Regression
by Anna McDowell
I was six and a half when I made a number of important discoveries that would shape the world as I see it today. I’m surprised that in these six months of development I didn’t pass out from the number of new and fascinating facts that filled my little head. I learned to spell, to count, to add and subtract, and how to eventually read an entire series of the Boxcar Children while hanging upside down on a monkey bar. It was, however, my second round in Kindergarten -my parents felt I needed to give it another try- so, it would be unfair to say that I was the rambunctious genius of the class out of mere chance. I had, in fact, seen all the material we were learning one year before.
“And two plus two makes…?” My grey haired teacher Lucia once asked to the class. I didn’t find it bizarre then, but thinking back, Lucia must have been surprised when my response to this rudimentary mathematical equation was a blunt:
“Duuuuuhhhhh…” I wrote out a squiggly sideways number four on my Kindergarten-ruled notepaper. I repeated Kindergarten twice, only to transform from a shy and timid five-year old, into a smart assed, freckly, and precocious little six year old.
On the playground I discovered that ants were not only annoying, but also tasted like hot sauce, which was because they were biting my tongue as I ate them, which I knew because Jake told me. Jake had a long piece of hair growing out of the back of his head- I called it his rattail, and I pulled on it when I wanted his attention. In the big oak tree at Crestmont Arts School we picked up ants and ate them alive. While our parents believed in the loving and community based education we were receiving at Crestmont Arts School, Jake and I learned to shove erasers up our nostrils and to terrorize our teachers. We learned to sound out shiiiit , the word was awkward to say but thrilling to shout out. Together we integrated all the knowledge we had.
“What did you learn at school today Anna?”
“Ants taste like shiiit because they bite when they go down,” I replied.
The most dumbfounding discovery of all was that I was in fact not a boy; that a few physical differences would separate me from being one forever. I learned this while taking a bath with my best friend Robin. Could I still run around without a t-shirt? Of course. Would I still be able to dress up as a power ranger on Halloween, dressed for combat and destruction? Sure. But, was it still ok for me to shave off my beautiful, soft hair, as my mom called it, stroking it with one hand before I made the final cut. I think a tear or two may have been shed at my overpowering decision. Away with my hair! Yes, I could cut off all my hair, take off my shirt, play with transformers and be shy around girls, but I would always remain one myself.
I’m not sure you’ve ever experienced acupuncture. Maybe you’ve been given a shot at the doctors, or ran into a splinter on a hot wooden deck – both of these sensations hurt quite a bit, similarly to that of being stuck with ten or twenty tiny needles. Only catch is, even though it hurts like a bitch, acupuncture is healthy. It’s an eastern form of medicine, proven to treat most maladies. And while this may be all true, and my yin and yang may be imbalanced, and my spleen chi may be weak, I cannot say I have ever craved being stuck with a needle.
“But Anna, I promise this won’t hurt…badly,” my mom would say while pinning down both of my arms behind my head as I thrashed about.
“I don’t want it! I’m healthy, I’m healthy!” I pleaded.
“No you aren’t! You need this!” my mother would respond. This may have been the early beginning of my hypochondria. My mother was in acupuncture school and she needed as many patients to practice on as she could get. When my dad could take no more prodding and poking she would turn to my sister and I, sometimes even to the dog.
“This will help calm Hazel’s (the dog’s) nervous system. She stressed out by all the neighbor’s cats, and this will make her stop barking.”
Sometimes I come home from school to find my mother lying on the couch; arms and legs splayed out like a starfish, eyes closed. She has given herself acupuncture, not for practice anymore, but to cure a headache, cramps, or a cold.
“Hi, Mom. You ok?” I hesitantly ask, a little worried that she may have kicked the bucket. But she awakes from her meditative slumber.
“Hey honey. Yes, headaches all gone. I feel great.”
When I have a headache I go straight for the medicine cabinet and guzzle a few Advil. I turn to the eastern approach only when my first try has failed.
It was Saint Patrick’s Day in my 6th grade class and my dad had come to teach us all about the wonders of being Irish. My dad, a modern dancer, was born in Belfast and moved to New York in the mid 1980’s. Saint Patrick’s day at my house was corn beef and cabbage, listening to Irish fiddle, and drinking shandies (a mixture of beer, sprite, and green food coloring). I think it’s relevant to note that the first time my sister got drunk she was seven. It was an accident.
My dad decided that all Kensington Elementary students needed to learn a good Irish jig before graduating from the sixth grade. He’d bring food and music, minus the shandies as my mother reminded him that twelve year olds couldn’t legally drink in this country. We danced around the classroom, hopping up and down to the repetitive squeak of the fiddle and to the offbeat pounding of my dad’s Irish drum. My dad gave us pointers.
“When you take your first step, remember to squeeze your butt tight. It will help to make a higher jump for the beginning of the jig.” I’m not sure my classmates understood, but they stared as my dad showed us. Clenching his butt muscles together he jumped high above our little heads. I loved it at the beginning. Cherishing every moment of teaching and butt clenching because I was proud to have such a loud and insane father. 6th grade came, and I begged him not to come, but without success. Saint Patrick’s Day in 6th grade continued like all the rest.
“You have to push me down the street and I will flail my legs and arms around so people think I’m crazy,” I said to Lia.
I was wearing a bright green dress, silver pumps, a grey wig, and red tinted foundation. Every freckle on my face was concealed by this shiny, cakey make up and any facial movement I made produced a deep wrinkle, a crease that stayed on my face until the makeup was removed. I was thirteen but I looked about ninety-eight. I wore glasses with the lenses punched out and brown nylons to add an elderly, senile affect to my ensemble. You’d have thought the time I’d spent creating such a masterpiece (or fool?) of myself would have been for something productive - a presentation, a play. But alas, at the age of thirteen, prepubescent and skinny, I was still enthralled by the imaginary world. Fortunately, but surprisingly, I was not alone.
“Do you think people will get angry that you are pretending to be disabled?” Lia asked.
“Yes. Probably,” I responded. The fact that we were wheeling around on a wheelchair, pretending to foam at the mouth could be a little offensive. Lia’s worry was not completely preposterous.
The beginning of every 7th grade imaginary game began with the idea of making a film. Usually somewhere between putting on our costumes and practicing our lines we forgot to turn on the camera. Yes, it is imperative that one turn on a camera to film. But filming was really just a justification for our pretending to be old and decrepit, or even for playing with dolls; an explanation to our parents and friends for why we still dressed up and why we liked to talk in foreign accents. This confession is not told with ease, but I admit to buying my last playmobile set at thirteen. I even named one of my playmobile, along with the careful reflection and help of Lia, Panco Villa. He was the stable hand.