This isn't really a book.... I just figured it was too long for the regular memoir section!
My Baby Brother
To begin writing a story of one’s own life, in my humble opinion, is a monumental task greater than any type of literature in this scholarly world. In nonfiction, the events are told exactly how they happened, with no regard to personal emotion at that particular moment. For instance, I could portray the day my brother came to me as if I was a bystander, simply watching from the sidelines, not necessarily caring how the story turned out. The date was August 23, 1999. The little girl stood at the door. She twirled her blond ringlet with one hand, and smoothed her flowered dress rhythmically with the other. Even though it was summer, her breath fogged up the glass of the screen door as she waited. She stood, perfectly solitary, for nearly twenty minutes. With all due respect toward acclaimed poets, all you really have to do to get the message across in poetry is to throw a few words together that have a particular redundancy about them. She stood quietly, gazing at the street, it was her brother she was waiting to meet. She stood quietly, Fogging up the glass, silently hoping that their car would pass. She stood quietly. Fiction is a particularly simple form of writing. If you don’t like something, you can change it. You can give the characters ridiculous names, you can choose where the story happened, and, in a way, writing fiction is like being God to a group of people you have complete control over. Shirley’s head was spinning. She wasn’t sure how long she had stood there, waiting. All she wanted was to see him, to meet her baby brother. They had shown her the picture. They had gone to get him. She hadn’t met him yet, but she already loved him. The definition of the word memoir is the account of personal experiences of the author. The reason that writing a memoir is so difficult is because you not only have to capture the emotion, but you have to make the reader feel the emotion as strongly as you did. One thing I fear as I write this is that I will recount something incorrectly, or that I will change one minute detail, causing my false telling to forever weigh heavily upon my conscience. I’m afraid. Whether you are my peers, my teachers, my friends, or my enemies, you are judging me. Whether you mean to or not, you are judging me. You are judging my ability to write what has happened to me in my lifetime. You are judging my actions and reactions, whether good or bad, as I go through my life. You are subconsciously waiting to see what I will do or see what I will say. Because this is not a work of fiction, or a textbook on people that lived hundreds of years ago, or a book of poetry that you can pretend to not understand. This is a story by me, Mikaela Ruth S, about me, Mikaela Ruth S. The girl you think you know. The girl you may talk about behind her back. The girl you may think of as a know-it-all who asks questions and gives answers. The girl you really don’t have a clue about. This is a record of me, the real me, the one who doesn’t care what people think of her. The girl who is an individual. A red and gray suburban pulled up the driveway, and I sucked in my breath. My grandparents came up behind me and pushed open the screen door. I stepped out tentatively on the step, and waited. Mommy and Daddy opened their doors simultaneously, and my dad come over to me. He enveloped me in a hug, and by the time he pulled away, I could see him. He was in my mother’s arms. A little Russian baby, dark haired and light skinned, wearing a little pair of colorful overalls and a sleepy smile. I raced over to Mommy, screaming at the top of my lungs, “My brother, my brother!” I leapt into my mother’s arms, so that she staggered slightly with the weight of both of us, and I hugged Andrei tightly. He was a complete stranger to me at the time, but I hugged him like he was my best friend. My mom set us both down, and she held Andrei’s hands as he teetered toward the steps. On the third step, I lifted him up, and, not being able to hold his weight, nearly dropped Andrei off the edge of the stairs. That is my first clear memory.