As I kept growing, both physically and mentally, so did my world as I knew it. But with each new day, I felt myself growing smaller and smaller in the shadow of the unknown. Just look at the ocean: serene and majestic, comforting and soothing. But beyond these qualities, it is the most surreal thing that we, as humans, can come in contact with. It makes us realize that the world is not ours to control. I witnessed this on the day I got lost at sea.
The sun shone behind me, warming my back as I gazed out into the ocean, nothing to see but water stretching for miles and miles in every direction. If I had not been as young as I was, I would have rendered the sight beautiful and breathtaking. But I was a mere child, bored with the long trek at sea, wondering when the next stop would be.
My father stood beside me, eyes closed and body relaxed. The ocean breeze rustled what hair he had left and he smiled contently. My mother was in the cabin, seasick and crabby. She did not appreciate the ocean quite as much as my father did. As we stood there, I saw land off in the distance. "Father," I asked, "how long will it take us to reach land?"
He opened his eyes and looked at me, "who knows," he said, "maybe an hour? Maybe less?"
An hour was better than two, I decided, and looked back across the ocean. My father left to go join my mother back inside.
Just then, a dolphin jumped out of the water, not more than a couple feet away from the boat. Finally, something exciting! I leaned over the railing as another dolphin jumped up, even closer than the first. I reached as far as I could. One jumped up, just out of reach, so I leaned over the railing until my feet were no longer touching the ground. This time, when the dolphin jumped up, I was able to touch its skin. It was rough, not at all what I had expected. But the momentum of the dolphin pulled me forward and, as I struggled to gain some balance, I toppled into the water.
I suppose that because I was not very heavy, I did not make a very large splash, because no one came rushing to the side of the boat to see what happened. Not even my parents.
As I came up for air, the first thing that came to my mind was that the water was so dark. I could barely even see my feet, let alone the bottom. How was I ever supposed to know if a shark was coming up from below to eat me? Meanwhile the boat kept steadily moving forward, kept steadily moving away from me.
Then, everything was quiet. It was as if the world around me stopped; no more boats, no more talking, no more splashing. But the shadows below danced as if to the beat of a drum, and told me the world was still alive. Alive and dangerous.
From the corner of my eye, I saw what looked like a fin. When I turned my head, it was gone. In that moment, the water seemed to grow ten times colder and a hundred times more ominous.
TO BE CONTINUED...
*dislaimer: this is not a real event, but the life lessons are
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Chapter 6: Development Of a New Language
Less than two years after that fateful first day of school, I had all but learnt how to fluently speak English. But despite my objections, I was still forced to go to ELD (English Language Development) several times each month. In the beginning I dreaded each session, but I began to grow accustomed to them, and to my astonishment, they helped me tremendously.
At one of the first sessions I remember being shown images and being told to say the English words for them. What sticks with me most, to this day, is the image of a strawberry. On the card, the strawberry was bright red and covered in little seeds, presumably orange. It seemed so juicy and sweet, and my mouth watered at the thought of eating it.
Of course I immediately recognized what it was, I mean, I love strawberries! In fact, back in Belgium, when strawberries were in season, we would visit a nearby strawberry farm to pick them ourselves. “Alleen de beste,” my mother would tell me. And I would listen, taking great care to pick the best to take home. Looking at the image held up in front of me, the Flemish word for a strawberry coursed through my head: aardbei, aardbei, aardbei. But I could not think of the English word for it, even though I recalled having heard it only recently. I began to grow anxious; my heart fluttered and my face flushed bright red, just like the image of that strawberry.
The teacher smiled encouragingly; “It’s all right,” she told me.
I replied, in my broken English, “Wait, I think I can remember it.” As I looked at the strawberry, I racked my brain for the word. Aardbei, aardbei, aardbei. I pushed at the walls of my memory, combing through the list of words that I knew and remembered. English and Flemish jumbled together and I could no longer think straight. Aardbei, aardbei, aardbei. After what seemed like minutes, I gave up. It seemed that my best efforts were not enough, and I sighed with obvious disappointment. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember.” I said.
