On Feb. 1, my sister texted me, unsolicited, that balls were her favorite part of a boy’s body — what a way to celebrate the genesis of a new month.
My sister is eight.
Stupefied, I texted back in trepidation, asking from where this revelation had risen. “Well, that’s where it hurts the most,” she replied.
The symphony of feelings I experienced upon reading that text is what I imagine most parents feel when they see their baby rise independently and embark on their first, wobbly steps. Her bold profession of misandry elicits both pride and relief: pride in realizing that I have raised her as a feminist and relief in knowing that if she were to be in a situation that required self-defense, she would know to aim where it hurts the most — ouch.
My sister is a full decade younger than me. She is everything I am and everything I want to be. Like a parent, I changed her diapers, stroked her hair as her labored breaths signified sleep and explained math problems to her in preparation for tests. Like a sister, I have passed down my favorite clothes, let her borrow perfumes and lipglosses and given her advice on crushes, mean girls and arguments with our parents. Like a best friend, I have texted her when I have needed words of affirmation, cried in her embrace more times than I can count and gossiped for hours on end.
My role in her life is quite clearly multifaceted. The provenance of our relationship was built on a set of expectations, with me confident in handling the task of being a good role model. What I never could have envisaged, however, was treating her as my own role model, her eight years of wisdom continuously trumping my own 18.
I am the eldest of three, but have always considered myself as the eldest of six because I grew up in such close proximity to my cousins. I feel so fortunate to have grown up alongside them, but nothing compares to having been old enough to recount my sister’s entire lifespan, from the moment my mom told me she was pregnant. She, and by extension, our age gap, has been one of the most unanticipated and formative contributors to my identity.
This past December, my sister and I sat in the shallow of the ocean, lapping water and aimlessly palavering. We predicted the trajectories of each of our cousins’ lives, discussing their personality traits in relation to who they would marry, the number of kids they would have and the careers they would choose. It was thrilling — even more so was recognizing that my sister’s capability for expressing this adult sense of intellect was heightened by her childishness. She has a carefree and idealistic spirit that I can only describe as magic. Watching it unfold as she grows is a privilege I feel selectively privy to, considering that our age gap will permit me to relish in her youngness for the rest of our intertwined lives. My sister, equipped with her eight years of trials and tribulations, possesses the type of sagacity that only accompanies innocent, naive youth. Because she is like me, she will resent that I see her youth foremost when I look at her. But because she has me, hopefully she will realize that her eternal youth is my favorite part about her.
She could have no idea that her text about balls being her favorite part of a boy’s body delivers sexual undertones in most contexts. She is pure in her intentions, unfettered and unfiltered. She could not fathom choosing a career on the basis of anything besides passion; she wants to be a soldier in the U.S. military, a painter, a dancer and an animal protector all at once. She thinks homework is a waste of time when I could be hanging out with her instead and believes that dogs are the universe’s greatest gift to mankind. When a divorce shook my extended family, she was stunned when I explained the term; to her, a marriage is an infinite promise and love conquers all.
There is a power in childhood that waits to be discovered even when you have physically outgrown it.
I was always so rushed to collect experiences and reach milestones as a child, itching to bleach myself of my youngness. This is not to say that I don’t miss my childhood; in fact, I feel that I cheated myself out of it. I loved the sense of responsibility and leadership I felt was intrinsic to my personality being the eldest of a clan of six. I am contemplative to a fault and a natural planner; my sister is spontaneous and unburdened by the long term. We share unbridled confidence, defensiveness, a rebellious streak and strong feminist principles. Unknowingly, I have raised the best version of myself. She, in return, has taught me the importance of bold youth.
I crave to freeze time and preserve her naive view of goodness and cooties and a life built purely on desire. Her outlook is grounding and fresh. She reminds me that whether I am a college freshman or a wrinkled and worn old woman, youth is defined by intentional perspective. Youth preaches simplicity: love conquers all, embarrassment is a construct, passion reigns principal and balls are simply the best part of a boy’s body because that’s where it hurts most.
Like a parent, I mourn the fact that with every passing day, parts of her innocence will be replaced by the formative experiences of adolescence. Like a sister, I relish in knowing that she will always hold a sense of naivety being ten years younger than me, meaning that I will always be able to look up to her inherent youthfulness. Like a best friend, I feel infinitely lucky that I get to call her mine.
I wonder why we are so quick to escape our childhood when it is all we yearn after it has eclipsed. The typical synonyms for youth include youngness, adolescence and early years. My sister has shown me that this term applies infinitely, as an intrinsic trait or learned attribute. I am lucky to have a constant reminder in the form of a curious and bold, humorous and incisive little human.
Childhood is omnipresent; it is smelling grass after a fresh coating of rain, trying a new fruit on a miscellaneous grocery trip and reading a new author. To be young is encapsulated in the tenacity of deliberately chasing novel experiences and luxuriating in them. To be young is to possess hope, make declarations unapologetically and believe in an inherent goodness. I am at a point in my existence where I constantly contemplate the permanence of my decisions, miles and hours away from my sister. And so, I embody her like any admirer would embody their role model. Youth is a choice. Live wisely, forever young.
Saanvi Nayar (26C) is from Marlboro, New Jersey.
