I’m Not the Hero

But Jesse Is

Griffin Gooch posted this on Substack notes recently:

(I wish I could hyperlink but I have to post on my phone because my laptop is too old and that feature doesn’t work here. Sorry for the lack of professionalism!)

Anyway— It is so easy, effortless, for writers to position themselves as the protagonist, even the hero. I’ve felt this tendency in myself, and I pick up on it quickly in others. I’m the humblest writer, asking good questions and gently exposing all the wrong thinking of everyone else around me because I am so humble. Yikes.

And so I thought I would work on a series of stories in which I was either straight-up wrong or flawed or a joke, or in which someone else is the hero, and I thought I would start with a light-hearted one about my sister...

My big sister, Jesse, called one day when we were planning our wedding. She was my maid-of-honor.

I thought of a story I could share in my speech… I don’t have to give all the details, but do you remember that time at the slumber party when I was scared and you took my place?

Jesse. That wasn’t me. That was you.

Oh. Was it? Oh yeah. That was nice.

We laughed.

I’m a really good big sister.

Yeah, ok. You’re going to have to think of something else, I said.

This was the story she was talking about:

When we were maybe 12 and 15 we were invited to a birthday slumber party. It was mostly older girls, Jesse’s age, and I was just invited because of her. The mom was notoriously cranky, just very type A and particular, as is evident in the fact that she recently had new WHITE carpet installed in the living room, where we were sleeping, and as soon as everyone arrived she gave us a lecture about how we weren’t to eat or drink anything in the living room. This carpet was really important to her and it was sparkling clean and WHITE.

Well, I was new to my monthly cycle. I didn’t always see it coming, and I didn’t always bring what I needed to deal with it. I was, and am, the opposite of Type A. (What is this?) I say it’s fine we’re fine, just keep moving, when it’s not, and when I should just slow down and think.

And so it came to pass, at some point in the night, I rolled off my sleeping bag, onto the WHITE carpet and bled. I bled a lot.

I woke up, feeling wet, and realized what I had done. I woke Jesse up. Our stomachs churned inside. Had we been mature adults, we would have turned the lights on, asked for cleaning products and dealt with the mistake in honesty. But we weren’t adults. Ever so quietly, we crept into the kitchen to look for help. All we found was paper towels and white vinegar. We scrubbed and cleaned the spot as well as we could, but it wasn’t enough. It was a full moon, and the light poured in through a high window onto the round brown stain still left behind.

I remember being so exhausted. I started to really cry in earnest. I have a heart shape face and my chin quivers when I cry and makes my whole face kinda jiggle, especially then, because I was chubby. Jesse was, and is, a classic big sister. She always steers me and never flatters me. I know that I’m in the inner circle of her heart, but not because she is super affectionate and always telling me so. Like many big sisters, her love language is correction and free advice and laughing with me, sometimes at me.

And so I remember how surprised I was that night when she didn’t whisper in the moonlight What were you thinking???

Instead, she put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed me. And then she said, switch with me. I thought I didn’t hear her right. Switch with me, she said again.

It still gives me goosebumps.

I climbed into her sleeping bag and she climbed into mine, still moist with water, vinegar and blood. And we fell asleep. In the morning, she would take my place.

I fell asleep praying. I can remember more than once, as a child, asking God, faith-filled, for such specific things. Take away the stain, I prayed. Forgive me. I’ll always carry pads again. (I have not, He knew this.)

We woke up before anyone else, used to the roosters at home. With the daylight dawning we could see better than before. We looked for the stain. In my memory, dear reader, it was gone. Or perhaps it was there, but ever so slight. It was good enough to get us out of there. It’s hard to believe that could be true, so deep a blood-stain did it appear in the night. We kept our bags on top of the general area, just in case anyone noticed anything. Mom was coming to pick us up early, and we met her at the driveway, as if she was a getaway car. We both cried when we finally peeled out, half expecting our friend’s mom to turn on the lights, discover what we had done and come after us.

I remember Mom was so freaked out by our tears, understandably. What? What happened? What’s wrong? And she sighed deeply in relief upon hearing the story. It was a miserable night, but a sweet memory. At that point in my life, I wasn’t really sure Jesse loved me. I was always tagging along and I wasn’t cool. But I knew in my heart after that. Maybe she wasn’t going to hug me long or tell me how great I was (she was honest after all), but she would take my place at the guillotine.

So thank you, Jesse. There are all kinds of fools in this world, but God in his mercy made big sisters. My phone recognizes our faces as the same— how wrong that is!— you’re the one made of hero-stuff

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