“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s a strawberry.”
A strawberry! Hoe kon ik dat niet weten? I felt so ashamed of myself, as if I had let down everyone that had been working so hard to teach me English; the ELD teacher, my class teacher, and my parents. It seems so silly now, but I almost cried because of it. I remember just being able to keep the tears back, while my face was still red with embarrassment.
The teacher, hoping to make me feel better, quickly held up another card, and in turn I gave her the word. We repeated this for several minutes more until it was time to go back to class. “Good job today,” she told me as I got up to leave. I smiled, but did not feel pleased. The image of the strawberry remained in my head, and words flew through my head at the speed of light. Aardbei; aardbei; aardbei.
At one of the first sessions I remember being shown images and being told to say the English words for them. What sticks with me most, to this day, is the image of a strawberry. On the card, the strawberry was bright red and covered in little seeds, presumably orange. It seemed so juicy and sweet, and my mouth watered at the thought of eating it.
Of course I immediately recognized what it was, I mean, I love strawberries! In fact, back in Belgium, when strawberries were in season, we would visit a nearby strawberry farm to pick them ourselves. “Alleen de beste,” my mother would tell me. And I would listen, taking great care to pick the best to take home. Looking at the image held up in front of me, the Flemish word for a strawberry coursed through my head: aardbei, aardbei, aardbei. But I could not think of the English word for it, even though I recalled having heard it only recently. I began to grow anxious; my heart fluttered and my face flushed bright red, just like the image of that strawberry.
The teacher smiled encouragingly; “It’s all right,” she told me.
I replied, in my broken English, “Wait, I think I can remember it.” As I looked at the strawberry, I racked my brain for the word. Aardbei, aardbei, aardbei. I pushed at the walls of my memory, combing through the list of words that I knew and remembered. English and Flemish jumbled together and I could no longer think straight. Aardbei, aardbei, aardbei. After what seemed like minutes, I gave up. It seemed that my best efforts were not enough, and I sighed with obvious disappointment. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember.” I said.
“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s a strawberry.”
A strawberry! Hoe kon ik dat niet weten? I felt so ashamed of myself, as if I had let down everyone that had been working so hard to teach me English; the ELD teacher, my class teacher, and my parents. It seems so silly now, but I almost cried because of it. I remember just being able to keep the tears back, while my face was still red with embarrassment.
The teacher, hoping to make me feel better, quickly held up another card, and in turn I gave her the word. We repeated this for several minutes more until it was time to go back to class. “Good job today,” she told me as I got up to leave. I smiled, but did not feel pleased. The image of the strawberry remained in my head, and words flew through my head at the speed of light. Aardbei; aardbei; aardbei.
Chapter 5: A Change of Setting
I remember the first day of school, just days after having made the flight from Belgium to California, my new home and a pivotal change of setting. It would be weeks before all of our possessions (except several suitcases with clothes and the like) would complete the trip overseas.I only knew a handful of English words and phrases; not nearly enough for me to understand a conversation. “Hello, my name is Helena,” was the longest sentence I could say, albeit in a thick European accent.
With a hug goodbye and an encouraging, “het zal allemaal wel oké zijn,” from my mother, I entered the classroom. The first thing I noticed was the wooden spoon dolls hung up on the walls across the room. One, I remember, was meant to resemble a Spanish dancer: a purple pleated skirt and white blouse conveyed as much. I realize now that this doll was most likely made by a child’s parent or parents, because it was one of the better ones in the room. But what was more significant was the fact that this doll was an outsider too. That comforted me more than the friendly smile the teacher gave me when she saw me standing in the doorway.
“Welcome,” she said as she came over to take my hand. She was wearing a long black skirt and a white top; her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She seemed nice enough. “Class,” she said facing the rest of the students, “I would like you to meet our new classmate, Helena. She just moved here from Europe so please make her feel welcome.”
