When we were young, my grandma will dress me and my brother up the same as if we were twins. We would have the same shirt, the same pants, and socks. Somehow, I didn’t like my granny’s sense of fashion even at a young age; neither did my brother. Despite the four-year age difference, which in that case would isolate any possibility of us being recognized as twins, granny would painstakingly storm the local boutiques in the market (ukay-ukay has yet to be coined during that time) to scout for cheap trade and would always end up buying the same brand for both of her favorite boys. If one has a Superman shirt, the other should have too (Thank heavens! Barney and Dora have yet to be thought of back then). This was to avoid any reason for comparison in the eyes of the two critical creatures—us. After my parents passed away when I was 10-month old, my grandparents took us under their wings. They would buy for one boy what the other already has. This must be difficult for my brother since I had the tendency to copy him. At one point, I already had inkling, even at a very young age, of what generation gap means. So growing up, my neurons would light up when I hear the phrase ‘generation gap’ from my teachers or on TV and would pedantically blurt out the definition as “Noun. An utter disregard of grandparents to what the young ones want.”

One Christmas Day we had to attend a party at a relative’s. As usual, to my chagrin, my bro and I would stand the whole day donning the same clothes and braving the prying eyes and quizzical stares of people. My brother and I would parade into the crowd to blend in just to be unnoticed. We’d separate ways as if we didn’t know each other. We so hated those occasions. We’d go about playing with kids our age as if we didn’t care if we’re wearing the same clothes and trying as much as we can to avoid bumping into each other. But kids are kids—tactless and always ready to criticize. They’d ask us, “Magkapatid kayo? (Are you, guys, brothers?)” It was almost difficult to answer that one question I was trying to avoid. And I would almost always reply with a glottal choke, “Oo (Yes).” My brother’s eyes would then narrow to a colubrine slit as if I was his nefarious enemy. I would then cringe wishing I didn’t open my mouth to speak.

I was always like that. As a young boy, I was always the more bubbly and talkative; always running around, trying to make a mark for myself even if it would mean a scar on my knee or elbow. And my brother was almost my opposite–the quiet and reserved like a deep water that almost describes his deep set eyes–a stark contrast to my puffy-lid, Japanese eyes. We were brothers, albeit not twins, dressed up almost the same but too different from each other. I guess what we didn’t want back then was to be compared. People would size us up and we never liked the idea. We liked to be regarded as distinct. I never wanted to be likened to my brother, and neither did he. We would always compete to be recognized on our own to the point of us bickering almost everyday. That stopped when I moved out of my grandparent’s home.

My grandma stopped buying two-of-the-same-type things when I was 11. By that time I was already in high school and had moved out to live with an aunt and her family. My brother and I were in the same school though. Our friends and classmates knew that we were brothers and finally, to my relief, the ‘twin’ effect of our ‘grandma fashion’ was forgotten. I was recognized as me, and my brother as him.

It took me a while to establish my own sense of identity –and fashion. For the longest time I was almost ‘connected,’ mostly compared, to my brother. But I always tried to be better than he, which must have peeved him. At parties, I would try to be at the ‘middle’ of it—singing, dancing, reciting a poem—to the delight of the crowd. And I’d do more. I remember a few occasions when I’d go home from school with PhP2.00 in my pocket—a trade off for doing splits (my tendons and ligaments were still flexible at 6). In school, I was trying to outdo my brother’s academic records without breaking a sweat. Come recognition and graduation days, my name would be on the programme and my proud grandparents would dare not complain of how long the walk was to the stage or how they would have wished they didn’t forget to take corticosteroids. And that must have peeved him.

I love my brother. And somehow, I cannot deny the fact that I must have tried, at one point, to be like him unconsciously—because we are brothers. I have since outgrown that. I have taken a different liking, different hobbies, sports, and even fashion statement. I have grown up. I already have made sense of what I am supposed to do, think, and want to have. For what it’s worth, I have broken away from the shadow that my brother had tried to establish as he sees unique.

I stopped copying him. We stopped competing–until last year when he and his wife flew in from Hong Kong. His wife would not stop comparing me to my brother. And I knew he was taking it all with modesty—“Oh, you look better than your brother,” “You dress up better than your brother,” etc. My brother would only smile at me. And I saw it was a smile of pride—a pride of a brother being proud of what his brother has become. The smile faded when my sister-in-law quipped, “You look more like your father.” My brother ran his deep-set eyes from my countenance to his wife’s and said, “Of course not.” We stopped competing—only if it doesn’t involve our father.

Somehow, that was one issue we have not resolved after all. Time has helped us forget and settle the differences except for one thing. The desire and ambition to be like our father. We compete against each other as to how many would complement us on who looks more like our father or who got our father’s smile, antics, quirks, and idiosyncrasy. We revel at every complement from people who knew our father, “You look just like your father,” “You sound just like your father,” “You walk just like your father,” “Don’t you think he slouches just like their father? Oh, how he must be so happy that you have grown up just like him…if only he were alive.” Some would hug us pretending they were hugging our father. Some would cry remembering how good and kind our father was.

It made me question myself, “What would I leave when I’m gone?” My father left a pretty good memory and legacy of himself on people. Three decades after he was gone, people still talk about him. And I asked myself again, “How did he do that?” Maybe that is what I wanted to become–just like my father. Maybe that is what my brother and I are competing over—the honor of being called the son after his own father’s blueprint.

It shames me to admit that I have done nothing to own the honor. And it pains me to admit that I might leave this world knowing that I am nowhere near my dad’s mould of character. I am almost ready to resign my claim for my brother. After all he’s the first born. I was consoled by the fact that there’s one thing that I can proudly say I can claim anytime—that is, I can claim to be like my heavenly Father, to be just like my Savior and know that I don’t need competition to claim the honor and one day be complemented, “You are just like your Father.”