I\u2019m in Chicago, two hours ahead of my twin brother, Christopher, in California. At eleven at night, I brush my teeth and get into bed. Then our nighttime routine begins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I keep myself awake for the next hour by scrolling through Twitter. Christopher settles on his couch and also scrolls social media. He itches and needs to distract himself. He plays a word in our game of Words With Friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s now midnight in Chicago. I listen to a podcast to stay awake and play Words With Friends back with Christopher. I flutter my heavy eyes and play a word. I keep refreshing to see when Christopher plays one back. He\u2019s refreshing, too, playing word after word instead of succumbing to the itch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I spend another hour alternating between fighting the sleep, losing, and waking up again. I\u2019ve got to stay awake for Christopher. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Around two in the morning, my time, I can\u2019t take it anymore. I give in to the slumber.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Back in California, it\u2019s midnight. When the plays from me on Words With Friends cease, Christopher takes a scratch. He pours himself a small glass of Jameson and sugar-free ginger ale. He sips while he listens to a podcast and ignores his thoughts. He finishes the drink by the podcast\u2019s commercial break and pours another. He\u2019s finished that glass by the next podcast break. He can still hear his thoughts, so he pours another. He flutters eyes that have grown heavy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Christopher feels warm and numb. He\u2019s had enough when he passes his litmus test of no longer hearing himself say he doesn\u2019t deserve nice things because he\u2019s an alcoholic. He feels calm and safe when he hears nothing but his deep breaths. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
He spends another hour watching thoughts come in and out but not stick. Then he gives into sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twins are supposedly bound more tightly than other siblings. That was true for Christopher and me. We were linked by the same birthday, interests, friends, teachers, classes, and bedroom far past an appropriate age. Since I can remember, I felt bound to take care of Christopher. I was the older twin by one minute. Protecting him was my job as firstborn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I took this responsibility seriously. When we were in the second grade, our teacher summoned our mother, who\u2019d immigrated from Belize, to a parent-teacher conference. She left work right away, worried we were struggling in school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thankfully, it wasn\u2019t about our performance. Christopher and I were hitting all the benchmarks. It was me. I was doing everything for him, coddling him, stifling him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We were linked by the same birthday, interests, friends, teachers, classes, and bedroom far past an appropriate age.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n The teacher\u2019s efforts to address my behavior had failed. She separated us since sitting beside each other made it too easy for me. \u201cI\u2019ll tell them to turn to a page in their poem books,\u201d the teacher said to our mother, \u201cand your daughter will turn her page and then turn her brother\u2019s. Christopher\u2019s not learning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But the distance didn\u2019t stop me. When the teacher moved my seat across the room and told us to turn to another poem, I turned my page, walked to Christopher\u2019s desk, and turned his. I huffed back across the class to my seat. I waited for the next instruction minutes later and did the same thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s very disruptive,\u201d the teacher pleaded. \u201cPlease tell your daughter she can\u2019t do everything for her brother. Your son has got to learn to do things on his own.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mom waited until we got home and pulled me aside. She acknowledged that independence wasn\u2019t valued in our Yoruba culture as much as it was in the States. But, she asked me to let him figure things out himself. Let him turn his own pages, write his own chapters, live his own life. I didn\u2019t grasp what she meant, but I told her I\u2019d try. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I winced when I looked across the classroom at Christopher rifling through the pages of the poem book. The teacher\u2019s glance implored me not to get up. I remained seated and stared at the floor, unable to bear seeing whether Christopher had succeeded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Later that year, school got out early for an administrative day. We sat on a blue bench in front of the building. It was a hot day in Southern California, so we picked the only bench in the shade. Soon, all the other kids had been picked up, but there was still no sign of our mother. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The teacher peered down at her watch every so often. Christopher and I sensed her impatience. She muttered about getting to her meetings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t worry, we can make it home, Miss,\u201d my brother assured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was the early \u201890s, and, apparently, that was all the teacher needed. She released us. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know how to get home,\u201d I whispered as we walked away, not wanting to expose us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI do,\u201d he took my hand. \u201cI\u2019ll lead the way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I squeezed his hand, and we embarked on our journey home. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Her look of horror caused me to let go of all of the tension I had been holding.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n Nothing looked familiar on our route. Not the streets, houses, or businesses. With each turn, Christopher said, \u201cAlmost there,\u201d to allay me. He led us from road to road, through crosswalks and neighborhoods. <\/p>\n\n\n\n As we weaved around another corner, and I was sure we\u2019d never make it, I saw, then, the blue and white garage door of our house at the end of the street. I squealed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSee, told you we\u2019re almost there.\u201d Christopher hurried us along.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We scurried to the front door and rang the doorbell. My mom opened the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her look of horror caused me to let go of all of the tension I had been holding. I peed all down my legs, drenching my overalls and socks. <\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother dropped down to embrace me. She removed my shoes and soggy socks, hoisted me by my armpits, and brought me inside. Christopher walked in calmly, giggling at my mess.