Allegiances

Allegiance (n.) Loyalty, devotion, fidelity, etc.

It was easy to contemplate this topic in the midst of the historic election that took place last week. I remember memorizing the "Pledge of Allegiance" in pre-school. My three year-old lips struggles to form the words in the correct pitch and rhythm, so my classmates and I stumbled on certain parts, rushing to have these statements all end at the same time.

It hasn't set in fully that I can relate to the nation's leader. I don't mean because he is black. I couldn't relate to Bush. My life's ambitions weren't handed to me on a silver platter.

But I didn't write this post to get politically sentimental.

I started thinking about personal allegiances, in my relationships. Am I loyal? Am I faithful? Yes, tirelessly so. I began to think about all of the things that I do for others, despite the better wishes of others. I am that person that puts others first, in all occasions and what does that leave?

Emptiness.

Take for example, my family. To my grandmother, I am the one she calls when she needs groceries. This is even though I don't have a car and that requires a trip on the bus and then a ride back with a stranger in a 'hack'. This is even though she has an able-bodied daughter and grandson living with her and who possess cards. I am the one she calls to buy her incontinence pads when there are people who could easily fetch them for her. I am the one that will wash her clothes, clean her house, and rake her yard, without any promises of things in return. In fact, I never want anything from her. I don't do these things for money, for attention, but for the want of helping. I even did these things while I was in college 2 hours away, lending a hand whenever I had the opportunity.

My brother refuses to better himself. Ever since my mother died five years ago, he has denied anyone's help. Daily reminders about normal upkeep activities: get a haircut, go to the doctor's, go to class have been ignored. But it's gotten worse.

Revealed to me on a Thanksgiving morning voicemail was the fact that he thinks he is dying. Crying, he revealed little to no information on his illness. My boyfriend dropped me off at home immediately after we reviewed the message. At home, I saw the suicide letter he wrote and began reviewing the instability of the signs he had been trying to project.

To this day, I still know nothing about this illness, about what his struggles are, but I've tried to understand and respect his privacy.

This is a courtesy that I extend to him, but is not done in return.

To him, I am a plaything, to be dusted off its quiet resting place and throw back with the other rag dolls and stuffed animals when completed. I am the butler, the maid, the personal assistant that runs around various places, completing various errands. I am to be bossed around like an eight-year old.

I am 22 and have always been the responsible one.

But when is enough, enough?