I have found that there is something special in taking the time to reminisce in childhood memories. We not only remember the memories but the feelings encompassed with those memories. Sometimes, we might discover something new. So go back. Go back the furthest you can.
When I was younger, I lived in a small apartment. I always got up early to watch Saturday morning cartoons. The WE Network played my favorite shows: "Pokemon" and "Yu-Gi-Oh." The fantasy and adventure of these worlds captivated my developing brain. I refused to do anything else but sit on the firm couch and lean in toward the 20-inch screen. When the seventh "Pokemon" movie, "Pokemon: Destiny Deoxys" first premiered, the antennas had a hard time catching the channel. The passing images of the show were peppered with static, but I didn’t care. I stared in awe and cheered in excitement as the static moved across the screen like blizzard snow.
With the popularity of "Yu-Gi-Oh" cards at the time and the influence of the show, I became obsessed with the card game. Every time I visited the mall with my parents, I immediately wanted to go to the nearest store that sold "Yu-Gi-Oh" cards. Hundreds of shiny packets were displayed inside a glass counter. I could barely stand the anticipation of which cards I could get upon opening the packet. But this joy would be delayed for a few years. I begged and begged my parents for the cards. When I finally received my first deck pack as a birthday present, I was nearly overcome with a flurry of emotions. I immediately opened the pack and felt the cool smoothness of the brand new cards. Sitting in the dim light of my room with the door closed, I stared at each card, studying the detail of the picture and its description. But alas, soon after I received this first deck, the school I attended issued a new rule—all cards were banned. I stored the cards in a box, never to see them again.
When I was younger, I had difficulty waking up (although, I guess this still applies). The comfort of my soft pillow and cotton blanket overpowered the ceiling lights and the mom-n-dad alarms that tried to wake me up. Somehow though, I ended up in my uniform and at the front steps of school. My dad carried me down the flight of stairs of our apartment. The sunlight beamed at my face as he carried me down, and I briefly awoke to see that I was lying on my father’s shoulder like a sack of rice with a drool rag tucked between his ironed shirt and my doughy cheeks. My consciousness slowly slipped away as he quickly yet smoothly went down the stairs—step by step.
When I was younger, I hated P.E. The idea of running, jumping, and exercising across jagged asphalt for no reason under the blazing sun amidst the smell of sour sweat stumped me. The most frequent of the few things we played were basketball, dodge ball, and kickball. Balls flinging left and right, people tripping and getting hurt, and teams arguing all occurred while the teachers sat on the side drinking their coffee. During kickball, the ball was rolled at me several times across the jagged asphalt of my school’s basketball court area, but each kick landed the ball into the foul area. My teacher scolded me when I kicked the ball into foul. It was three fouls and two outs. I either had to kick it and make it to first base, or my team would have to switch to defense. Backing up to the twenty-foot jail fence that encompassed the playground, I readied myself as the red ball of rubber and air bounced its way toward me. I ran at it with my top speed, and finally, I kicked it up into the air. It went up high and far. I dashed for first base, but this was no movie moment. Thump. The sound of a classmate catching the ball rang in my ears. I have not played kickball since and continue to refuse any offers.
When I was younger, the playground was a castle! No, a spaceship! No, actually, whatever I wanted it to be! Everyone eagerly anticipated the time when the teacher would finally let us free for recess. As soon as they gave the word, my friends and I darted out of the room and dived into the massive sandbox, our second home where we could do anything we conjured up. The wooden structures of the playground set were ours to reshape with our minds. I was as free as can be, shooting thunderbolts and fireballs from my hands. My imagination stirred as my friends joined along. From "Pokemon" to ninjas, we could be them all.
When I was younger, during summer breaks, my parents often took me to Disneyland! From the smell of their massive turkey legs, the screams and cheers of people on rides, and the music in the air, I was easily overflowing with excitement and joy. My parents and I rushed around the park to go on thrilling rides, watched the shows and musicals, and my personal favorite, tried to find all the Disney characters and get their autograph. But Disneyland was no mystery for me; I walked around seemingly knowing where every turn went. I had memorized the park like the inside of my room. Once, my friend and his family and my family had just so happen to go on a Disneyland trip at the same time. The Disneyland experience was so much better going through it with my best friend. We ran through the playhouses with pure glee and rushed to the next thrilling ride as fast as our parents would let us. I still feel bad when I was able to go on the California Screamin’ ride while he couldn’t just because I was wearing shoes, and he was wearing slippers.
However, for me, there are two unspoken heroes in this story. They popped up a few times in this narrative, but they do deserve so much more. Of course, these are my parents. Without them, these experiences would be very different. The very me that I am today would also be very different, and I wouldn’t wish to be any different at all. I could not thank my parents enough for all they will do, and all they did when I was young.