She led me to one of the scattered tables and sat me down at an empty seat. A boy with sandy brown hair sat to my left and a chubby Asian girl to my right. The girl smiled at me, and, seeing that I had no pencils with me, gave me one of hers to use for the rest of class. She was to be my first school friend.
Several days after my first, the teacher asked me if I had an atlas at home, or if I needed to borrow one. Our class was to complete a geography assignment and apparently everyone else already had one.
“An atlas?” I asked. It was a word I had never heard before, and I could not imagine what it could possibly be. For all I knew, it was an orange, or a bird.
“Yes,” the teacher said. She tried to explain; “A book, with, uh, pictures of the world, pictures of different countries.”
A book? Een boek! I thought. Ik heb er zo één! I smiled and nodded my head. The teacher seemed relieved. Although some of the students looked at me quizzically, I couldn’t help smiling; I had understood what the teacher had said! It wasn’t until much later that I realized what she had actually asked me for, but by then I was too shy and embarrassed to tell her.
With a hug goodbye and an encouraging, “het zal allemaal wel oké zijn,” from my mother, I entered the classroom. The first thing I noticed was the wooden spoon dolls hung up on the walls across the room. One, I remember, was meant to resemble a Spanish dancer: a purple pleated skirt and white blouse conveyed as much. I realize now that this doll was most likely made by a child’s parent or parents, because it was one of the better ones in the room. But what was more significant was the fact that this doll was an outsider too. That comforted me more than the friendly smile the teacher gave me when she saw me standing in the doorway.
“Welcome,” she said as she came over to take my hand. She was wearing a long black skirt and a white top; her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She seemed nice enough. “Class,” she said facing the rest of the students, “I would like you to meet our new classmate, Helena. She just moved here from Europe so please make her feel welcome.”
She led me to one of the scattered tables and sat me down at an empty seat. A boy with sandy brown hair sat to my left and a chubby Asian girl to my right. The girl smiled at me, and, seeing that I had no pencils with me, gave me one of hers to use for the rest of class. She was to be my first school friend.
Several days after my first, the teacher asked me if I had an atlas at home, or if I needed to borrow one. Our class was to complete a geography assignment and apparently everyone else already had one.
“An atlas?” I asked. It was a word I had never heard before, and I could not imagine what it could possibly be. For all I knew, it was an orange, or a bird.
“Yes,” the teacher said. She tried to explain; “A book, with, uh, pictures of the world, pictures of different countries.”
A book? Een boek! I thought. Ik heb er zo één! I smiled and nodded my head. The teacher seemed relieved. Although some of the students looked at me quizzically, I couldn’t help smiling; I had understood what the teacher had said! It wasn’t until much later that I realized what she had actually asked me for, but by then I was too shy and embarrassed to tell her.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Chapter 4: Water, Water Everywhere
I can't remember the first time I went swimming. Not remembering is like trying to reach out in an abyss into which I have already fallen. As far as I know, I have always loved the water and, in the sanctuary of my mind, I like to imagine that I was reveling in the water's magnificence the first time I entered it.
Ironically, my mother is and always has been afraid of the water. Perhaps fear is too strong of a word, but certainly she has a strong aversion to anything wet. But it is this dislike that, I believe, fueled her desire to have her children learn how to swim. If anything, her children would grow up without a phobia of the water. My first lesson, she tells me, was learning how to stay afloat (on my back, of course). She recalls my excitement, saying that I would not want to get out the water: "you were like a fish; the water was your home away from home," she says with a smile.
As she sits in front of me, I notice just how beautiful my mother is. She may not be a swimmer, but she is far from inactive. At an older age than she cares to admit, my mother is more fit than anyone I know. Just the other day, she completed a 100k race, or 63 miles. That's almost two-and-a-half marathons, more than many people will run in their life time. Straight as a ruler, she sits with her muscular arms relaxed beside her. Her faded red hair and light blue eyes are reminiscent of her youth, and remind me more than anything of myself.
