This is a quiet and peaceful Sunday afternoon that barely ever happens since siblings came along. I am in my own room, my private place. From a deep, calm place in my being, tranquility opens like the soft pink petals of a lotus flower. I am sitting in front of my desk reviewing notes for a test that will happen tomorrow. I have my headphones on and am listening to music. Music is my wall―it separates me from countless distractions and allows me to focus on my work. I smile―ah, to have quiet, uninterrupted me time. There are no responsibilities to family. There’s just me and my needs. I don’t have to take care of my younger siblings, help them with school work, provide them with meals, or play with them so that they don’t disturb other family members.  However, things were not as I thought, and my peaceful moment was broken before I had time to enjoy it.

I am just about to to start a practice test, when suddenly my little sister rushes through the door, and plants herself in front of me. There was no reason for her to rush breathlessly into my space―she had no need for assistance; she had no message to pass to me from our parents. I was stunned, and then angry. I had told her countless times to knock before entering my room. But instead of yelling because my peace had been interrupted yet again, I held back my anger.  I remembered mom saying it was useless to be angry, and that it was important to tell them what was right.

So instead of yelling, “Get the heck out of here,” I started to say “What are you . . .” but couldn’t complete my sentence because my door slammed open again and there was a loud laugh. My brother, who is seven years younger than me, strides in and his smirking face looks like it belongs to an imp, rather than a  five-year-old boy. My firm control begins to falter―I feel like a crumbling cottage in a wind storm. My brother knows not to enter without knocking first. Before I fall apart and use my sharp tongue to slice and dice my younger siblings, I pull myself back from the edge of this tension, and remember my mother’s words once more, “Teach. Don’t shout.”  I take a deep breath, calm myself down and continue to speak, ““What are you two doing in here?”

“I’m bored” Kelley says.

“Me too” Ronson chimes in.

“Well, you two can go play together. I have to do my homework, and I can't join in right now. Oh, and next time you two come into my room, knock please.”  I hold my emotions in check while a wait for a response.

“Kelley said I’m too childish; I don't want to play with her” Ronson proclaims loudly with a huge pout.

And, not wanting to accept responsibility for her words to my youngest sib, Kelley shouts, “I'm right. Playing with you is boring. You’re as exciting as mud!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

Frustrated dismay fills me ― right now, calm seems as far out of reach as the moon. I didn't want to mess with them anymore. I needed to study, so I pushed them and their quarrel out of my room. I felt that I did very well this time. I’d kept my temper in check.  I didn’t let my emotions get the best of me. Satisfied, I put the earphones on again and prepare to continue my studies. However, my siblings have another idea about my studies.

Once again my door slams open―no knock, just both of them loudly pleading, “Play with us for a few minutes, then we won’t interrupt you again!”

My anger spikes. I see red. My head feels like it’s going to explode. They didn’t knock. They didn’t ask permission to enter. They just slammed the door open and started to whine, and then shout. Suddenly the clothes pin comes off my lips and I bellow, “How many times have I told you to knock when you come into my room? You don't listen! Every time, I say I have to study because I have a test tomorrow you act like I don’t matter!  Can you take responsibility if I don't do well on this test? I don’t think so.  And I don't care if you two don't get along. Go play by your selves or play together; I don’t care, but get out of my room! Now!” Not listening to their arguments, I push them out and lock my door.

Now it should be said, locking the door is not allowed in our family, but this time I am really angry, and certain my parents will understand. After settling down, I return to my studies. Suddenly there is a loud knock on my door. “What now?” I mutter to no one and everyone. There is a second knock. “Yes,” I hiss with venom in my voice. 

“Ariana, unlock your door,” my mother states loudly. Opening my door, I see my mother’s angry frown―it  causes her forehead to wrinkle. She asks me why I had locked the door and was heard screaming from across the house. I try to explain, but she doesn’t seem to hear me, and cuts me off with a sharp hand gesture. She doesn’t tell me she understands how frustrating it can be responsible for my younger siblings. She doesn’t say she understands my side of the story. She just repeats the same line over and over, “It is useless to be angry, just tell them what is right.” My mom keeps repeating herself until I say, “I understand.” And I do. I understand my mother; I understand why she wants me to set a good example. I understand her words and theories, but I don't understand why it's always my fault. I have tried my best to be a good sister, to understand and help my brother and sister, to talk to them and teach them well. But what’s the payoff? I never hear, “You did a great job today with your brother and sister.” All I ever hear is, “Do better! Do better! Do better!” A tear leaks out of the corner of one eye and runs slowly down my cheek. I want to do my best and be my best. I always hope to be better. But it’s tough. It seems like my sibs’ needs are more important than mine. It’s hard. I want to make my parents happy, but I want to be true to myself at the same time. These forces pull at me from opposite directions. I feel like I’m going to snap, but instead I put my headphones back on, push down the pain, and let my friend, the music, begin to soothe me.