text: I want a life where I don’t hurt so much and so often. I think that’s what Sophie wants, too. Not just for herself but for me. Isn’t that what we all want for our family? You may not know my sister personally but you’ve probably seen signs with her name around the city, “SOPHIA HARBOR for MAYOR.” She’s pretty much a sure bet at this point. Sophie’s backed by the firefighter and police unions and well-respected by many key community members. Her platform is strong for her base, she’s pro-life, anti-drug, and supports the troops. Everyone knows that means she’ll work devotedly to help them keep as much of their paycheck as possible. As long as I can remember, my sister has had a powerful need to address the injustice she sees in the world, a need we both inherited from our dad, formerly our local sheriff. When I was in elementary school, I got picked on a lot. Even though she was two years older, Sophie stood up for me and never seemed embarrassed to show she loved me. When she started sixth grade though, everything changed. I no longer had a protector at recess and I had to figure out on my own how to survive the taunting and kicking. Part of my problem was that I wanted to be friends with everyone and I wanted to be totally myself. I was a dork, I’ll admit it, and a sensitive one to boot. But people tended to like me and when no one else was around they told me that no one really listened to them, that they felt they couldn’t be who they were, and that it was nice to be around someone different. I was already familiar with people treating me one way around others and another alone. My dad was the consummate professional, dedicated to his work and helping people, and well-loved in our town. He talked proudly of me to others but behind closed doors, he would tell me I was spoiled and a liar and that people would only like me if I was secretive about who I was. As an adult I see this as a reflection of his own pain. But as a child I took this to heart. I believed that no one could love me for the person I wanted to be. I was afraid all of the time that everyone would find out that I was a fraud and would hate me. I started to think I was lying about things that were the truth. For years I barely ate or slept and I hurt myself and others all the time. It felt like I was just a chimney, a fire was lit under me but I stood stone cold, exhaling smoke. My dad hated that I smoked cigarettes. It took him years to find out that I was a smoker but when he did he told me how selfish I was and recounted the story of my grandfather’s death to lung cancer. I remembered it well, maybe even better than he did because I was less traumatized at the time. My grandad became well and truly undone at the end, threatening his wife of forty-five years with a .45 pistol. I also remember him sitting with me and finally admitting that he thought he might be dying, months after his terminal diagnosis during his last round of chemotherapy. He never stopped fighting. That was his way. But for a few minutes he sat with me and cried, acknowledging at least momentarily that he might be at his end. He never apologized to my dad for beating him with his belt and his fists but in the time we spent together, he always made me feel safe. The gentleness with which he moved a log on a lathe or killed a fish before cleaning it always soothed me. When he was a teenager, he ran away from his own abusive father by joining the Marine Corps and serving several tours in Vietnam. My grandad was proud of his service and the men he served beside so he supported any candidate that he felt would protect the military. When George W Bush declared war on Iraq though, he ended his lifelong loyalty to the GOP and was a Democrat until he died. He told me it was unbearable for him to see so many soldiers and civilians lives wasted over weapons no one could prove existed. He was a hard man, and often unkind, but he could change like the wind, a quality my dad nor Sophie will ever have. My dad is nothing if not steadfast and Sophie, too. But it was me that grandad spoke to about his grief and no one else. When he died, my dad brimmed with rage for years. All the things left unsaid or unacknowledged burned inside him. Every year around my birthday we would argue about what day he died of all things. My grandfather flat-lined as my family sang happy birthday to me around his hospice bed, the night before my sixteenth birthday. But my dad does not want my birthday to be associated with his death so he gets outraged when I bring up my sadness about his passing around that time of year. One of the last conversations Sophie and I had with our grandad, he sat us down and told us never to join the military, that it was his dying wish. He said they would own our bodies and we would pay a price too high for college or a stable job or recognition as a hero. Sophie screamed at him. What about protecting our country?! He coughed into a tissue and said something I didn’t catch about Agent Orange. I remember our grandfather as warm, strong, witty, and skilled. Sophie remembers him as a bastard who hurt people and never said he was sorry. I think we’re both right. Our grandad’s dying wish forked our paths, though. Sophie, already in college at the time, studied law and fought for better care for Veterans among other causes. I retreated inward, trying to dedicate myself to spiritual growth while outwardly caring for myself less and less. I was in and out of rehabs and mental hospitals, often unemployed, often living at home. My sister seemed to thrive, smiling ear to ear covered in tassels and stoles and flowers at her graduations. My only graduation was from a mental health program. Mom picked me up from the hospital and took me to our favorite botanical gardens to catch up and celebrate. She and dad got divorced when I was eighteen and though we were close when I was a kid, we got much closer as adults. She was a nurse and worked long hours, mostly sleeping in her free time. She was always there for me to call or talk to but she was often absent, too, and she never stood up against dad. We talked about that the day of my graduation. She said she was so sorry and that she wished she had been there for me more. That meant a lot to me and I told her so. She had been getting more and more exhausted and we all thought she was just working too hard. But then one day, she just didn’t wake up. I was twenty-four and completely unmoored. I held my sister as she cried at mom’s service but couldn’t find any tears left inside me. Dad had remarried by that time and Sophie was very close with his new wife. When she got engaged a few months later to a handsome lawyer, Sophie texted, called, and visited her all the time to get help with wedding planning. I wasn’t in the wedding party so I just sat in the pews at the ceremony with a close friend I had asked to come for moral support. We left a gap between us for mom. Sophie seemed overjoyed to be starting her new life. For me, it felt like my life was over. I spent all my time reading and drawing and smoking and scrolling through social media. Then a friend invited me to a protest; I hadn’t felt so alive in years. As I chanted, I felt my grief and rage boil up and bubble out of me. I started going every week and then every night. I screamed and cried openly, weeping for my mother and all the mothers that had lost their lives or their children. When the people who had supported me and cared for me were beaten and gassed and shot at, I tended their wounds, I fed them, and I started trying to protect them. I drew cartoons and shared them online under a pen name. I amassed a following for my work, but my anxiety was growing daily that somehow my dad would find out. And then Sophie announced her campaign for Mayor. I couldn’t believe it. She’d been working in municipal government for years but she hated it and despised everything they stood for. We’ve seen and spoken to each other less and less as the divide in our politics has grown. Now she’s started complaining publicly about the rioters and looters destroying our city. It feels like our worlds are colliding. My work is beginning to seem irrelevant because I’m so thoroughly avoiding the mayoral race that will greatly impact the protests. Everywhere I go now, I see her name and cringe. But I can’t let it go anymore. I’m not really a writer, just a cartoonist but I hope you take my point here. Sophie Harbor cares deeply about injustice but she’s seeing it in many of the wrong places. I believe my sister will force the situation with the protests to a fever pitch to make a point about how violent and inhuman we are as demonstrators. She will likely allow greater use of force and put more money into the police department. I believe this will harm the most vulnerable of our city. I’m not going to endorse her opponent because, like Sophie, I don’t believe that government is the answer to our problems. I never wanted to betray my sister’s trust, but this is bigger than either of us and it’s time to take a stand. Submit.