For me, learning how to stay afloat in the water was only the beginning. At the time, I had become convinced that swimming was one of the most important skills that one should attain, and I took it upon myself to teach others. My victim was my younger brother, Ben, who was barely a year old at the time. He was a pudgy little boy with light brown tufts of hair. He had just begun to walk and talk and was now about to learn how to swim.
He was by the edge of the pool with our mother, as was I, ready for the day's lesson. Impatient as I was and often still am, I wanted to hurry things along- I mean, why couldn't he just swim already? A push was all it took to send him down into the depths of the shallow end of the pool. There, that would teach him. Unfortunately, my mother and the instructor were not quite so pleased as I was. Whereas I believed I had successfully taught my brother how to survive in the water, they believed I was trying to hurt him. Almost immediately, they managed to rescue the flailing, sputtering little boy by fishing him out of the water. Tears poured out of his little blue eyes even as my mother wrapped him in a towel to try and comfort him. The lesson for the day was canceled and that, more than anything, angered me. I was confounded when I was told I could not swim that day. It was punishment, my mother had explained. I was to never do anything like it ever again. Even though I still believed swimming was an essential skill, I promised to never push anyone in the water.
Ironically, my mother is and always has been afraid of the water. Perhaps fear is too strong of a word, but certainly she has a strong aversion to anything wet. But it is this dislike that, I believe, fueled her desire to have her children learn how to swim. If anything, her children would grow up without a phobia of the water. My first lesson, she tells me, was learning how to stay afloat (on my back, of course). She recalls my excitement, saying that I would not want to get out the water: "you were like a fish; the water was your home away from home," she says with a smile.
As she sits in front of me, I notice just how beautiful my mother is. She may not be a swimmer, but she is far from inactive. At an older age than she cares to admit, my mother is more fit than anyone I know. Just the other day, she completed a 100k race, or 63 miles. That's almost two-and-a-half marathons, more than many people will run in their life time. Straight as a ruler, she sits with her muscular arms relaxed beside her. Her faded red hair and light blue eyes are reminiscent of her youth, and remind me more than anything of myself.
For me, learning how to stay afloat in the water was only the beginning. At the time, I had become convinced that swimming was one of the most important skills that one should attain, and I took it upon myself to teach others. My victim was my younger brother, Ben, who was barely a year old at the time. He was a pudgy little boy with light brown tufts of hair. He had just begun to walk and talk and was now about to learn how to swim.
He was by the edge of the pool with our mother, as was I, ready for the day's lesson. Impatient as I was and often still am, I wanted to hurry things along- I mean, why couldn't he just swim already? A push was all it took to send him down into the depths of the shallow end of the pool. There, that would teach him. Unfortunately, my mother and the instructor were not quite so pleased as I was. Whereas I believed I had successfully taught my brother how to survive in the water, they believed I was trying to hurt him. Almost immediately, they managed to rescue the flailing, sputtering little boy by fishing him out of the water. Tears poured out of his little blue eyes even as my mother wrapped him in a towel to try and comfort him. The lesson for the day was canceled and that, more than anything, angered me. I was confounded when I was told I could not swim that day. It was punishment, my mother had explained. I was to never do anything like it ever again. Even though I still believed swimming was an essential skill, I promised to never push anyone in the water.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Chapter 3: Boring yet?
It was a warm summer's day when.... If you look closely at many stories, that is exactly how they start each and every time. But not this one, oh no. Everyone, if they choose to do so, has a different and sometimes more or less interesting story to tell. Whether other people will find it interesting or not is dependent upon whether the story is written, told, or shown well. If not, well then you will lead a life unbeknownst to the world. If your story stands out from the crowd, with a ribbon around it and a glorious line of events inside, well then I believe yours will be remembered. And every story, big or small, needs a background.
