defying guilt

so i remember this again, from time to time, and it's resurfaced today, for some reason. you were maybe 5 or 6, maybe younger, hard to tell. we were in our room at the old apartment. you were being a brat, as usual, and pissing me off, at that moment. i had a plastic hanger in my hand and i swung it, not meaning to actually hit you, but i guess i did. i instantly felt bad. you had a tiny cut on your hand. it was red but barely bleeding. you started screaming and ran to mom to tell on me. i defended myself based on my opinion that even if the hanger did touch you, it couldn't have made that cut you were crying over. i said you probably did that yourself. but i was really defending myself in an effort to defy my guilt.

there might have been a moral to this story, but i'm multitasking too much right now to reflect on one.

Re:Start

I'm going to start blogging again, after an ice age, because lately when I daydream I've been entertaining myself with memories and places in my childhood. Sometimes rather than coping with all the emotions and thoughts that define me as I am now and trying to get that all on paper, I’d rather just take a little break and go back in time to who I was then, moments that may reveal something about the person I’ve become. So I thought instead of just letting those images and thoughts go into the wasteland of passing thoughts, I'd write them down. Because memories become more alive when they are shared, don't they?

take mom and dad to hawaii fund

by the end of the month, that is, nov. 31st, 2009, we will each put in $125 towards the TMDHF fund, and open an ING account for that purpose.

The Accident

This post will be quite an embarrassing one for me, but it must be done to restore your memory of the event (can't believe you've forgotten this one...). As you mentioned in your earlier post, I was quite the goggle-eyed, short, bowl-haired, and timid first-grader back in our days at HR. It was afternoon on that fateful day. We had just finished lunch and were in the middle of religion class with Ms. Gladsky, and I had to use the ladies' room really badly. (I guess you can figure out where this is going.) I shyly went up to the front of the classroom to ask her amidst a flourish of group activities if I could please use the bathroom. She firmly responded no, saying something to the effect that I should've gone during lunch time. So I dejectedly went back to my seat and sat down squirming. I held it in for the rest of the class.

Then, it was time for Chinese class with Ms. Leung...dun dun dun. As she came into the room, the hustle and bustle of the class died down, and we stood up in silence to greet her and say our afternoon prayers (yes, these were the Catholic school days). And there I was, doing the pee dance in the middle of the prayer while everyone else was reciting Our Father or Hail Mary in drone monotonous first-grade voices. And then...as I was struggling with all my might and saying my own personal prayers so that the universal forces would help me hold it in, pee started to trickle from under my plaid skirt, onto the tiled floor, between my new leather loafers. My face scorched and turned red, and the more I tried to stop the flow, the more it came. I even tried making the puddle less noticeable with my shoes by inconspicuously stomping on it. Not so inconspicuous, as it turned out. At the very end of the prayer, Ms. Leung finally noticed the large puddle underneath where I was standing and was a bit confused at first ("What's that?!"). Then finally emergency action was taken. There were shouts of "Get Maggie here!" throughout the hallways, so I guess someone had to storm into the 8th grade classroom to deliver the awful message: "Your sister just peed her pants." My checkered school jumper, to be more precise. Then the flourish of paper towels and wet napkins and mops. I seem to remember just staring goggle-eyed and quiet at everything, and you accompanying me to the bathroom. (What are older sisters for but to help alleviate such situations?) I don't even remember if you laughed at me...I'm sure there was raucous laughter somewhere. If you remember this event at all, can you please tell me how I managed to live that down?

Schoolyard Bully

You, as a new first grader back in 1992, looked like a a mosquito flying around - low to the ground and weaving slightly, because you carried a backpack that weighed the same as you and wore those old soda bottle glasses that made two red crescents on your nose.