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The power of experiencing formative events exactly when another person does is unique. As a twin, you are alone in nothing. You have a lifelong consultant for every rite of passage and milestone. When Christopher and I turned ten, we confided we were not excited to be big kids in middle school that fall. When we turned sixteen, we wished to win the high school basketball championship blowing out the candles on our joint birthday cake. On our twenty-first birthday, we did what I thought was both of our first shots of cheap tequila. And at thirty, we wondered if we\u2019d ever own a home. <\/p>\n\n\n\n For our thirty-fifth birthday, I went to visit Christopher in California. We had each married a few years earlier, but our spouses were away at work. Decades had passed since it was just us. I returned to my childhood routine and responsibilities. I looked around my brother\u2019s apartment for confirmation that he was well. Lights were on, so bills were paid. The refrigerator was full, so he had disposable money. He looked thin, but not too thin, so I thought his health was fine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As a twin, you are alone in nothing. You have a lifelong consultant for every rite of passage and milestone.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n He put the grocery bag he was carrying on the kitchen counter. A 200-milliliter bottle of Jameson fell on its side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, is that for tomorrow\u2019s birthday festivities?\u201d I inquired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My brother didn\u2019t look at me while answering. \u201cNo. That\u2019s to get me through tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He said it so casually that I thought I had misheard him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I asked him to repeat himself. He did and added: he was an alcoholic, had been for 15 years, started binge drinking to cope with being racially profiled on his lily-white college campus, and never stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We talked for a couple of hours while I peppered Christopher with questions. He answered them with the same nonchalance. No, he didn\u2019t drink and drive. No, he didn\u2019t drink at work. No, I didn\u2019t need to stop drinking around him. No, he didn\u2019t drink all day. Yes, he did drink from nine at night to one in the morning because it helped him sleep. Yes, he was going to keep drinking. No, he didn\u2019t think that was a problem. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I acted calm while sinking deep into my chair. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I returned to Chicago feeling heavy. So much for a special twin connection. I\u2019d failed at the first job I ever had. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Without thinking, I switched into caretaker mode. Christopher claimed he didn\u2019t want to get sober, but surely he didn\u2019t mean it. I browsed articles with headlines like \u201cHow to Help An Alcoholic Stop Drinking,\u201d but none of the advice seemed applicable. The reports described Christopher as high-functioning, a personality trait that would make quitting hard because drinking worked for him. He had a good job, owned a house, appeared happily married\u2014why stop drinking when things were going well? <\/p>\n\n\n\n So, I came up with the Words With Friends solution. Since bedtime was most acute, I stayed up with Christopher, hoping to keep him focused on something other than drinking for as much of the night as possible. Fewer hours and drinks remained between him and falling asleep. I didn\u2019t need to sleep; I needed to ensure we reached the rest of life\u2019s milestones together. I panicked, thinking of turning forty, fifty, or sixty alone. Every night I stayed up was another chance at another night in our old age together. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Scientists love to study twins. Identical twins are the most coveted, but fraternal twins of different genders present a unique opportunity to tease out the influence of the environment on life outcomes. Christopher and I were a useful experiment. Besides gender, we shared everything else. I could see the future study: What happens to first-generation Black girl and boy twins brought up in the same immigrant household?<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Black girl develops the tenacity she sees in her mother. Her mother, very familiar with racism, taught her how to fight it. She thrives. She graduates high school as valedictorian. She attends Ivy League schools and, already used to defending herself, pushes against racism at every turn. At every school, in every job, in every relationship.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He had a good job, owned a house, appeared happily married\u2014why stop drinking when things were going well?<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n The Black boy doesn\u2019t think his mother\u2019s tenacity applies to him. He has no idea how to fight off racism. It bothers him, but he feels resigned, powerless to escape it. He graduates high school with okay grades and gets into an okay college. But the racism there intensifies and infuriates him. To his fortune, the college\u2019s binge drinking culture is the perfect coping mechanism. Most nights, he disappears at dorm room parties into a boozy nirvana. Soon, he measures his days not from waking to sleep but from yesterday\u2019s drink to tonight\u2019s. He marries his high school crush, who didn\u2019t balk at his disclosure that he\u2019s an alcoholic. She was raised by alcoholic, high-functioning parents and is accustomed to living with substance abuse. She doesn\u2019t enable Christopher, but she doesn\u2019t encourage him to seek recovery on his own, either. He gets a sales job where he can\u2019t ignore the racism; he just takes it. Then he drinks every night to forget.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One weekday several months after our birthday, I called Christopher. It was part of our new routine. We talked once a week for two to three hours. I liked to keep Christopher talking, hoping he\u2019d offer some clues about how to help him stop drinking. But he usually didn\u2019t talk about his substance abuse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Two and a half hours into this phone conversation, Christopher asked, \u201cHow come you\u2019re not like me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLike, why aren\u2019t you an alcoholic?\u201d He sniffled. \u201cWe had the same childhood. How come I\u2019m the only one who\u2019s like this?\u201d His speech was slurred as he choked up. \u201cI don\u2019t deserve to be happy. I\u2019m an alcoholic who deserves to suffer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I hadn\u2019t seen or heard my brother cry since we were small. I didn\u2019t even recognize it until his sniffling became sobs.<\/p>\n\n\n
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