Well that was a little piece of wisdom I've been thinking about recently. Especially around the holidays (Christmas was yesterday), it is important to be thankful for what you have. Even if you think you have nothing, you are alive, and that is a whole lot better than many poor souls resting below us in the ground. So, Merry Christmas and happy holidays; may you live a long, happy, eventful and beautiful life, because in the end, it's not about how much money you earned, it is about how much you were able to impact the world and the people around you.
Speaking of the holidays, I remember when I got my very own doll, Anabel. It was on December 6th when I was about 5 or 6 years old. Why December 6th? Well that is the holiday know as Sinterklaas, or St. Nicolas. It is celebrated in various European countries, and it is actually where the idea of Santa Claus came from. When you are a child you get excited about little things. When I was a child I would get very excited whenever there was a holiday. In fact, I still do. But now I dread when my birthday comes, because even though I am not even an adult yet, I know I will soon be one, and every passing year will pass faster and faster and faster. I want to be able to fully experience the ability to be carefree and young. For it doesn't last forever. However much we may want it to, it comes and goes quicker than you would have thought, snatching away your joys and bringing stress and bills into your life. But not yet, and certainly not when I was 5 or 6. Because at that time, I got a new friend. I got a friend that would comfort me when I was sad, would listen to me when I complained, would let me put on whatever clothes I should so choose, and would even lay, uncomplaining, in the yard if I had forgotten her. Much of my childhood I spent with this friend, who I still have to this day.
So where does this societal fear of dolls come from? It can't just be from horror movies, can it? In my opinion, people are just afraid of missing their childhood. All people want to do is grow up. But what does that even mean, grow up? Dolls define a girl's childhood, at least they did when I was growing up. Even more so before I was born. Back then there were no phones, no computers, no electronics that you could pull out of the blue to play with. Back then kids were content with playing jump-rope, hop-scotch, even drawing on the side walk with chalk. I was content with all of those things. I was content with picking apples and riding around in a go-cart being chased by elder siblings. It honestly saddens me to see how quickly the world changes. People take less value in happiness and more in meaningless pieces of paper that allow them to feel important. In a hundred or more years from now, historians will look upon our time and analyze our way of life. Maybe they'll be worse than us, but maybe they'll have learned from our mistakes. For the future of mankind and the world, I hope the latter will take place. I know I'll keep my Anabel forever, if not physically than in my heart. Some things just should not be forgotten.
Well that was a little piece of wisdom I've been thinking about recently. Especially around the holidays (Christmas was yesterday), it is important to be thankful for what you have. Even if you think you have nothing, you are alive, and that is a whole lot better than many poor souls resting below us in the ground. So, Merry Christmas and happy holidays; may you live a long, happy, eventful and beautiful life, because in the end, it's not about how much money you earned, it is about how much you were able to impact the world and the people around you.
Speaking of the holidays, I remember when I got my very own doll, Anabel. It was on December 6th when I was about 5 or 6 years old. Why December 6th? Well that is the holiday know as Sinterklaas, or St. Nicolas. It is celebrated in various European countries, and it is actually where the idea of Santa Claus came from. When you are a child you get excited about little things. When I was a child I would get very excited whenever there was a holiday. In fact, I still do. But now I dread when my birthday comes, because even though I am not even an adult yet, I know I will soon be one, and every passing year will pass faster and faster and faster. I want to be able to fully experience the ability to be carefree and young. For it doesn't last forever. However much we may want it to, it comes and goes quicker than you would have thought, snatching away your joys and bringing stress and bills into your life. But not yet, and certainly not when I was 5 or 6. Because at that time, I got a new friend. I got a friend that would comfort me when I was sad, would listen to me when I complained, would let me put on whatever clothes I should so choose, and would even lay, uncomplaining, in the yard if I had forgotten her. Much of my childhood I spent with this friend, who I still have to this day.
