flashquake Nonfiction flashquake |
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They brought me home from the hospital to an apartment teeming with graduate students fresh from summers spent building geodesic domes in New Mexico or studying Tantric Buddhism in Tibet; an apartment where I was to function as mascot, science experiment, and Lava Lamp. I was schlepped to constitutional law lectures via backpack, timed with a stopwatch as I crawled through elaborately constructed mazes, and once, in a fit of stoned creativity, propped upon a table and accessorized with various hats for the collective amusement of those assembled. I was cultured in a petrie dish of Free To Be You and Me, whole grains, and the very best intentions. Listening to the strident demands of a revolutionary whose bedtime is 7:30 holds markedly little appeal for most, however no one told me it was unseemly to hold forth disdainfully on the subject of organized religion whilst wearing a milk mustache and pajamas with feet. Anatomically laughable pictures of people I had drawn were hung in prominent places throughout our apartment, illuminated by book lights clipped to their frames. My every utterance was received with a hushed reverence that, while certainly appropriate in a library, or during private audience with the Pope, cannot help but seem ridiculous when applied to the verbal dysentery of a precocious child. "It's a samovar," I told a small gathering at a rather somber fondue party given for the anniversary of John Lennon's death. Before me on a cookie sheet I held what was, quite obviously, not a samovar. It was not even as close to a samovar as one can reasonably be expected to come with Elmer's glue and Popsicle sticks. But this did not worry me. I was already aware that with the right attitude, people could be persuaded to mistake deficiency of skill for conceptual abstraction. "She's really into Russia right now," my father offered, coming into the room with a tray of cheese. A woman wearing a necklace of wooden beads beamed at me, "I think it's Wonderful! A Samovar! Imagine!" It was not until I began daycare that I realized children lacked many of the rights so capriciously given adults. We were shuffled from mandatory activity to mandatory activity by education majors whose wild merriment I found frankly embarrassing. Forced to complete inane identical art projects. Confined to dark, blanketed corners for an hour each afternoon, despite being Not At All Tired. Most shockingly, our belongings could be illegally seized at anytime, regardless of the rules of probable cause. I took to singing "Go Down Moses," under my breath during naptime. "Let My People Go," I warbled softly from my cot. I glared at the cluster of adults standing proudly upright near the well-lit entrance, chuckling softly at some private joke. Even more disturbing was the utter lack of fascination I held for these people. Children and adults alike seemed oblivious to my obvious charm, my stunning individuality. I spent my time primarily in lines or large herds of children, and inspecting our ranks, it frightened me to discover that we all looked pretty much the same. I was just beginning to suspect that people were, in fact, not as magically and wonderfully varied as snowflakes. We hunched over Dixie cups in interchangeable corduroy overalls, chipping our teeth in unison on stale trail mix. It was around this time that I found a picture of my mother at five, wearing a holster over her starched and crinolined Sunday dress. "I was going to be a gunslinger," she said, laughing. I could not, for the life of me, see what there was to laugh about. I had seen scores of filmstrips promising, earnestly, and frequently with the accompaniment of an acoustic guitar, that I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up. I planned to be a spy, and among my friends I numbered three or four future astronauts and a bevy of Punk Rockers. I often imagined us together in twenty years. What an illustrious group we would be! Curious, though, that no one I knew wanted to collect garbage, fix televisions, or work at A&W. They probably went to a different school. But then, come to think of it, how was it that among my adult acquaintances I numbered not one fireman, or ballerina, or professional sports personality? When I asked my mother why she had abandoned what I regarded as the immensely interesting field of Gun Slinging, she shrugged and asked if I wanted a snack. I wasn't hungry. |
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© 2002 by Alexa Stevenson HOME | Archives | Submission Guidelines | Contributors | Links | Contact Us | ||
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My parents were shaggy-haired former radicals of the sort who
regard the creative output of children as worthy of serious consideration.
Sprawled upon beanbag chairs, slapping idly at cockroaches with a spare
Earth Shoe, they discussed the problematic nature of parenting in our
sexist, spiritually corrupt, and inherently child-stifling society.
