A Try At It

            Weirdest thing ever. First of all, you may notice that I’m blogging more now. I just missed it and I feel like I’ve had a lot more to talk about lately. Which is good. Anyways. Back to the weird thing. So yesterday, a friend of mine, not close, but a friend, just got engaged to his girlfriend of I don’t even know how long exactly. So I told Maggie about it and then we both started talking about how soon that’s going to be people our age and our friends who are getting engaged. Not even a day later, (today), two of our good friends who have been together since the beginning of high school announced that they were engaged! Gosh we must be psychic or something. But it’s crazy! I mean I’ve known a ton of people who gotten engaged and married, even young. When it happens to your friends, though, that’s when it really hits you. We’re all growing up so fast. Soon almost everyone will be getting engaged and married, and going into their careers, and eventually having families. It’s truly crazy how fast life goes. I mean I was just talking about it in my last blog. I’m so happy for them and I wish them the very best, and I better be invited to the wedding because I just love weddings. Love ‘em! And then Maggie and I started talking about who was going to be the first of our friends to get knocked up. We had a mutual vote for Rachel. So Rachel, if you’re reading this. We want pretty red headed blue eyed babies ASAP! Thanks.

          Now for those of you who know me, which I’m assuming anyone reading this knows me. You probably have heard me say once, or twice, or about a million times that I have short term memory loss. You probably have heard me say once, or twice or two million times that I have short term memory loss…okay it’s not that bad. But really I have one of the worst memories I know of anyone my age. Its straight up turrable. I have to write my homework down in my notebooks, in a planner, in my phone, and sometimes on my hand just so I can remember it all. And I usually forget some of it. So that is why when in one of my English classes, I was asked to write a creative non-fiction mini memoir type thing of a memory from before I was ten years old. Are you kidding me, sir? I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast this morning and you expect THAT out of me? Lawd help us all if Sydney has to remember things from before she was ten. Okay, so I do recall memories from my childhood. It’s not like I was just blacked out the whole time. I actually remember a lot. Just not in full detail. Like one of my uncles, he’s a freaking whiz in all things pretty much. He can remember everything. Little details and all. I wish I had like a tenth of that memory. Anyways, so I picked one memory that I do remember. It’s kind of embarrassing but I’m putting it on here, Mommy, so that you can read it. Don’t make fun of me if I didn’t get it all right. I was kind of just guessing on some parts of it but most of it is truly how I remember it.

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We walk up the stairs in between the two buildings; one, a rusty and fading brick, and the other a small white portable building that is to be my classroom. I feel my little fingers getting sweaty, intertwined with hers. I can hear my heart beating, pulsating as if it’s going to climb out of my chest and attack me; which I wouldn’t mind at this point, so long as I do not have to go into that classroom. My mother pulls my arm up the three cracked cement stairs, guarded by rusting iron rails on either side. In a split second I am launched on my behind, grasping the pole for dear life before I even realize what I am doing, I just know that, more than anything, I don’t want to go in there. She tries to grab my hand and sternly tells me to get up, using my middle name I know that she means business. I won’t do it. I clutch the pole so tightly my fingers turn red, then white, in a death grip that not even a mother can undo. I start crying; the tears flowing across my face and I know my eyes are turning pink and red, the way they always do when I cry. She tries to pull me again, begging me to go in. I start screaming. I feel like I’m swallowing piece after piece of sandpaper as each scream comes from deep within me. My mother would refer to this as “screaming bloody murder” although I’m not exactly sure what that means. I don’t want to go in. I won’t. The lady standing just in the doorway of the classroom, my teacher I’m assuming, is staring with a horrified expression knowing that there’s nothing she can say to calm me at this point. My mother kneels down and looks straight into my eyes, and sincerely asks me if I will go in if she comes in with me. My screaming and crying cease, but my breaths are still short and hurried as a result. I nod my head, remove my now cramped fingers and arms from the cold rusty pole and grab her hand once again, squeezing it how I do when I’m at the doctor’s office about to get a shot. My heart is still pounding, even more excessive because of my crying and screaming; I stand up and rub my eyes roughly, trying and failing to reduce the puffy redness that I have caused. I cannot cry now, or else all of these other kids will see me and laugh. 
We step through the threshold of the red door connecting us from what is awaiting. I look around the classroom and it is big. There are lots of colors and boxes with different toys in them. There are books everywhere. And a kid, just like me, at every desk but one. My teacher, an older woman with graying hair, my mother, with her fluffy silky hair all dressed up for work, and myself walk near the back of the classroom to the table in which my desk is connected. It has my name on it. I smile a little and my heart beat slows down a notch. This is my desk. Mine only. Not my mother’s, not my big brother’s, but mine. I am the only one who gets to sit here every day. Except on Saturdays and Sundays. Those days neither me or my brother will be at school. That’s what I was told anyways. I sit down, my teacher strolls over to another student at their very own desk. My mother crouches down next to me. She holds my hand still and asks me if I am okay with her leaving. My heart starts to race again at the thought of being left in this big classroom all by myself. No. She can’t leave me. So she stays. I know she’ll be late to work, she knows, but she stays anyways and I love her for that. This isn’t so bad anymore. I think I can do this. On my own. I fold my little hands together and lay them on the cold, cream colored desk with my name written in six different colors. Red, green, blue, orange, yellow, and purple. My name. My desk. My mother asks me again a little after if I am okay if she leaves. I know she has to but I hesitate. I nod and say yes. And with that she kisses me and then she’s gone. And here I am, on my own in kindergarten, in my very own desk.

          Well that’s how I remember it. I don’t know if it was all accurate but I did the best I could. I was only five for crying out loud (pun intended). I think I like this whole creative non fiction writing better than just fiction. It’s easier because it’s true, you don’t have to make up every single little detail in your head because all those details were right there in front of you. I enjoy it. I hope I write more of it. This was my first try at it so it’s not that great. Hopefully I’ll improve.

          And now I’m going to go to bed because it is way too late and I am exhausted. Night y’all. Have a good day tomorrow and crossing my fingers for more engagements to hear about soon! It’s just so exciting. I love it. Okay goodnight now.