Unknown Brother.
(The following is an older piece of writing. I lost my other account and put it here to preserve it. It has been unchanged to maintain it’s authenticity.)
Back in bubonic days the citizens within the high walls of Córdoba were protected from the black death by an Angel. His name was Raphael, and in his honor, the citizens erected monuments to him that spanned the city. The local football team plays at Nuevo Estadio de Arcangel. This is right next to Centro Comercial Arcangel, where the rebajas are so good I got an entire outfit for under €60. Statues small and grand line the tops of the buildings of antiquity here in the city. The Largest — a supermassive tower-sculpture next to the Mezquita — which overlooks and protects the city from illness.
Maybe it’s because my apartment is just beyond the walls of the old city. Could be because I’m not Cordobés. Maybe it’s because I don’t believe in him, or it could be simply because there’s not a statue in the house looking over me. But for whatever reason (the most likely being that I have been pushing myself to my mental and physical limits to learn a new language, write more than ever, and still stay out until 5:00am drinking with friends) I’m sick.
So, thinking that it might help to get under the healers gaze, I went for a run. I took Avenida de Aeropuerto (where I live) down to the ancient walls of the city and past the statue of Seneca, the great stoic philosopher of Rome, born here in Córdoba. I have a direct mental link from this statue to my older brother, Gabriel, who introduced me to his writings. They bring me peace and keep me level headed. I don’t know how I would have survived my final quarter in Santa Cruz without that audiobook of The Daily Stoic he gave me, so cheers, hermano.
As I passed the Mezquita — the most beautiful mosque which was converted into a cathedral when the christians of northern Spain retook the peninsula — I see the many faces of Raphael. I think about the synchronicity of it all. The ark angels have had a symbolic importance to me all my life. The first and most obvious reason being that the prayer of Saint Michael is one of the most badass mantras a little Catholic boy can have. It doesn’t hurt that Michael is my surname. My friend Katherine gave me a medallion of the winged warrior from the Vatican. He’s stabbing satan in the back, and I keep it with me always.
Michael is the warrior, Raphael the healer, and Gabriel is the messenger. He delivered the message to Mary that she was pregnant with Jesus: the Archetype for all the heroes I would read about from my big brothers comic book collection. What’s more, the angel delivered to the illiterate Mohammed the entire language of the Quran. To me, Gabriel is analogous to Hermes, the messenger god. And, according Grant Morrison, Hermes is the very concept of Language and story personified.
My brother lives up to this title. He’s been a messenger in his own right to me. He gave me Bob Dylan, Okkervil River, Thrice, and films at the Arclight Hollywood. I’m pretty sure I got my blunt asshat charm from him. Though I could have got it from my father, who can be more like Nero then Scenica at times. But Gabriel isn’t just a messenger, he’s a storyteller. And in these respects my older brother does not fall short. But the synchronicities don’t end there. And I thought about these things as I passed the Puente Romano that crosses the Rio Guadalquivir.
I ran by the riverbank, looking at the graffiti on the ancient cobble stone while thinking about my mother. When I was very little she told me that I would have had another older brother, and she would have named him Rafael. She told me she still thinks about him, and I do too. Every time I listen to ‘Unknown Brother’ by the Black Keys I think of him. It’s hard to describe missing someone I’ve never known, but that song captures that feeling so absolutely that I don’t have to. Every single word.
I didn’t listen to that song as I ran, but I did listen to others. As I left the riverbank and entered the white-walled maze of the Old city of Córdoba I listened to “El Zuko EP” by Eddie Zuko. The walls are tall to shade los Córdobeses throughout the day, and they are painted white to shield from the sun. The summers here in the south of Spain are sweltering. But now, in the wintertime, things are a comfortable chill.
When Zuko’s song “Made” came on, I found myself running through La Plaza Corredera. It’s a huge square, much larger than La Plaza de las Tendillas (my closest land mark to home, and nowhere near where I was presently lost). It’s a large space with tiled floors and roman architecture. Mostly clear and empty, and the high walls open up to the sky, which was clear and blue today. That emptiness is punctuated by sections of tables from cafes that spill out into the square. There’s waiters in their white button-ups scrambling around with the white pigeons. Neither of them seem to notice me as I run by.
The old city is a labyrinth of high walls. It has a way of swallowing me up and spitting me out somewhere new every time I enter it. I ran through those empty streets past the markets, bodegas, and patios: perfectly set up so that the tourists can peer in at their artistry. Even that far out- where the only form of life I saw was a man with three teeth smoking a cigarette by his puppies- the patios are exquisite antique works of mastery. Trusting the streets to take me where I needed to go, I just kept running.
I couldn’t think much about direction anyway. Zuko’s lyrics “Chilling with my Nana” stuck with me. I was brought back to the days of Loteria and telenovelas when my Nana was well enough to babysit. I can never seem to get death off of my mind, but it won’t come as a surprise to those who really know me that I can be particularly morbid. But hers was the first funeral I’d ever been too. There are pictures of me and my hermanito playing our toy trumpet and guitars next the mariachi band that played in our backyard after the funeral. Now I play guitar and he plays trumpet and I’m wondering if that means anything.
I wonder what type of person I would have been if she had lived. And the same goes for Raphael. Probably not very different. Even if I was exactly the same it would have been nice for my Nana to see the person I’ve become, so she could complain about it no doubt. That sounds nice. Being one of four boys, it’s not like I was ever aching for a brother in my life. But I’m often described as “The Oldest of the Second Litter” and so my whole life that gap has been made silently clear to me.
My Nana used to drive out to the desert with her Polaroid looking for apparitions of the virgin Mary. And maybe I’m doing the same thing with Archangels, in my own atheist way. Back in the states I struggled to find even Catholics who could tell me who St. Raphael is. So it makes me happy to know that I found a whole city irrevocably invested in him.
