By Daniella Appiah
Within the span of a couple of months, I have moved from sleeping on a queen-sized bed on the coast of West Africa to a twin xl in the dorms of my school, and finally to an extendable couch in a Manhattan apartment. At first, I thought this was my riches-to-rags story, but I soon became content with the hard, blue, extendable couch. Has it been my dream since I was a kid? Yes. Being with people I love in a small tiny space excites me because they would have no other option but to converse with me. Unfortunately, the first couple of nights, I woke up with tremendous back pain and had to get my back cracked by my sister, Jutta.
*insert drawing of Jutta here*
Jutta:
Firstborn
Female
22
Named after Dad’s ex
A replica of the parents; can’t provide emotional support but will physically stand in your space.
She still believes we are in 2017 and thinks ‘purrr’ is pronounced as ‘prrr.’
She always wakes me up with the question — How was it? — as if she was expecting a different answer every time. Sadly, Jutta always met her with a confused me with an expression of why are you talking to me this early morning. Every morning we act this same scene out, over and over and over again. We have what you might call a “high context” relationship, a fact we both seem to recognize and understand without being able to say or name it.
I knew I was getting comfortable when I woke up from crying in my dream one day. As the tear was streaming down my face in a different realm, I felt my facial structures move in a familiar manner. I quickly jolted up from the couch only to be met by curious and bulging eyes.
“Dani, are you okay?”
Yeah, I’m good. I’m good.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Did you guys hear anything? Like someone crying or anything like that?”
They answered by shaking their heads no like little innocent kids hiding something. I was in the clear, I thought. I moved around as I usually do, first to brush my teeth, shower, and then scowl at whatever my sisters made for breakfast because I crave a hazelnut cold brew with sweet foam and a glazed donut from the Dunkin’ Donut near 163rd street. But to avoid stares of disgust from my judgemental, adopted sister, I bury my desires. Is one not allowed to be happy and live free of judgment in this life?
Jutta has always seen me as a special kid, not one with exceptional skills but one that most people may find hard to comprehend. As children, she always spoke on my behalf because I wanted her to — I needed her to. I never used my voice, but I was still able to get to her. Was she able to fully understand and interpret? No. But it was enough for me at that time. As I grew, my thoughts became more complex and broad. As she grew up, she became more distant. She constantly stayed in her room with her door locked, curtains closed, and lights turned off. Our conversations were quickly murdered with meaningless words; her response felt more like an automated response recorded to mere perfection. Finally, she became an adult, and I stayed a child.
She left the country, and I waited. I didn’t see her for five years after she left, and I had to assume her position. I served as the older sister within those tough five years, plus an additional two years, and I didn’t turn out like her. I was fun and understood the emotions of my younger siblings; I knew how to include them in some fun activities and made sure to give them hugs rather than turning them into personal servants. She would make us go up and down the stairs for water bottles or snacks but jokes on her because we all developed curvy frames.
Life in her Manhattan apartment was tough, it has everything a person needs to survive but companions and a talking dishwasher, and that’s where I come in. Me, Daniella, her companion, and talking dishwasher. “Dani, come, humor me,” she says after coming home from work. She works in Midtown Manhattan at JP Morgan and recently found out that she’s allowed to use the company card to purchase dinner if she has to stay at the office past eight. Thus, she does not arrive home til 9:30 to 10 pm. So I spend my days at her apartment cleaning every little thing in sight, only for her to reward me with her leftover orange and carrot smoothie from Muscle Maker Grill.
My sister and I have a weird but fun dynamic. We are truthful to each other, but we never forget to add ‘lol’ at the beginning or the end of our hard truths to ease the impact. My sister has her little situationship with a Togolese boy who moved to America when he was nine years old. He went to Bates College, works in IT, and still lives with his mother and siblings. I spoke to him a couple of times on the phone after 9:30 pm, and for a week, he had me thinking he firmly believed he was American and not West African. I made it my duty to explain how nationality worked, only to discover that he was just making fun of me.
“Lol, Dani, he is just joking with you,” Jutta said as I was in the middle of my explanation. And that was the moment I knew that I had been outplayed. I had been outplayed by someone who needed my approval to move forward with my sister but he managed to earn it by helping set up my extendable blue couch, my final place to lay my body and mind to rest. Jutta came back at 10 pm on a Wednesday, got undressed, and hopped into the shower.
“Dani, come sit on the toilet and humor me,” she shouted from the bathroom.
“America has fragile walls, like when I could hear you perfectly well when you told your boy toy that I was a ‘special kid,’ lol.”
“But you are! Very unique,” she said with a hard ‘q.’
“I think you’re scared to commit to him because of your daddy issues; Dad never showed any love, so the little things perplex you.”
“LOL.”
We busted out into peels of laughter; I had succeeded. However, that night we both went to bed with a lot to think about.