My Crazy Big Brother
Zyayre’ Elmore-Holden
My brother fell out of a two-story window trying to pick up cheese.
My brother is crazy as hell. Most big brothers do what they can to protect their little sisters: they cater to them, spoil them, play with them, love them, bug them, and defend them. Big brothers tend to act as if we’re their daughters and they are our fathers.
Not my big brother; he’s crazy. Growing up, I thought my brother’s erratic behavior was just a part of his personality. He was loud, unpredictable, and always quick to get angry. At first, I thought this was normal; he was just the “crazy” sibling, the one who made life chaotic but interesting. But, as I got older, I started to realize that his anger and mood swings weren’t just a part of his character—they were signs of something deeper.
My brother did a lot of crazy shit growing up. One time, we were grounded and found ourselves throwing pieces of sliced cheese out our bedroom window into the driveway. We weren’t allowed to leave our room. We had our older sister and cousin downstairs watching us. But, we remembered mom would be off work soon, and she would see all the slices of cheese in the driveway and beat the black off our asses. One thing you never want to do is piss off a black mom fresh off work.
Instead of going outside and picking the cheese up like a normal person, my brother had the bright idea to make a rope out of his church ties and belts. One of the ties snapped and he fell out the window. Try explaining to your sister and cousin how you got outside without ever leaving the front door.
And let’s not forget the time in elementary school when he walked across the street to the seafood shop while we were waiting in front of the school to be let in. The kids immediately snitched. Admin yelled at him to come back. It was only eight o’clock in the morning and my mom was already getting a call from the school.
My brother didn’t have a care in the world; he stole from my mom’s purse, he acted out in school constantly, he argued with any and everyone. He was placed in behavior centers, therapy, and counseling, but nothing seemed to help. In our community, it’s common for Black men to hide their emotions. Society tells them they must be tough, that they can never show weakness, and that they need to bottle up their feelings. My brother, like so many other Black men, took that to heart. But that pressure eventually weighed on him, and it came out in ways that hurt not just him, but the people around him. My brother’s craziness is rooted in his uncontrollable anger, his battle with depression, his suicidal thoughts, and the pressure society puts on Black men to hide their emotions, all of which shaped his unpredictable and intense personality.
My brother is crazy but only because the world forced him to be. To understand his craziness, you’ll have to understand what it’s like to be a Black man, but the reality of the matter is you'll never truly understand the pressure of being a Black man unless you are one. Black men in the U.S. deal with so many challenges that it’s overwhelming just to think about. For one, their health stats are alarming. Black men have the lowest life expectancy, but some of the highest death rates from certain causes. For example, for Black men aged 15-24, homicide is the leading cause of death (CDC). On top of that, there’s the criminal justice system. Black men make up about 6% of the U.S. population but make up 32% of the prison population (Brookings). Now tell me that isn't crazy. A lot of this comes down to systemic inequality. Black people are 3.73 times more likely to be arrested for marijuana possession than white people, even though both groups use marijuana at similar rates (Brookings). Economically, the odds are stacked too. Black men have a much harder time finding good-paying jobs, and even when they do, they’re earning significantly less—about $378 less per week than white men and $125 less than white women (Brookings). And all while trying to make ends meet, they’re still battling fucked up stereotypes that paint them as aggressive or lazy, which only creates more barriers in schools, workplaces, and even within their communities.
And let’s not forget the social expectations. Black men are supposed to be providers and protectors, but how can they live up to that expectation when the system keeps pulling them down? Many struggle to find stability for themselves, let alone their families. Then there’s racism: it’s everywhere. It’s in the micro-aggressions they face daily, in the systems that hold them back, and in the psychological weight of witnessing violence and injustice against people who look like them. Black men face layers of pressure, from health disparities to being over- policed and underpaid, all while trying to fight off stereotypes and stay strong for their families. These issues aren’t just stats; they are everyday realities (CDC, Brookings). And unfortunately, my big brother is a victim of being a Black man in America.
My brother was depressed and suicidal, but that’s not what made him crazy. Black men are under so much pressure to “be strong” that seeking help for things like anxiety or depression is seen as weak. Then to add to that, there’s the lack of culturally competent therapists, so now you’ve got a population suffering in silence.
I hate that my brother wanted to kill himself. He tried so many times, I lost count. Some attempts came closer than others. I remember the first time he did it. I was in fourth grade and he was in sixth. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew what I was told. My brother was sick and my mom had to fly to the Children’s Hospital with him, so my sister and I had to stay with grandma. I was confused about why everyone had suddenly become so comforting towards me, constantly making sure I was okay and asking about my brother. He was eleven, I was nine, and our older sister thirteen. An eleven-year-old wanted to kill himself. That’s crazy as hell.
