My little sister thinks I am her hero. Ann is a 12-year-old 7th grader who struggles with middle school politics, popularity and ponytails. I am a 22-year-old college senior, who struggles with some of the same things every day.
Last year before spring break, two friends and I drove home to Gettysburg, Pa., to watch Ann play one of Attila's heavyset Huns in the middle school production of "Mulan." Ann is still being theatrical, and she says she wants to be an actress when she grows up. But based on her forgettable stage presence in "Mulan," her dreams of becoming Julia Roberts don't look promising.
Though, she did have more lines (three in total) than any of the Huns on stage. "Let's go, men!" she proclaimed to the others. She wore Dad's black vest that fell to her knees and brown make-up to give her slanted eyes and a goatee. She was also the largest kid on stage. Watching Ann struggle through her stage directions and the timing of her three lines, plus the lisp of the matchmaker, added to the puerile cracking voice of Mulan's love interest, caused my father and I to stifle each other's laughter up until curtain call.
I can believe I am my little sister's hero because, among other reasons, I made the "Mulan" playbill. In her biography and credits, she said she enjoys swimming, playing tennis, hunting [a shout-out to our dear brother] and visiting D.C.
On a blustery Saturday last March, my friends, sister and I had a girls-day-out in Adams Morgan. We saw cheetah cubs and a lone sea lion at the zoo, ate a brick of cheesy macaroni at a basement pizza shop and, after much deliberation, finally found Maggie Moo's ice-cream parlor. "Maggie Moo's! I want Maggie Moo's," Ann hollered until we asked a nighttime reveler to point us in the right direction. To my kid sister, a small town chubster who unabashedly lusts after Snickers and potato chips, and who thinks it is my purpose in life to take care of her every want and desire, it was a perfect weekend.
When I was Ann's age and younger, I defended my thick frame by whining, "It's not fat, it's baby chub!" Ann takes a much more direct route. "Don't touch my belly! I don't like when you do that!" she screams at our cruel 19-year-old brother when he jiggles her belly or wrestles her to the ground. Since losing 30 pounds this past summer at her get-healthy camp (known as "fat camp" to some), Ann is much happier and healthier in her four-foot frame. "Now I just need to get rid of this," she said to me, while patting her protruding pudge.
My little sister is now approaching adolescence, which she is very excited about. Over winter break, she had lots of chances to inspect my young-adult body. When we shared a room and bathroom on vacation over New Years, I told her I can't control things like why, where and how. But she kept trying to figure out why my breasts look the way they do and how my butt looks so big in Spandex.
Once, while I was applying eyeliner in the bathroom, she grabbed her inch-long blonde armpit hair and exclaimed, "Look! I'm becoming a woman!" "Oh, really?" I quipped.
My sister maintains she will get her period "any day now," though she is younger and physically less mature than most of the girls in her class. She has no use for a sports bra, but she did pop her first pimple the other day, which she called to boast about.
Ann was born three days after I graduated from third grade. We are nine-and-a-half years apart. She has curlier hair and more freckles than me, but she is looking more like her older sister every day.
Despite living in a society that preaches skinny is beautiful and attending a private Catholic school that rewards docility, Ann smiles in distress and infuses those around her with her contagious love of life.
Maybe we should rethink who is the hero.
Kate Matthews is a senior in the School of Communication and a columnist for The Eagle. You can reach her at edpage@theeagleonline.com.
