My childhood is a giant fog cloud in my mind with a few bursts of bright scenes here and there. I often wonder where memories go... I lived it didn't I? - So why can't I remember it? I imagine they go to the same far away island as the last sock in the dryer. I can offer but a few exerts of plain average childhood that somehow spit out a curious, atypical, insightful kinda gal.
*
The earliest memory that first comes to mind is one I'm not even sure is a memory or if it is through my mothers constant vivid telling of the story I feel as if I remember it. I was two, well sometimes I'm three depending on how my mother feels like telling it It was one of the those relaxed afternoons, the kind where the sun is lazily gazing down at the world and the clouds are out for a stroll. My mother was busy in the kitchen doing whatever it is that mothers do in the kitchen and my father still wasn't home from work. I, being left up to my own adventures, decided I'd like to go out for a walk.
Being the extremely mature two... or three year old I was I put on my winter coat and my yellow Tweety Bird boots completely oblivious to the surface of the sun like temperature outside. Then began my great exploration as I ventured out into the great unknown.
I wasn't the least bit scared, or maybe I was too young to have developed a sense of fear, either way I walked into the next row of houses taking the familiar route to the neighborhood park.
As I trudged on I passed a dog and as I walked by it, it viciously tried to bit at my boots. I ran quickly past it vowing to forever hate such creatures. I never thought of my mother making dinner at home or my father who was now most likely driving home from work. I just wanted to get to the park.
The next bit isn't really a memory because my mother has told it too many ways for me to recall if I have my own version or not. In version one, it was night by now and she ran the streets calling out, "Parveen, Parveen!" Suddenly, I magically appear at the end of the street sitting on the curb counting the ants that passed over my feet. You see, I was always entertained by the unconventional. While other children would be over joyed at a new toy, or others with the box that it came in, I was content with giving it to someone else so I could study them as they played. Odd, I was. Now the second version of the story is, I'm sure something my mother made up as time went by, but in this version as she ran under the setting sun she saw me being escorted back home by a kind elderly neighbor. Which ever way it happened, I am sure this is where I first tasted the world, where I first experienced the world how I wanted; I rather liked it.
*
When I was three and a half, give or take a few days, I was bestowed the blessing of a baby brother. I say this, of course, with utmost sarcasm as though I have now grown to stand him at the time I was deeply unnerved by his existence.
I sat waiting the arrival of my favourite Uncle from America. He wasn't really an uncle at all, but my father's best friend from his collage years, but I could care less - he always brought the best presents... and he was a nice guy, yeah that too. I sat wearing my best bright pink dress with extra ruffles for him all afternoon. I paced the living room looking at the clock pretending I could read it and telling myself that he was almost there. Finally half an hour later, this was ages in three year old time, he arrived.
I remember running to him, barely coming up to his knees and he gave me a quick pat on the head. I remembered the dog. I hated dogs. I then ran to my room to show him my drawings that I had laboriously made for him. I returned within a second to see him holding that thing, that drooling thing my mother tried to convince me was my brother. I could not believe it, MY Uncle had forgotten me and was giving all my presents to that pudgy drooling thing.
I cried for approximately an hour before anyone found me behind the closet door in my parents room. My father asked what was the matter. Now this is one of my few clear memories, I replied with full out rage, " we're taking that thing back to the hospital and getting our money back! Then I get a new bike and it has to be green!" My father laughed, he still laughs when he thinks of it. My memory blurs like ink on wet paper here, branching into a million other memories of my brother and I growing up, but clearest of all is my fathers laugh and the sting of being second best.
In a world where babies come off shelves like dolls at the hospital, I learned how to love someone else rather than be loved. I wasn't exactly fond of the idea - but I got used to it.
*
Flowers. I remember flowers.
My mother has always loved gardens. If I were to think of a phrase my mother often says, one of the first that would come to mind would be: "A house with a beautiful garden is full of beautiful people". Now I am not sure if we were ever beautiful people, but we always had a gorgeous garden. Not a Martha Stewart garden, but a real garden, a random wild crazy garden.
I grew along side sun flowers, took afternoon naps with my younger brother in clusters of garden mums and occasionally trampled on rose bushes in a game of tag.
Sometimes in my dreams, I go back to the garden of my childhood and wake up feeling its soothing vibrations, smelling its pungent smells. I think of it often...
*
Kindergarten was a tiresome year as I remember it. What kind of person can't write their own name? ...99% of my classmates. Now I am no where near claiming I was a genius at the age of 5 but I could write my own name thank you very much. I had been reading since I was about 3ish... or that is what my parents tell me and we have pictures that prove it so by the age of 5 I felt perfectly comfortable reading those 20 page "novels" located outside the picture book section. My school librarian thought otherwise.
It was the first week of school and my shiny black Mary-Jane shoes made that squeaky noise on the schools freshly polished floors. Our class was making our first trip to the library of Kirkbride Elementary and they were all extremely excited. I was not. I clearly remember trying to work out how I'd read a new book while I was trying to work my ways through my first Junie B. Jones book at home - it seemed insane to try and juggle that much literature. When we got into the library, Ms.Powell our school librarian gave a short speech on how to treat books. This is the first time I ever made side remarks in my head about a teacher. How absurd I remember thinking, does she think we're animals? Who chews on a book? Sadly, she was right in telling us this information as half the kids brought their books completely mangled back at the end of the week. It was in this class I think that I turned just a little bit cynical - I began to see the real world.
Now Ms.Powell showed us to the picture book corner of the library. I remember as I looked around I found the familiar faces of Dr.Seuss and Arthur, but then I saw it, the ENTIRE Junie B. Jones series on the other wall. I practically tripped on my own two feet as a ran to it. As I stood there trying to figure out which to read, Ms.Powell caught me away from the group.
"Now Parveen," she read off my name tag, "the picture books are over there" she guided her voice holding a slight giggle. I felt hurt. I didn't understand what she meant by that so I proudly told her, "I'm reading a Junie B. Jones book at home." I must have been beaming with excitement as I told her but I quickly dimmed my bright gap filled smile as she said, "Honey, there is no use in lying, if you won't chose a book you can actually read you can go sit out".
I chose to sit out that library trip.
My teachers eventually believed that I could already read but it was no use. I never again wanted to be share an accomplishment. This is where I first tasted the real world, it was bitter and I clearly remember thinking I don't like it.
*
We grow from experience, learn from others, enjoy our environment and all the while we slowly begin to piece together who we are. I do not remember much, but I remember enough of my childhood to be able to draw out the road map of how I became well, me. They say that in our earliest years we don't identify the world as separate, we see it as an extension of ourselves and it is only through the constant pounding into our head that we are separate, we are that name they have given us that we slowly lose the connection and attach ourselves to words such as 'I' and 'me'. As I reflected on some childhood memories I saw how we turn from innocent, loving souls to self absorbed, hurt beings. Maybe it would be best if none of us remembered our childhoods so we wouldn't have to see all the mistakes made while creating the 'I'.