By his second attempt, I understood the severity. But I couldn’t wrap my head around why my brother hated life so much that he wanted to end his. Sometimes I truly believed my crazy ass brother wanted to end my life as well. He would tell me the most hurtful and degrading things. He told me he wished I would die, I never should have been born, I was a disgrace, he hated me, I was ugly, I was stupid; I was called all types of bitches and hoes. He even told me he would kill me himself. My brother never failed to remind me of how worthless and unimportant I was. I wasn’t the only one he would say things like this to, but it definitely felt like it. I was just a child myself. I couldn't understand why my brother hated me so much, and I found myself being envious of my friends who had close relationships with their brothers. I grew up starting to despise my brother, constantly being mean to him even when he was nice.
As we got older, his attitude did change, and so did he. I’m just grateful he didn’t end up like Jameek Lowery. Lowery was a 27-year-old Black man from Paterson, New Jersey. He was experiencing a mental health crisis in January of 2019 when he sought help at a police station. During the incident, he live-streamed himself expressing paranoia and fear of police harm. He was transported to a hospital, restrained, and allegedly punched by officers. Lowery arrived at the hospital unconscious and died two days later. While his death was attributed to a medical event related to drug use, his family and community believe police brutality played a role.
Protests followed, highlighting the strained relationship between Paterson’s Black community and law enforcement. Investigations later revealed systemic issues of excessive force and racial discrimination within Paterson’s police force (AP News).
These experiences with my brother made me realize that his anger wasn’t just about the words he said or the actions he took; it stemmed from something much deeper. It became clear that his pain was rooted in a combination of unhealed wounds, societal pressures, and the lack of a safe space to express vulnerability. To truly understand his anger, I had to look beyond the surface and into the underlying struggles that shaped his emotions.
The Root of All Anger
Sometimes I get scared my brother will just be another case of a Black man that’s gone crazy. When you’re a Black man in America, you can’t even seek help without facing injustice. Irvo Otieno, a 28-year-old Black man, died in March 2023 while being restrained at a state psychiatric hospital in Virginia. A video of the incident showed him being physically restrained by multiple officers and staff, drawing comparisons to the killing of George Floyd. Initially, several deputies were charged in connection with his death, but most charges were later dropped, leaving only a few prosecutions. Otieno’s family continues to seek accountability, highlighting systemic failures in both mental health care and law enforcement (AP News).
My brother became nicer once he got to high school, but his craziness got worse at the same time. Once his dad (another crazy ass Black man) got released from jail, shit went left real fast. To make a long story short, his dad was an asshole who didn’t care about anyone but himself. He was hard on my brother, forcing him to be his definition of a “man.” He would aggressively yell at him and punch him when he wanted my brother to do as he said. One night, my brother fought back, refusing to take his father's shit anymore. They fought, throwing their bodies on the side of the house right underneath my bedroom window. For my brother to be as small as he was and his father to be as big as he was, my brother sure did put up a damn good fight.
I don’t know what it’s like to have a father incarcerated because mine is dead. He was shot right in the head before I was even born (another victim of being Black in America.) But what I do understand is that my brother's father is not a man. Because no true man would come out of prison and try to be a father before he knows how to be a dad. No true man would allow his one and only child to sleep outside on a bench. No true man would disown his child for their sexual preference. But hey, that’s just my opinion.
On top of all the other hardships we were battling, like barely being able to keep the lights on in the house, my brother got himself involved in a “gang”. What started as a supposed brotherhood turned into them committing numerous criminal acts. They committed petty thefts and burglaries. Hanging around these idiots he called his family led him to a juvenile detention center. And the sad part about it is that my brother was one of the creators of this gang. I don’t know where my brother was mentally at sixteen years old, but I know it couldn’t have been good if it caused him to create a gang and put his hands on our mother.
What I do know is that after that he wasn’t the same brother full of rage I had known previously. He began to have a lot of sweet moments, when at times it truly felt like he wanted to be a better person. We would make TikToks and funny videos together; if I needed something, he was quick to get it for me. He never wanted me to go without. He even became protective over me and, for a moment, I felt like our bond could be healed. But it was too late for me; the damage had already been done, so these nice moments never lasted very long. If I found myself hanging with him too much, I would find an excuse to stop. When he would ask me to do things with him, I would very bluntly tell him “no.” I began to get smart with him a lot and disrespect him the same way he had disrespected me. We would argue a lot, so those brief moments of sibling bonding were nothing but that: brief moments.
