Tom

by Mai Nguyen

After watching The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, I started to imagine my siblings and me as the ultimate first-generation American superhero dreamteam. While as the youngest of four I’d always admired my siblings, I began to see each of us as kings and queens like those in Narnia. We are all unique; we each contribute a distinct persona to the family.

Rather than archetypes, all of us are protagonists and have special skills. Hang—the fiery warrior for social rights and our philosophical leader. Sam— the tech wizard and comedian. Tom—the unpredictable joker card and unconventional genius. And me—the artistic brain and ace.

In The Chronicles of Narnia, Edmund is the odd-one-out of the four Pevensie siblings. From the very beginning, he strikes you as the worst kind of pre-teen brat. He excels in being consistently annoying. He constantly bosses his endearing little sister Lucy around. He even betrays his siblings to the evil White Witch! (Granted, he was under the influence of the enchanted Turkish Delight. But still.) Edmund is the character you want to pin all of your frustrations on--that is, until, reminded of his love for his family, he breaks free of the White Witch’s spell and emerges from his journey victorious, a symbol of redemption and inherent goodness. Until—reminded of his love for his family, he breaks free of the White Witch’s spell and emerges from his journey victorious, a symbol of redemption and inherent goodness.

“He excels in being consistently annoying.”

Tom is the “Edmund” in my family. We’re only one year apart, and our lives have been closely intertwined since birth, literally. We all know my sister was a natural birth. Sam was a C-section; the permanent scar below my mom’s belly is proof of that. But when it came to me and Tom, the answer to the question “Where did I come from?” was just a bunch of giggles and “the toilet.”

Tom and I don’t have much in common, but we did both grow up thinking we were found in the toilet like a bunch of doo-doo. Thanks a lot, Mom.

I’m not exactly sure if that made us feel closer to each other, but we shared some tangible things, too. Each summer, my mom distributed SummerBridge Math workbooks to Sam, Tom and me and had us erase the answers scribbled in by whoever used the books the year before, her savvy version of recycling. I always inherited Tom’s from the year before and was tasked with erasing his quasi-chicken scratches. From an early age, I learned to recognize Tom’s handwriting. I can barely remember what my own handwriting looked like, but I do recall Tom’s gnome-like scrawl.

When we were toddlers, we would play “Cat and Owner”. Basically, I would crawl around and meow like a cat while Tom humored me, walking alongside me and pointing out imaginary stuffed animals on the “store” shelves. In particular, Mai Cat preferred flying pigs and small penguins. To this day, I have an ardent love for my still-growing stuffed animal collection.

Eventually, we began to find Cat and Owner too childish and finding ways to play together was increasingly difficult. From stuffed animals we all moved on, to video games.

Tom found multiplayer too stressful. He couldn’t handle the demands of other people in a time-crunch and their never-ending nuances in communicating, not in video games and not in real life either. So he shut them out.

Over time, this tendency to turn away from each other when our speaking and thinking didn’t match created Tom’s own world. Insulated in an opaque bubble, Tom’s space was complete with humor and references and essential questions that none of us could access. It was a mental battle, whether we would try to see through Tom’s lens or see through what seemed like the lens everyone else was looking through. Co

nversations with Tom when he was in high school were like trying the last string on a frayed rope. He would berate me for not turning off the basement light, not washing the dishes, not closing the drafty doors, forgetting my key, forgetting my T-pass, coming home late (he would usually go straight home to play video games)—the list goes on. Always, being in the same room put both of us in a bad mood.

Me: Hey Tom! Did you just get home too?

Tom: Yeah! Me: Ok... hey, can you wash the dishes?

Tom: No.

Me: What?!? Go wash the dishes right now or I’m telling Mom! You’re so lazy!

Another example:

Tom: Kimmai, where did you go?

Me: Oh, I was getting some extra clothes.

Tom: Did you turn off the lights in the basement?

Me: No, I forgot.

Tom: What?!? You need to remember to turn off the lights in the basement—God you’re so stupid!!

Any situation would just about end like this. I couldn’t stand the pings and dings of his video games, and he couldn’t stand the sound of my flute disturbing his sleep schedule. My life and what I considered valuable could never align perfectly with his, not even for a moment, and that fact made us angry all the time.

We never bring these feelings of sibling love out candidly, together. Writing about someone I see every day feels like a breach of privacy.

