Would This Solve The Border Crisis and More?

I grew up with a hippie mom.

Growing up is a funny word.

I was babysitting my younger brother when I was five.

He was three.

I drove my first time between eight and nine because she couldn’t.

Too much booze. Too much weed.

I grew up in the thick of it, so some of it was a haze.

I’m playing all that exposure, not age.

But it gave me opinions.

It made me think, as I did get older, about weed and booze and how old people should be before they have babies.

My brother, who is ten times more laid back than I am, told me once.

“Brother, you are just a damn old soul and you didn’t have a choice about it.”

When he was eleven and I was thirteen, we got into a huge scuffle.

He decided he was old enough to stop calling me brother. It bugged me.

A shove turned into a wrestle, fell into arm punches and red faced tears.

A real kerfuffle.

He called me brother as my name every day until that one, and then never again.