‘Tough and Cool’ Is Not the Way to a Good Life

I always admired my older brother Billy. Not because he was kind and took some time off to play ball with me once in awhile but because he was Mr. Cool on the block.

He always got in trouble with the law and never gave a damn. I was so proud to be his brother. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. My friends said I was lucky to have a brother like that. I thought to myself, yeah, I was real lucky.

I wanted to follow his footsteps, so I soon became just like him. When that happened, I almost destroyed my life as he did his.

Billy knew I had modeled myself after him, and he hated himself for that. He had to save me, and he did. But he could not save himself. My brother Billy died four years ago of a drug overdose. He was only 25 years old. What a waste.

I remember that year very well--the year when Billy died. I was in eighth grade. That was the time when peer pressure was in. I had to live up to my brother’s name. Since my brother smoked weed and always got in trouble, why not me? This was going to be my best year, I thought to myself. I was becoming the coolest guy in school and everybody liked me. All because of my fantastic brother.

Billy was in Dallas that year. He moved a lot in the United States for many reasons. He was living in the fast lane, and it was time for me to switch over to the next lane and catch up with him.

In reality, I was going down hill. My grades were dropping very rapidly. I was suspended from school a couple of times, and my home life was messing up. I fought with my parents every day. But I loved it because my cool brother did the same thing when he was my age. Even though my brother was 12 years older, we seemed to be only one year apart.

Then the day came. I was watching TV while my mother cooked dinner. My father was reading the evening newspaper in the living room. There was a sudden knock at the front door. I don’t know why, but my mother always rushed to the door.

Something about that knock on the door made me get up and walk silently to the hallway and peek out to see who the visitor was. It was a police officer. I felt strange, as if my stomach and heart had nothing inside. Chills ran all over my body, but I covered up my feelings. I made myself believe that my brother was in trouble again and the police had come to find him. For some reason, I wanted to stop my mother from answering the door, but I was too late.

I watched silently in the back of the hallway and saw my mother invite the young man in. The man looked tired and sad. His face was pale, colorless. My mother brought him into the living room to greet my father. I listened carefully, trying to pick out a few words and figure out why he was there. I was soon startled when I heard my mother cry out “ No! “ I jumped back. I wanted to know what happened, but I felt it was something awful and did not want to hear.

My mother rushed into the hallway, calling my name. She stared into my eyes with the strangest gleam. Tears began to grow from her eyes and then she said it: “Billy is dead.”

I wanted to put my arms around my mom and give her the biggest hug I could ever give. I also felt as if I wanted to forget the whole thing and run and hide forever. I did neither. I stood there with a blank look and showed no emotion.

I stayed that way for a couple of days. I got the rest of the details later on. I thought to myself: “Why him? He was the best brother anyone could have. He was cool and tough and, and . . . .” I could not think of any more reasons. “Tough” and “cool” were the two words I could think of. Both sounded ridiculous the more I said them.

It was ridiculous. Tough and cool is not the way to go through life. Love and honor is the way.

When I first heard Billy was dead, I did not believe it. But reality sunk in when I saw him lying so cold in the casket in the funeral home. I looked down at him very closely. “You don’t look tough or cool at all,” I said to myself. “You’re just a child.”

Twenty-five years is too damn short a time to live. And those years were not great for him. Matter of fact, it was awful. Always on the run so no cop could catch him. He did not know who to trust and be honest with. He also lived in shame.

The last time I saw him alive we had a good talk. He saw that I was changing for the worse. He knew why, too. Billy gave me a speech telling how he had shamed our parents. He told me to pull away before it was too late. He wanted me to be the good son in the family and make up for all the trouble he caused our folks. But, like a dumb kid, I let his words go through one ear and out the other. I still wanted to be like him.

Billy died for me. He knew that would straighten me out, and it did. Somehow, he was pulled into a room of pain, but before I could follow him in, he closed the door and locked it. Now I can’t even smoke a cigarette without feeling a slight guilt and feeling Billy is behind me, looking over my shoulder in disgust.

I wish he could come back just once so I could tell him how great he really was, even though he would not believe me. I want to tell him what I learned from his mistakes. I learned to be myself and no one else. I will never take any drugs in my life. I am getting better grades now, and my parents and I are closer than ever.

I look back and I notice that this major trauma changed my life indeed. I could have turned out to be like my brother and die too young. Yet I changed direction and became a more mature person. I am looking forward to the years ahead now. I love my life, and I am not going to blow it. Billy will never be forgotten, now or ever.