So where does this societal fear of dolls come from? It can't just be from horror movies, can it? In my opinion, people are just afraid of missing their childhood. All people want to do is grow up. But what does that even mean, grow up? Dolls define a girl's childhood, at least they did when I was growing up. Even more so before I was born. Back then there were no phones, no computers, no electronics that you could pull out of the blue to play with. Back then kids were content with playing jump-rope, hop-scotch, even drawing on the side walk with chalk. I was content with all of those things. I was content with picking apples and riding around in a go-cart being chased by elder siblings. It honestly saddens me to see how quickly the world changes. People take less value in happiness and more in meaningless pieces of paper that allow them to feel important. In a hundred or more years from now, historians will look upon our time and analyze our way of life. Maybe they'll be worse than us, but maybe they'll have learned from our mistakes. For the future of mankind and the world, I hope the latter will take place. I know I'll keep my Anabel forever, if not physically than in my heart. Some things just should not be forgotten.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Chapter 2: Mischief Begins
A year after being born, my baby self was able to stand. And not only that, but I was able to stumble a bit before the cautious and waiting arms swooped me off the ground. Sometimes I like to believe that babies learn to crawl and walk only to try and escape from their entrapment. But, even if it were like this, it wouldn't exactly work out, what with the streets and neighbors and everything else. Someone would probably catch you before you could even reached the door. And so it is, as you develop into an actual little human being, that you learn to accept the hand of fate that you have been dealt. At least I had the privilege of having two caring parents, not one parent or none. Nor a parent who was reckless or even a drunk. My parents cared, and still do, about the well being of all of their children.
Nevertheless, as a baby I often sought the endless excitement of the outside world (at least the world outside my crib) which often resulted in fuss and worry. Needless to say my parents have some weird baby stories to share whenever the occasion demands it. I'll retell you one such story now, to the best of my ability.
It was a warm late-summer-early-fall kind of day, clouds in the sky and leaves on the ground. Seeking adventure, and finding the perfect opportunity for escape when my mom had left me under the care of my oldest brother, who was immersed within his video games, I scrambled off into the hallway. No one there, yet. I ventured further past the kitchen, where my mom was cleaning dishes and fortunately did not hear me scuffling away. As I approached the back door, which was left open most of the day due to the amount of use it experiences, I found it to be, as expected, wide open. Perfect. I found my way outside and decided to turn the way which led to the street. This would be the largest adventure yet! I could feel the adrenaline building up (well I doubt that actually happened. I'm not even sure whether toddlers can have coherent thoughts) and made my way along the driveway. What may only seem like a mere couple of seconds of walking to you or me now, was like running a mile for this little toddler. But before I even made it halfway across, I found my little tricycle! I mounted the vehicle and was now able to clear the way much more efficiently. At this point I'm sure my older brother had made it through another level within his video game. Anyways, I made it to the street in one piece, and paused to regain some composure. After all, biking a whole driveway on flat ground is quite an obstacle for someone who can barely walk that same distance.
I wouldn't stop there, however. An adventure is not exciting without some craziness involved. And so I biked into the street and started peddling. What an odd sight that must have been. Oh, and I must mention, before continuing, that I lived in Europe, Belgium no less, where everything is flat and green. And yes, that's where Belgian waffles and fries come from. If you haven't been there before, I highly recommend it; it is a very beautiful country. All of my relatives lived and still do live there, including my aunt, who lived on the same street as my family. So back to the oh-so-thralling experience of my babyhood (I daresay it's more exciting than any of yours... ha, just kidding), as I biked further than I had ever gone. When you are barely a toddler you are not worried about cars or any danger. You don't think, that's what parents are for. You just do. It being later in the day, on a weekend, in a small street in a small town, not much traffic passed through, thank goodness. Who knows, if it had, I might never have made it past babyhood, and I would never have been able to recount this super exciting story to you (well... whoever you are anyways). But there is still the obstacle of the neighbors, who have eagle-sharp eyes when it comes to watching for little children. I guess my aunt's eyes were ready for action as I cruised down the street, my little legs pumping faster than ever. As you might have guessed, she immediately ran out, and with her arms like wings she swooped me up (tricycle and all) and fussed about me, and oh why did I go out into the street? Did it even cross her mind that I might have wanted to escape reality? No, of course not.