When classes were dismissed, we met in the playground to walk to mom's factory together. Sometimes you were waiting for me, and other times I was out there first, always making sure to be visible when you came out so you would not frantically search for me in fear I'd left you alone in that cruel, hard playground. On one of the days I got out first, I waited and watched as you came out, nervously locked eyes with me, and continued to fast-walk towards me. Quang Tsang, a boy from my class you may remember as a merciless taunter of little people like yourself, stepped into your path and began to do things to get a reaction out of you. Among other things, I think he made fun of your glasses. Your face pruned up into the tightest frown those little facial muscles could muster, and you sped up your pace to try to get past him, each time to be blocked by this healthy-sized eighth grader who was highly amused by your distress.

I thought about rescuing you, but the situation seemed harmless, and it was a pretty amusing sight, and a perturbed face I'll never forget. Hahahaaaa....!

The Book Trader

Okay finally another post. So this one was prompted by a yelp review I recently did of the Book Trader in Philly. It made me think of our summer jaunts on South Street when I was in my early teens, especially the first time you took me there. Our cousin CC was in town, and we were going to get her a little going-away trinket. On the way there and back we were listening to the live CDs of Ani D.; I was complaining about how her songs sounded bland and talk-y, and you were trying to convince me of their awesome-ness. We went to a couple different stores, and then we made a visit to the Eyes Gallery, that crazy little gift store that sells Mexican-influenced things like bags, decorative figurines, and strange instruments. I remember really liking that place, and you bought a couple of small painted animals with bobbing heads. Then we probably visited the poster store and Pearl paint and Guacamole and all those other South Street haunts.

I don't remember exactly when we found out about the Book Trader, but at some point during the summer we started gathering big bags of old books in the house and bringing them to the Book Trader for store credit. All those Sweet Valley Twins books, useless text books, Archie comics, and things we didn't read anymore. We probably only got like $10 back each time after bringing in like thirty books, but it was still enough to buy a couple of good reads. I would always go to the mystery section to buy an Agatha Christie mystery, trying to build up my collection. You would sometimes go into the music section in the back and hunt down cds. So yeah, those were fun summers in the city. The Book Trader has moved since to Olde City -- have you even been to their new location?

Coca-Bloodaaahh

That reminded me of another vampired-themed occurrence, one of my favorite, actually. It took place during one of the last times I remember all of us cousins getting together before everyone grew up and grew apart. We were in the basement of Henry and Hudson's old house. I was barely in high school, or not even, so everyone else was still pretty young. It had to have been after dinner already, since everyone was downing cans of Coke, which would not have been allowed before dinner. A concensus somehow formed around me telling a scary story. But I had already told my scariest story and had nuthin at the moment. Still, I always had so much fun scaring you guys, because all of you guys had wits of mice. Screams and shrieks would deafen the room so that nobody ever knew what actually happened in the scariest part of the story. Hudson was the toughest. If he was scared, I would know that I'd done my job. It happened once or twice.

So I had no scary story, but I took on a stiff, uncoordinated gait, with my arms outstretched towards my intended captives and began to speak in a walking-dead-Eastern-European accent - a kind of mummy-vampire-zombie. It was very scary to witness, I'm sure. And I was after the Coca-Blooda. Everyone ran from me, snatching up their cans of Coke as they fled screaming. They baited me with their Coke cans, because what little kid doesn't like to be chased and have their wits scared out of'em? I stumbled after in my necessarily slow, painstaking trudge, since I was a mummy-vampire-zombie thing. That trudge is what terrifies. In zombie flicks, it's what causes your head to implode and your thoughts to freeze in fear - the sight of this monster coming after you at 1. mile. per. hour. - eyes wide in suspended animation, voiceless screaming abounds.

The basement was a bird's nest under attack by an incoming vulture - all feathers and flurrying and chaos.

"Coka-blooooodaaaaaaaaahhh!!!"

"Aaaaaaahhhh!! Aaaahh!!"

Even when you're scared, you know you're having fun when what's coming out of you is actually a mixture of hysterical screams and uncontrollable laughter. Much like that first rollercoaster ride of the season at Six Flags...