When my mother told me not to run that particular afternoon, I didn’t listen, because I was a child, and I was meant to be able to do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. She was an adult, which meant she was a hater, an old lady whose favorite pastime was watching the news, waiting for the next greedy politician she would bash, or celebrity that was acting too much out of line. She always interrupted my cartoons, and instead of being upset, I was terrified that one day, I would wake up and I would be a hater, an old lady who loved the news and didn’t know what a Beyonce was. Beyonce was a person, and that was the whole point of it.
And so, I felt no guilt flouting her instructions and heading out to the open field where my friends were waiting for me. Those were the days when friends were truly friends, because we all agreed that aliens existed, and whoever thought anything else was a loser, and shouldn’t stand with us. Everyone wanted to stand with us and so they lied if they thought otherwise, not knowing that we also lied, because we wanted to stand with us, or the others except ourselves, or whatever it was that we weren’t sure of.
But two things were certain.
First, it was 2010 so, ‘us’ was a shifting term just like the world around us. And second, we were all friends. And because we were friends and a part of ‘us,’ we could play and run around, ignoring the gravel beneath our feet, and the old ladies telling us to be careful, to not fall and draw blood.
How could I draw blood? I was a superhero, so it was impossible.
I ran, my legs picking up speed like the wind, rebellious, never staying in one place. Then I fell, my arm making contact with the jagged stone edges, not kind enough to have softer edges, as if shunning pebbles, their perceived bastard cousins. And because I fell, I drew blood, the reddish color flowing on the ground turning a dirtier shade upon contact, like that of the earth back in my mother’s village, only that it didn’t make me happy. Instead, it made me sad. And because I was sad, I cried, my tears spilling onto my clothes like rain. Only that now, it was a terrible feeling, nothing like the thrill of having nature wet your clothes.
If I had known, I would have listened to my mother who told me not to run and I would have become a hater. I would be on the fast track to being an old lady whose favorite pastime was watching the news, waiting for the next greedy politician I would bash, or celebrity that was acting too much out of line.
