My older brother, Brage, has meant a lot to me since I was just a little kid. I looked up to him and I thought he was the greatest brother ever. I remember I stood outside his door when he had company and listened to the music he played and tried to learn the texts. Later I walked around singing these texts and hoped he would notice it and say it was cool, but the only thing he said when he notices was, “you’re singing it wrong.” But, hallo, can you expect a sixyearold to learn English texts perfectly? But I wouldn’t give up. At an age of 6, I asked mum if I could get a sweater like his. One of those black ones, with a hood. She said no, but as a Christmas present from my aunt and uncle I got a blue one, with some flowers on. I loved that sweater, because my brother told me he thought it was cool. I wear it as much as I could.
I stood a lot outside his door, and if he was alone, sometimes he let me in. I was in heaven. There was so much to look at, so much stuff! I guess I looked at my brothers room as some kind of sanctuary, and I had to be careful not to be sent out. When I was inside his room we played computer games that out mother would burn if the even knew about them. It was blood, blood and even more blood. Zombies and monsters, all to kill. He laughed at me where I sat with my eyes shut, and he kissed my head. I never told mum about these games, because if I did I wouldn’t be able to be in his room anymore.
At some nights if I was really lucky, he would tell me goodnight-stories. They were about trolls and pirates and lots of gold. I was always a part of the stories, one of the characters, and I enjoyed ever second. He always said that he read these stories from a book, the invisible book. I remember I always wanted to see that book too, but it was only for him to see. After he had told the stories we both fell asleep in his bed. When he woke up, he carried me to my own bed and kissed me goodnight.
At an age of 15 years my brother joined this policy group, called Red Youth. (Rød Ungdom). Now he always was busy with this and he wrote a lot of stuff to this policy thing. Even at an early age he was a phenomenal writer. I remember one sentence I read on the computer screen that he had written, “he just sat there, thinking. His hand was up scratching some few, short beard stubbles.” I loved that sentence, and I can still remember it even though it’s over 3 years since I read it.
My older brother was also my babysitter, Oh, God, I hated that word. I wanted to be grown up like him, not to be baby sited. Those nights we watched movies, scary movies, and he was watching over me when I was scared to death. And when we heard the car came, and I should have been in bed for hours, we ran upstairs and tried to look alike we were sleeping. It never worked.
My brother was a punk. He had always been a punk. Military boots, black clothes with lots of holes in them, and chains around his neck. Then, one day, just before Christmas, a few years ago he came home with his hair cut like a cumb, and the colour was orange! My mother was shocked, and I loved it. Orange hair kind of suits a black smoking.
Now my brother has moved to Oslo, and some weekends I go visiting him. I love these weekends, because when I’m there he shows me a lot, and I meet lots of interesting people. For example his new girlfriend, Mari, who is a really cute girl, and we’ve become great friends.
As I said, he joined his policy group at an age of 15. Now it’s my turn. His taste in music has infected mine, his taste and interest for politics and his taste in clothes. He teaches me a lot. And last, but not least, I love my brother. He has always been there for me, and I think he always will.