That was the end of it then, as she brought me back home, safely in one piece. My mother was more than happy to see me and more than angry at my brother for letting me escape him. Let's just say he didn't play video games for several weeks after that. But I was left with the worst of it: no more little adventures and a story that would haunt me forever. But I guess I was able to recount it to you, and maybe you'll gain something from it.... just maybe.
It was a warm late-summer-early-fall kind of day, clouds in the sky and leaves on the ground. Seeking adventure, and finding the perfect opportunity for escape when my mom had left me under the care of my oldest brother, who was immersed within his video games, I scrambled off into the hallway. No one there, yet. I ventured further past the kitchen, where my mom was cleaning dishes and fortunately did not hear me scuffling away. As I approached the back door, which was left open most of the day due to the amount of use it experiences, I found it to be, as expected, wide open. Perfect. I found my way outside and decided to turn the way which led to the street. This would be the largest adventure yet! I could feel the adrenaline building up (well I doubt that actually happened. I'm not even sure whether toddlers can have coherent thoughts) and made my way along the driveway. What may only seem like a mere couple of seconds of walking to you or me now, was like running a mile for this little toddler. But before I even made it halfway across, I found my little tricycle! I mounted the vehicle and was now able to clear the way much more efficiently. At this point I'm sure my older brother had made it through another level within his video game. Anyways, I made it to the street in one piece, and paused to regain some composure. After all, biking a whole driveway on flat ground is quite an obstacle for someone who can barely walk that same distance.
I wouldn't stop there, however. An adventure is not exciting without some craziness involved. And so I biked into the street and started peddling. What an odd sight that must have been. Oh, and I must mention, before continuing, that I lived in Europe, Belgium no less, where everything is flat and green. And yes, that's where Belgian waffles and fries come from. If you haven't been there before, I highly recommend it; it is a very beautiful country. All of my relatives lived and still do live there, including my aunt, who lived on the same street as my family. So back to the oh-so-thralling experience of my babyhood (I daresay it's more exciting than any of yours... ha, just kidding), as I biked further than I had ever gone. When you are barely a toddler you are not worried about cars or any danger. You don't think, that's what parents are for. You just do. It being later in the day, on a weekend, in a small street in a small town, not much traffic passed through, thank goodness. Who knows, if it had, I might never have made it past babyhood, and I would never have been able to recount this super exciting story to you (well... whoever you are anyways). But there is still the obstacle of the neighbors, who have eagle-sharp eyes when it comes to watching for little children. I guess my aunt's eyes were ready for action as I cruised down the street, my little legs pumping faster than ever. As you might have guessed, she immediately ran out, and with her arms like wings she swooped me up (tricycle and all) and fussed about me, and oh why did I go out into the street? Did it even cross her mind that I might have wanted to escape reality? No, of course not.
That was the end of it then, as she brought me back home, safely in one piece. My mother was more than happy to see me and more than angry at my brother for letting me escape him. Let's just say he didn't play video games for several weeks after that. But I was left with the worst of it: no more little adventures and a story that would haunt me forever. But I guess I was able to recount it to you, and maybe you'll gain something from it.... just maybe.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Chapter 1: The World Begins
I've never done this before. I suppose you could say I'm new to this kind of thing. But let me tell you, every journey must begin with one step, no matter how tiny or no matter how large. Some people just have longer legs than others. And this, my friends, this is my first little step into the world.
Let me start over and backtrack a bit, all the way to when I was born. It was 1996, a warm summer's day on the 25th of June. Everyone was in the hospital, gathered around a bed in which my mother lay, with me in her arms. All the ooing and "oh isn't she darling!" was repeated over and over. Frankly, babies are not the least bit "darling." They're strange, miniscule little creatures who do nothing but bawl and kick and scream until someone finally gives them what they want, which ranges from food to drink to a diaper change. The world is a nice little place when everything you know is nothing at all.
