After all these years, it's hard to remember the first time that my brother urged/cajoled/threatened me not to tell my parents something he had done. But I remember a lot of instances. Here are a few that come to mind:
1. We were playing in the backyard. I must have been 7-8 years old. Suddenly and completely unprovoked, my brother threw a rock at me, purposefully hitting me in the head. It began bleeding immediately. I wanted to run into the house for help, but my brother blocked my way. He sort of apologized with "I didn't think you'd bleed this much" or something like that. He begged me not to go inside, or we'd both get in trouble...blah blah blah...we would not be allowed to play as much in the backyard...surely, I didn't want to get him in trouble, did I? He played on my heartstrings. I stayed outside until my head stopped bleeding. Later I combed the dried blood out of my hair and said nothing to my parents.
2. Around the same time, while we were walking to school one day, my brother decided to light something in an empty field on fire, despite my pleas to the contrary. (He was somewhat of a pyromaniac, at least in my eyes at the time, and I was extremely fire-phobic.) The fire spread much faster than even I had feared. He insisted we run to school and swore me to secrecy lest he be thrown in jail. And that would be all my fault for tattling. He also made it sound like I was somehow in on it with him and would also get in trouble.
3. Over and over again, he'd involve me in some childish misbehavior and convince me that we could not admit to it under any circumstances. He would say, "Act nonchalant" as we walked into the house. Apparently my idea of "nonchalant" was a dead giveaway. Usually, when my mother questioned us, I was the first to crack. My brother would later be angry with me and, at the same time, fill me with guilt. I hated being "mean" to him...which apparently I was whenever I "told on him".
4. A year or two later, he engaged in some petty vandalism while I begged him not to. He threatened me not to run home and tell. Then he somehow convinced me that I was just as much as fault and that it would be horribly mean of me to get him in trouble. I remember being petrified that we would be found out and arrested.
5. We "borrowed" some fishing equipment without permission and lost it before we could return it. My brother put the fear of my parents into me. He also insisted that, since he was older, he would get in more trouble than me, and it would be unfair, selfish and mean of me to confess to my parents, since it meant getting him in trouble.
On and on it went. I was convinced it would be disloyal, mean, selfish, horrible, etc., etc., for me to tell on my brother. I would be betraying his trust. I couldn't stand the thought of angering or disappointing him. Plus, I was convinced...by him, by my own insecurity, and by some of the former reactions of my parents...that the consequences of telling would be more than I wanted to experience.
I was afraid of my brother's anger and wanted to stay on his good side. In fact, I felt an almost desperate need for us to be the best and closest of friends. Maybe some of it was years of hearing my mother tell us that we were "made out of the same cookie dough", that we were each others' closest friends, and that we were not like other brothers and sisters. We were special.
My brother had a mean, bullying side. It didn't come out all that often, at least not in ways obvious to me at the time, but it was there. He was also a master manipulator. He was the family genius -- my mother reminded us of this almost constantly -- and could talk me into things just by exhausting my ability to understand what he was saying. I would figure he was right and I was wrong, or I felt helpless to argue my own point, since he would have a ready answer for my every objection. I would end up feeling tired, baffled, and stupid.
By the time I was 13, it took very little convincing...if any...for me to keep my brother's secrets, especially if they involved me.
