First memories (or: they never really knew me)

 

Too young to talk, or be coherent

and my dad is trying to feed me

turtle soup.

I see the shell, I love turtles dearly

I scream, I don’t want turtle soup.

He doesn’t force me to eat it,

but still eats it himself.

My first memory of anger.

I don’t want to eat the chicken soup

my parents think I need to be forced,

but, I don’t like it at all.

I won’t eat it, I’ll starve instead.

Day after long day,

cold soup set in front of me.

My first memory of rebellious stubbornness.

I WON’T.

I am hanging out with my friend, silas.

He’s a bit younger than me,

I am already running,

he’s just starting to walk.

His sister sets him on the washer,

he wants to get down,

he’s screaming and crying,

she can’t understand him, or me.

She thinks he wants candy, he doesn’t,

my first memory of feeling at once

helpless and protective.

I wanted his candy.

I am in the seat on my dad’s bike

I ask if I can call Oma

I was named after her after all,

he tells me I can’t,

then says she’s dead.

I wish she hadn’t died, I have her name

I want to talk to her, I’m sad.

My first memory of death.

They call me Clarita, una niña bonita

“such a sweet, pretty little girl” they say

“she’ll make a good missionary someday” they say

“oh, wow, she’s so calm and good” they say

“such a good big sister” they say.

They don’t know me, but I’ll keep it up

I relish the praise they give if I do.

My first memory of not fitting in

with the words they used

to describe me.