If the world was on fire, I just woke up from a coma, zombies were banging on the hospital door, and you told me everything would be okay, I would still believe you.
As a young girl, sleeping in our room and not our parents was the scariest thing we could possibly do. But I knew I would be safe if you were on the top bunk. We would take turns choosing what Disney movie to fall asleep to and dream about how life would be when we got older. The Last Unicorn’s “I’m Alive” would play in the background as we drifted into our dreamscapes.
When our parents were off at work, our favorite babysitter, Rochelle, would spend the days with us. The three of us would spend the entire eight hours trying to beat Super Mario World on our Nintendo. You and Rochelle were better at playing, and I was perfectly content with providing moral support. Each level was a new adventure. We were unstoppable.
When our oldest sister, Doloros, would come to visit, you were my translator. My speech was a mixture of mumbled and jumbled words, but you always knew exactly what I was saying. It was very much giving that scene in Clarence, “He says he wants a chicken burger with rooster sauce.”
On my first day of school, I couldn’t stop crying. I was terrified of being alone. I didn’t know how. We shared the same room, played together all day, and even took baths together. And suddenly, I’m alone in this colossal classroom at a school? What’s a school?
Luckily, our kindergarten teacher, who had taught you two years before, thought of a solution. Ms. Issac called your second-grade teacher and requested that you come to comfort me. My tears would dissipate in your arms. Your embrace was home.
When you learned how to ride a bike, I was excited because it meant it was time for me to learn too. Once you were a pro, as with all the things you committed to, you would teach me in a way I would understand. The way Mom and Dad gave instructions was confusing. But you spoke my language.
During our Sarasota summer vacations, we would both play in the ocean. As you got older, you went deeper. I had never been so deep in the water before. But, if my sister was doing it, it’s okay. I didn’t have to worry. I know you would never let anything happen to me. I just had to focus on finding a wave I could ride with my boogie board. Besides, we were getting older. It was time for us to graduate past waist-deep water, mainly because our waist-deep at 8 years old was about two feet.
My middle school experience began in 2007, and you gave me a campus tour before the semester started. I didn’t have to worry about getting lost because you had already told me where my classes were. My teachers would read the last name “Stone” and get a huge grin, followed by the question, “Are you Chelsea’s little sister?” It happened every single year without fail. I didn’t mind. I always got a good first impression.
By our preteen years, we couldn’t have been more different. I was into photoshoots, Twilight, and Justin Bieber. You were into watching really weird horror movies and anime. I was a mean girl, but you have always been full of genuine kindness and empathy. We weren’t friends, but we still shared the same room. We only weren’t arguing when we were watching the third season of Bad Girl’s Club.
Then came high school. The year was 2011. Society still thought Shane Dawson was funny, One Direction was fresh out of the womb, the Harry Potter series was coming to an end, and I had so much internalized misogyny engrained in my veins that I was utterly oblivious to the fact I hated women. I hated that prettier girls received more attention than me, so I would call them a slut. Every girl was competitive and my self-esteem was low.
After gossiping to you about some new girl who had stolen the attention of all the boys I was interested in, you called me out.
“Why are you talking badly about her? Do you know her? Has she done anything to you?”
“Well, no, but she’s a whore. She’s getting with all of these guys.”
“Okay, you know this for a fact?”
“No, but it’s obvious; I mean, look at her Facebook profile. All of these guys keep posting on her wall!”
“Okay but why do you care?”
“I don’t know… I guess because I want them to post on my wall.”
“So you admit it. You’re only being mean because you’re jealous.”
Chelsea Stone: Italics. Caysea Stone: Normal
And that’s when the lightbulb turned on. I began to psycho-analyze every negative thought I had and traced it back to its roots. It was the beginning of asking myself, “Why?” whenever I would think poorly of anyone. This process led me to decondition all of my internalized hatred and made me realize that there is nothing I’m more passionate about than advocating for women’s rights.
If it wasn’t for somebody close to me pointing out the indisputable hostility in my thought processes, I do not know how long it would’ve taken to become the feminist and woman I am today.
Throughout the last ten years of our newly-found adulthood, you have become my North star. You’re my moral compass when I question if I’m in the wrong. You’re my teacher when I need advice. You’re the coziest blanket in the world when I need comfort. You may as well be John Mulaney when I need to laugh. You’re my reality check when I really need to stop giving these guys a second, third, or fourth chance.
You’re my best friend when I need a synonym for sister.
Every new day we get to spend together, laughing at each other’s TikToks, going on car rides to get coffee at 9 p.m., or fighting about whether or not I fill up the Brita, is my new favorite day.
If we won the lottery, we would keep it a secret. But there would be signs, like both of us living on a beautiful piece of land by the ocean, with our tiny houses right next to each other, facing our community garden where all of our herbs grow, just like the one in Practical Magic.
“We’re gonna grow old together, it’s gonna be you and me! Living in a big house, these two old biddies with all these cats. I bet we even die on the same day!”
Gillian Owens, Practical Magic
Practical Magic resonates so deeply with us that it’s hard to believe we weren’t the inspiration behind it. I was only two when the movie was released, and you were four. Surely, during that time, Alice Hoffman must have witnessed our soul connection, became profoundly inspired, and created a sisterhood, witchy, feminist film masterpiece. Right? Hoffman wrote the novel in 1995, a year before I was born, but we’ll ignore that part.
Regardless of any circumstance that life could throw at us, you will always be Sally, and I’ll always be Gillian.
In the words of Gilly-bean,
Thanks for being my sister.
