A Soldier and an Artist
Remembering my brother, Mike, on his 80th birthday
April 27th would have been my brother Mike's 80th birthday if he had lived. In September 2001, he died a traumatized death with cancer in his blood from exposure to agent orange during his three tours in Vietnam, although I didn't learn that for many months after his death. When he was around, he looked out for me, and inspired me to become an artist. I carry these pictures and many wonderful memories to keep Mike alive.
I think I'm 6 in this picture. That would make Chuck 9 with a birthday at the end of the summer, and Mike already turned 11. To make the calculation easy, my brothers were separated by fifteen months, whereas I was four years younger than Chuck. Mike looks already grown up whereas Chuck and I look like troublesome twins. It makes me laugh.
You'll get a sense of our relationships among the three of us in my memoir, but Mike has a lesser presence in the book because he was not in my life as much as Chuck.
I'm 14, trying to be 22. I was just coming into my own in my first year of high school, but only three months later, my life would be upended, when Dad gets transferred to Melbourne, Australia, and takes Mom and me with him. Read all about our 18 months on the other side of the world in Chapter 2 “Upside Down” and Chapter 3 “Horses Under the Eucalyptus.”
Between tours in Vietnam, Mike came home to keep Mom and Dad together. I had just arrived in LA in 1968, where we lived in this apartment for 1½ months. We had a great party the night after Mom and Dad split, then left, each in their own direction. There were so many people in the apartment, I ended up sitting on top of that refrigerator. Each time someone opened it to get another beer, the interior light lit me up. You can read about it in Chapter 11 “The Party.” The next day, the landlord locked us out, with all my possessions and Mike's army gear inside. You'll learn how that turned out in Chapter 11, too.
When Mike came home during his first leave, he spent an hour flushing the toilet. He told me it was a wondrous experience for him after being pinned down in the jungle for so long, caked with mud from head to toe. During his tours, he became a machine gunner on a chopper, and a supply sergeant, trading favors to acquire special items like steak and lobster for his superiors, in exchange for movies and special leave for his buddies who needed it.
The brother I knew and loved was not a soldier, but an artist. He built this fabulous studio above his garage and created dramatic art on huge canvases, sometimes placing canvas on the floor and staining it, even throwing paint like his idol, Jackson Pollack did.
When Mike died in 2001, I brought his canvases home to Leaf River, to keep until his kids were ready to choose the ones they wanted. With my art, I carry on the tradition of creativity in our family.
Mike appears throughout the book, in the important moments when the family came together to care for Chuck who had AIDS. I write in my memoir about my journey to empowerment and healing, one that wraps around Chuck's story from the time I learned he was gay in 1968, until he died in 1995.
Both my brothers gave me such joyous memories, of laughter and generosity, as our connection to each other helped us cope with life on the move.
Mike and I were the guardians of Chuck's memory, and now it is only me who holds the family stories. There are so many I want to tell. My memoir about Mike will be titled:
Miko: A soldier and an artist.