When Tom’s interest in video games became a borderline addiction, I found myself writing letters to him and drawing sketches for him. One drawing I made in my precious sketchbook, complete with a rainbow of markers and pens, dates back to 6th grade. Among the doodles was one titled “Fun Things To Do Besides Video Games” along with a neat bulleted list underneath. I was so desperate to reach out to him, but I never found the courage to send them along (which was probably for the better, since I had zero tact in middle school and we still hadn’t found any form of communication that worked for us).

Even now, of all of my siblings, I feel most afraid to show him this personal essay. We never bring these feelings of sibling love out candidly, together. Writing about someone I see every day feels like a breach of privacy. Eventually, the one-year difference became a true hindrance to our relationship, since our trajectories in school were closely connected. Tom’s love for the individual world of video games and aversion to outside pressure affected his schoolwork. On the other hand, I benefited from time limits and pre-planning. Tom would ignore me in the hallway, even when I said hi. Eventually, I just stopped saying hi.

It didn’t help that we shared some of our classes. Despite general school policies that try to separate siblings in classes, we took AP U.S. History together. During parent conference week, my teacher came up to me and asked that I remind my parents to come during Tom’s conference slot. Oh, and they don’t need to come to mine; I’m all set.

I also remember staying behind to finish up a post-essay reflection while our teacher was telling Tom to delete his computer shortcuts and use the school library computers. Listening in on their conversation, I learned that he hadn’t even started his essay. I left as soon as I could.

I felt so small, so useless. What kind of sister was I to know so much about Tom’s struggles and not yet know how to lend a helping hand? Would I just make things worse?

Whenever I talked about Tom to my classmates in passing, there was always a mixture of disbelief and surprise. My entire body would become tense, anticipating the inevitable response:

"Wait - Tom? Thomas? Thomas is your brother?"

"Yes. He is."

But we’re still brother and sister.

Sometimes, I’d feel a secret joy that they didn’t associate Tom with me, because he was “weird.” Even though I defended Tom at all costs against others, I also knew that I didn’t want to be like him.

Through our time apart, when he went to college and I was still in high school, we both privately came to the conclusion that we’d never connect as best friends. Tom and I are much more like Tom and Jerry. Our senses of humor don’t match, and neither do our personalities, and our fights never, ever end. But we’re still brother and sister.

~

He took a break from college in his second semester, and when I found out he was coming home for an extended amount of time, I was sorely disappointed. No more calm dinners, just me and my parents. No more quiet evenings of flute music and the TV on low. Tom! He’s so annoying.

Thankfully, we both mellowed out in the year apart. These days, whenever we sit in the same room, often because we’re snacking, our silence is comfortable. If we’re not silent, we’re offering food, usually fruit, to each other. Have you tried those bananas? They’re already ripe. Dad bought some grapes on sale yesterday, you should try some! Somehow, offering each other fresh, ripe fruit has become a sign of caring and love between Tom and me. It works for us.

Soon after he came home, I took a serious mental note: even if Tom is the annoying, even infuriating “Edmund” of our family, he is still the most kind-hearted out of us all.

I constantly fall asleep unknowingly leaving the dishes unwashed. Tom steps up and washes the dishes. He also helps cook dinner, which used to be my job, until I got too tired with music and school life.

“Maybe then, I’ll find a form of words that can speak between us.”

On nights when I stay out late, I don’t bother to text my parents, because they’re mostly related to music events. My parents don’t want to hear about my music events. They’re too “stressful.” But I can always count on a text from Tom:

Where are you Kimmai

Even if his texts come across as stone-cold serious, I don’t take them too seriously. I know that even if I come home extra late and Tom is scowling at me, he’s still there to open the door. To know that someone cares about where I am—even if that caring comes in Tom’s signature, blunt style—makes me smile.

Ironically, unlike the rest of us Nguyen siblings, Tom rejects most typical classics of our childhood era, like Harry Potter and Narnia. Tom feels embarrassed by and tries to distance himself from those sentimental fictional worlds as much as possible, but I continue to keep them close to my heart.

Since I can’t just throw out the words “Edmund” and “Hufflepuff ” and expect him to catch on, I privately flesh out my feelings and thoughts through moments and memories, letting them layer over each other. Maybe eventually, I’ll find a form of words that can speak between us. In the meantime, I am content.

~

These days, I still forget my key. But now, Tom is at home to open the door for me, consistently, every single day. He accepts our routine, and it means the world to me. I’m tired, and he’s home. When I stand on the doorstep, weary and wanting to throw my shoes in the trash, I see Tom racing towards the door. I feel at home even before I step inside.

“Tom” is excerpted from a collection of personal essays, entitled What Makes a World. Mai Kim Nguyen is a multi-media artist from Cambridge, MA. maikn.flute@gmail.com