Several days later I would be brought home. Home- what a peculiar word. It's just so strange to think that where you grow up changes the person you become. And, with that statement, you could say that your home defines you. And sometimes you might even define your home. So there I was, the newest addition to our household, the 4th child (but not the last), and the beginning to a whole new range of adventures. Yet, being a newborn, unable to talk, crawl, walk but able to bawl, nothing much of interest happened. That is, until I was kidnapped by the fiercest witch in all the world, whose sole interest was capturing babies to feed to her six headed dragon who first roasted the tiny little carcass and then swallowed it whole. Six babies were needed per feeding, one for each head, of course. Seeing as I'm still alive, telling you this story, however, should signify that I have never even been within reach of such a monster, one that can trample a dozen soldiers without effort. I just hoped to spice up my baby story.
Strange kidnappings aside, my babyhood was quite normal. I was held captive in the arms of one person or other for most of the day, until night when I'd be locked up in a tiny little cage, crooned by anxious, yet experienced, parents, until I'd fall into a slumber. In the middle of the night, I'd wake up and start bawling, confused by the silence and darkness pervading the room. But, as expected, those two things would soon end when my parents were awakened. One of the two would be left with the task of comforting the newest addition to the house until the quiet once again ensued. Me being who I am, that would take a while. This went on for many days, as gradually my tiny little brain began to understand the need to stay quiet at night, and as it finally comprehended its first couple of words. Now, some parents are all over a child when they speak (or should I say mumble unintelligibly) their first word. I have neither a memory of the event nor someone who told me what the "word" was. Not that I really care, so long as I was able to speak as soon as possible. I love words, and I like to tell myself that my tiny little self felt the same way.
Let me start over and backtrack a bit, all the way to when I was born. It was 1996, a warm summer's day on the 25th of June. Everyone was in the hospital, gathered around a bed in which my mother lay, with me in her arms. All the ooing and "oh isn't she darling!" was repeated over and over. Frankly, babies are not the least bit "darling." They're strange, miniscule little creatures who do nothing but bawl and kick and scream until someone finally gives them what they want, which ranges from food to drink to a diaper change. The world is a nice little place when everything you know is nothing at all.
Several days later I would be brought home. Home- what a peculiar word. It's just so strange to think that where you grow up changes the person you become. And, with that statement, you could say that your home defines you. And sometimes you might even define your home. So there I was, the newest addition to our household, the 4th child (but not the last), and the beginning to a whole new range of adventures. Yet, being a newborn, unable to talk, crawl, walk but able to bawl, nothing much of interest happened. That is, until I was kidnapped by the fiercest witch in all the world, whose sole interest was capturing babies to feed to her six headed dragon who first roasted the tiny little carcass and then swallowed it whole. Six babies were needed per feeding, one for each head, of course. Seeing as I'm still alive, telling you this story, however, should signify that I have never even been within reach of such a monster, one that can trample a dozen soldiers without effort. I just hoped to spice up my baby story.
Strange kidnappings aside, my babyhood was quite normal. I was held captive in the arms of one person or other for most of the day, until night when I'd be locked up in a tiny little cage, crooned by anxious, yet experienced, parents, until I'd fall into a slumber. In the middle of the night, I'd wake up and start bawling, confused by the silence and darkness pervading the room. But, as expected, those two things would soon end when my parents were awakened. One of the two would be left with the task of comforting the newest addition to the house until the quiet once again ensued. Me being who I am, that would take a while. This went on for many days, as gradually my tiny little brain began to understand the need to stay quiet at night, and as it finally comprehended its first couple of words. Now, some parents are all over a child when they speak (or should I say mumble unintelligibly) their first word. I have neither a memory of the event nor someone who told me what the "word" was. Not that I really care, so long as I was able to speak as soon as possible. I love words, and I like to tell myself that my tiny little self felt the same way.
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