However, despite not seeing eye to eye 80% of the time, I still loved my brother and ultimately, my brother’s journey showed me that beneath the chaos and pain there was a complexity to his love and humanity that shaped both of our lives in ways I’m only beginning to understand.
My brother was never dumb. He was very smart actually; he just wouldn’t apply himself.
But many times, he would encourage me to do better, to focus on school and not be like him. I was beyond proud when my brother graduated. At times, I didn’t think he would—not because I doubted his intelligence, but because he never went to school.
You know how they say “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade”? Well, my brother made a damn rainbow. He shook the whole city, myself included, when he got exposed for being with a gay man. Now I don’t know why my brother thought he was going to be able to be with a social media influencer and not get posted. But that's exactly what happened: caught in 4k laid up with some Instagram-famous guy. There wasn’t no denying that. He was the talk of the whole city. Plastered on everyone's Facebook timelines. I didn’t care though; I love and will continue to love my brother, no matter his sexual preference. Hell, we grew up with a lesbian mom. How can I not love him unconditionally?
But his “gang” turned on him faster than you can blink but who’s really surprised? My brother went M.I.A after this and went on to delete all his socials. My sister and I checked on him and he claimed he was okay. He said “it is what it is”, but we both knew deep down, he wasn’t okay. About a month later, he posted a suicide video filled with pictures and memories of all his loved ones. My mom had just picked me up from work when two of my friends sent me the video. My mother called her wife (then girlfriend) to check on him as she rushed home, speeding through every light and stop sign. We got home in time, but only God knows what would have happened if we hadn’t. This was the last time my brother had any suicide attempts. After that, life went on, he got a job—well, in his case, a few, because his crazy ass couldn't and still can’t keep a job to save his life. Despite all the chaos and pain, my brother's story ultimately serves as a reminder that beneath his struggles and mistakes lies a deep complexity, one that speaks to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity.
My brother grew up angry, not crazy. It’s the world that forced him to be crazy. And as a Black man living in America, my brother has every damn right to be angry. Angry at a system that has continuously devalued his humanity, treated him as less than, and forced him to fight twice as hard just to exist in spaces that others take for granted. He’s angry at the endless cycle of injustice, where the odds are stacked against him before he even gets a chance to prove his worth, where every step forward seems to be met with ten steps back. He’s angry at the looks of suspicion he gets in places where he has every right to be, at the judgment passed before he even speaks a word, and at a society that expects him to swallow his pain in silence. His anger is not a sign of weakness or instability; it’s a reflection of resilience, of a spirit that refuses to be crushed by the weight of generational oppression and systemic racism. He has carried this anger because it’s tied to his dignity, his sense of self-worth, and his demand to be seen, heard, and respected in a world that too often denies him that.
So yes, he is angry, and he has every reason and every right to be.
Now, there’s a lot of stuff I failed to mention about my crazy brother, including him being shot at and run over on the highway beside our house. But if I did that, you’d be reading a whole other story. My brother could have turned out like many Black men before him, such as Tamir Rice, shot at 12 years old by police while playing with a toy gun; Philando Castile, killed by police when seeking help during a routine traffic stop; Alton Sterling, killed while selling CDs to support his family; Kalief Browder, wrongfully imprisoned as a teenager for three years due to his inability to afford bail, leading to mental health problems; Rayshard Brooks, killed by police after falling asleep in a Wendy's parking lot while struggling with homelessness; Joshua Wright, killed when facing severe depression during an encounter where the police were called to help him (AP News). The real crazy part is the list is never ending. I just pray my brother never becomes part of this list.
My brother grew up angry, not crazy.
My brother’s craziness is rooted in his uncontrollable anger, his battle with depression and suicidal thoughts, and the pressure society puts on Black men to hide their emotions, all of which shape his unpredictable and intense personality. But what really makes my brother who he is is that he’s survived it all so far.
Maybe only a crazy man can survive growing up Black, being the only boy in a house full of girls, having a father incarcerated, all while being gay and in a gang. But my brother is not done surviving yet, and that’s the part that amazes me most. Every day, he walks a tightrope between vulnerability and strength, between his past and the future he’s still fighting to define. Society often paints men like him as lost causes, but my brother is living proof of the power to endure and adapt, no matter how chaotic life becomes. His anger isn’t just rage; it's the roar of a man who has been silenced too many times, a man who fights back against a world that constantly tries to box him in. What makes him truly remarkable is that he still finds ways to love, to laugh, and to dream. Despite the challenges, he refuses to give up on life, even when it seems like life has given up on him. He’s a survivor in every sense of the word, and in his survival, he teaches me something new about strength, resilience, and what it means to be unapologetically human.
So, I am beyond grateful to have my crazy ass brother.