Freeze Tag

“Do you remember when freeze tag was a mating game…” I recall a poet in the Nuyorican poet’s café speak to me. I quickly wrote it down, struck by the insightful truth she illuminated in my past, all of our pasts perhaps. The other day I told my mom that I have a very selective memory of my childhood. And even that which I remember is muddled by those memories I have been reminded of, through the nostalgic sharing of my family.

But there are those that even my mom does not remember, or things that she could not remember. Like kissing a friend in our bedroom closet while playing hide and seek, or learning the art of making-out at parties, where spin the bottle and truth or dare were accepted inevitabilities. Rama and I used to host all day birthday parties. Guests could show up any time from 3pm to midnight. The beach party was 3-6, then we served food. The dance party began by 8. At 10:30 maybe, we retreated to our bedroom to appease our curious, budding hormones in the manner deemed most comfortable and tolerable. But what else, I only remembered one Volks Wagon, when in fact we owned two or three throughout the course of my childhood. I distinctly remember playing with the gear stick, imagination deeply embedded in an adventure to town or the land, and then accidentally putting the car in neutral. When the car started to roll down the hill, I jumped out, and yelled at Rama to do the same. We stood there dumbstruck as the car continued toward the main road. Luckily it swerved off into a fence before reaching the moving traffic. I remember Aba wasn’t mad, to my surprise, just relieved that we weren’t hurt. I remember standing on the porch of our Falmouth house, dictating in perfect baby talk the meaning of life to all that passed, complete with gestures, dramatic pauses, melodic emphasis, expressive facial contortions, and emphatic punctuating changes in tone. I think I even got some responses. I remember riding my red tricycle in the house while Aba was out, knowing damn well it wasn’t allowed. Once I almost destroyed my homework book cuz it was in the middle of my race course, and I neglected to move it. I lied to my teacher that Rama did it. I clearly recall the enthusiasm with which I cut down several “weeds” and presented them to my mom as spinach. I was disappointed when we had spinach that night for dinner, thanks to my efforts. I also remember piling in the backseat of our VW station wagon, buried in our stuffed animals, on our way to our new house in Hodges Bay. I remember our pets, Ivory (a white dog that grew to a ripe old age), Crick and Crack, who grew up with us from puppies and followed us everywhere, Zulu, the cat that bit, one of the few cats I disliked, and frisky, Rama’s parakeet that used to land on our head. That bird brought so much joy before it drowned in a pitcher of Kool-Aid. I remember my determination to climb our coconut trees, and my eventual success. And there is the first time I saw the game chess, Aba was playing…someone, Roland maybe, he was very dark skinned though. He was bouncing around with his knight, tip-toeing through the defense it appeared. And I was given my first piece of chess advice, “never underestimate a knight.” Aba then taught me how to play, and it was many years before I could beat him. But I did eventually. And school, responsible for at least half my life, reserved a spot in my selective mental records, Montessori, St. Nicholas, Grammar School, Hanover High, Lebanon High, Home School, Dublin, and finally Swarthmore. That is the structure for a cohesive narrative right there, but only half the story. I remember wrestling with Rama, and the one time we really fought, and how different those two states of struggle had been. Uncle Gregory picked me up and sat on me till I calmed down. I don’t even remember what it was about, but we both dropped back into martial arts stance, and were ready to wreak havoc. In hindsight, I was a problem child, harboring a selfish and intolerant sense justice. I know this. And I remember Aba, so much about him. I felt awake in his presence, awake enough to question instead of just dream my way through life. I remember our cistern water, and how alive it tasted, so intricately full of spirit the way a good wine evolves as it progresses across the palate. I remember purple dragon, the martial arts school that served as an outlet for my short temper. And I also remember when freeze tag was a mating game, when I would risk capture to unfreeze my crush who wasn't fast enough to avoid capture and would inevitably be frozen several more times before getting to safety. And now I recognize the naïveté that kept me from knowing that my crush liked me back. Oh well.

Natalie Goldberg said that memoir is a way of letting go of the past. So maybe that's why I'm mildly obsessed with accounts of my childhood, or why I easily journal about my deceased father, but have written few words on my charismatic mother. Or maybe that's why I sometimes feel that my life now is not worthy of a blog post.