. He doesn’t undermine your decisions — which, even now, are so often very different from his. He listens when you speak. He’s proud to be by your side — not because you're pretty, not because you validate him, but because you are smart and interesting and one-of-a-wonderful-kind.

And because of this, you won't wonder — not even for a second, not even when someone says or does something suggesting otherwise — whether you are as good as the boys. You won't wonder whether it’s appropriate to lead. You won't wonder whether you have the power or capacity to chart your own path. You won't question whether it's okay speak up, to use your voice to right a wrong, to stand up for yourself.

And you will never have to look around for external examples of how men should treat women. You will just know. Because you were born with an innate understanding of the basic truths of equality. And because the boy who grew up in the bedroom next to yours continually reinforced them.

You are loved and respected and supported by so many.

Aunt Liz

For more, visit Letters to Hadley.