Moyenneh

The essay that got me into college was about how I used to wake my siblings up with ukulele songs, but it was really about life with Stewart. I’ve written thousands of words about my brother. He’s an easy subject: The fourth of my family’s five kids, he was adopted from Liberia at age nine and carries the toughness and wounds that arise from a fractured childhood and personal challenges. Some of the things I’ve written have been beautiful. Some have been dense and poorly crafted. All came in an easy stream.

I stopped writing about Stewart a few years ago because I ran out of things to write. When he was around sixteen, after attempts with public school, private school, homeschool, military school, therapy, and every parenting technique under the sun, it became rapidly clear to my parents that Stewart’s future, safety, and even freedom would only be secure through drastic change. Stewart ventured back to Liberia with a close family friend who runs the facility where Solopino, my brother who was also adopted from Liberia, grew up. I haven’t seen him since April 30, 2014.

My contact with Stewart has consisted of choppy, infrequent phone calls and the occasional Facebook message. I’ve received most updates through my dad, who collects them from the adults in Stewart’s life. It’s taken nearly three years, but he’s finally doing well. Days when I deeply miss Stewart are softened by the realization that he could not have grown into a healthy adult while living in the US. He needed to be in a place that he understood.

It’s strange having a younger sibling who was sent away for complex reasons. I don’t like explaining it. My elevator speech concerning the whereabouts of my younger brother is often met with confusion or uncomfortable silence. What’s stranger is how some of the most pivotal people in my life have never met Stewart. I worry that he’s not quite real to them. My reality of Stewart Blamo Moyenneh Bridges is visceral and intentionally preserved. His sixteen-year-old self shimmers in amber in the back of my brain and my interactions with him are clumsily archived in essays and journal entries. Living with Stewart was like walking up a river—progress is possible, but not guaranteed. I reflect on the toughest days with my little brother and arrive at the same conclusion each time: I just really, really miss him.

I’m flying to Liberia tomorrow to watch Stewart graduate from high school. Three years have passed. I’m not sure how tall he is or if he still likes the same foods. I hope he’s gentler and more patient with himself. He’s flying back to Charlotte to start or continue or restart a life. Those are the only words I have left. Maybe he’s learned to love himself in a way that’s healthy. Maybe he’ll be my friend again.