Gillian: "Sal? Thanks."
Sally: "For what?"
Gillian: "For being my sister."
-Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock, Practical Magic, 1998
Aunt Frances: "My darling girl, when are you going to understand that "normal" isn't a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage."
-Stockard Channing, Practical Magic, 1998
My sister: Part I
Hurricane Tara.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener she sensed what she had to offer was larger than a little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has blamed our parents for being the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-lease!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. My parents uttered these now mundane phrases in times of childhood tantrums, teenage tantrums, musical genius, and what can only be classified as Hilarity, Tara-Style. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.” They would alternate these phrases with feeling of pride (“She’ll never let anyone push her around!” their eyes said. Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never) and exasperation ready to turn into full-blown rage at a moment’s notice, depending on how they felt. Or rather, how she felt.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way. And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When her powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, Tara was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle. I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at Tara, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece. Hurricane Tara was stubborn, contrary, bright, a drama queen slash actress to her core. These qualities took root and sprouted into an independent, artistic, non-conformist, determined entertainer—an adult Tara. A down-to-earth diva with great hair and a streak of sarcasm, to boot. She simultaneously wears her heart on her sleeve and is intensely private. She has both the ability to make me laugh harder than anybody and infuriate me more than anyone. And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
