Memories
“Memories of childhood were the dreams that stayed with you after you woke.”
― Julian Barnes, England, England
Most, if not all, off these memories take place in a small apartment where we lived in Virginia for several years as Dad finished his doctorate degree and then started working. My memory is a little hazy, and we moved back in forth there, so these memories are all a mixed jumble of events.
I remember running through the apartment from one side to the other, little brother tearing along behind me. That room was always dim in the evening, I'm not sure why. I have vague recollections of my dad sitting under a lamp in the corner inspecting the gaping slash in his wrist when he sliced it cutting cheese wrong, so there must have been something there.
There was a park in the middle of the complex, conifers towering around it. I'd climb up the tree there, and remember at least once needing Dad to help me get down when I got stuck. Then one time I got stuck too early in the day to wait for him, and I called for Mom to help me down. She was pregnant with my second brother at the time, and so it became fairly apparent to both of us that I would have to figure out a way down, or wait all day till Dad came home.
I wasn't an incredibly patient child, so that's the story of how I learned how to climb down trees.
This little apartment holds nuggets of memories, and while some seem so clear like they happened only yesterday, I can't say exactly which came first.
We had a family next door from Australia who we called Uncle and Auntie. I remember he was home sick one day, and so their daughter and I played nurse. I doubt he found it very restful, but he was very tolerant of our clumsy treatments. I think that was also the same house where a couple of musicians were visiting. The cellist was really the only thing that stayed in my mind, though I think there was a violinist as well. What I do remember most though was how much it sounded like Lord of the Dance, and how I twirled through the room pretending I was one of the dancers with graceful leaps, and long elegant hair.
That was also the same apartment building where I burned my lip blowing out a birthday candle, and being given an ice cube instead of cake. I likely did get to eat cake eventually, but the frustration of not being able to eat the cake right when I wanted to added to the pain of the burn.
We watched the Nutcracker special on TV, and lost our Christmas present to Mom behind her hope chest, where we found it months later after cleaning.
Dad would let us put on his glasses, and the floor would seem to roll underneath my feet when I wore them. Making it seem that I was stepping in a sea of little valleys and divots, creating a test of balance of coordination that was amazing to my young mind.
Mom learned early on like many new mom's do that naptime was a hallow time, and I remember one day that we were being particularly difficult and she sent us both to bed before TV time. It seemed incredibly unjust as I firmly believed that my brother was the greater hooligan of us two, but as we then both soundly slept until dinner time, Mom was likely right.
Our beds were a set of camping cots that built into bunkbeds, and I thought they were amazing. They weren't always the most stable, and there was one night in particular where the boys were a little too rambunctious and made the whole thing fall over. We were all more startled than anything, with Mom and Dad likely being the most afraid out of all of us since the crash made an incredible amount of noise.
It was at that complex where I learned to stay still when there were bees, and that mini-wheaties were significantly better frosted. I knew this because the little girl who lived in the house on the other side of the little grove of pine trees next to us would bring us some from her house. I got the impression that she wasn't really supposed to when the treats suddenly stopped coming. We'd slip through the forest which felt really magical to me, often in bare feet, padding our way through the tall trees. One time I cut my foot on a small piece of glass, but being somewhat proud and equally also not wanting to be a bother, I didn't tell my friend or her parents, and instead just was a little extra careful walk home to try and not get dirt in it.
I don't know if I was successful, but none of my limbs fell off as a result, so it must not have mattered if I wasn't.
My aunt would come to visit us, and stayed with us for long periods of time. It was always fun when she came, and I still have some songs on my Spotify playlist from the songs she'd play on her cassette tapes. My other aunt would come too, though a little less frequently, and she introduced me to Phantom of the Opera, a gift that I'm still grateful for, as Dad always preferred Les Miserables, and really didn't care for the Phantom.
This was also the same house where I accidentally took someone else's mail while getting our own. I swear to this day that the key unlocked the mailbox, which means it must have been ours, but apparently it wasn't. Mom had given me a couple pieces of mail that looked like trash for me to open, and I was halfway through when she realized it wasn't ours. So we taped the letters shut, and went up the stairs to the neighbor to apologize. He was a sweet African American man who seemed really understanding. Which was good, because I was certain that I was in big trouble.
That's the funny things about memories though. I remember all of these moments. In some of them we're very young, and others I'm slightly older. I think part of it is we moved back and forth, though whether it was to the same apartment building or not I can't say. Just that the heights of things were different, and the number of kids was different as well.
It's been a quarter of a century since then (which makes it sound more ancient), so the accuracy of these I realize I can't vouch for. But some of these are still fresh in my mind. Like the first time I remember making the conscious decision to hit my brother, and my shock when he started crying. I'm not quiet sure what else I was expecting, but it must not have been that based on how startled I was.
Many of the kids I teach now are that age or older, and it makes me wonder what role I'll play in their memories in the next 25 years. Will they have moments from my teaching that will catch them by surprise with how clear and stark they are? Will it be the moments we all realized that we were wearing complimentary purples and pinks? Will it be the moment I scolded them for poking their eyelids with their pencils? Will it be riding in the bus on the way to the field trip singing "Let it Go" on the top of our lungs?
Or will it be my older class, laughing at me suggesting the character in our story paid the taxi driver 100,000 won for a single taxi ride. My awful lightsaber impressions, or my ceaseless prodding to get them to speak in English. For some in that class, I think they'll smile...others might be grateful they don't have to study English anymore.
But it's ultimately impossible to know. Brains are fickle things sometimes, and they remember what they will when they will. Certain smells will trigger them, a song, an emotion. And we just get taken along for the ride.
-Shayla
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