This piece was previously published on girlletmetellyou.org.
As a child I lived in a zinc house. In 1988 Hurricane Gilbert ripped the roof off and left coconuts on our beds as parting gifts. I was 4.
One of the interesting things about living in a zinc house, and believe me there are many, is that when it rains, the pitter-patter of drops are amplified – it’s like surround sound but without the Bose. At first you hear every drop individually; each has a unique sound imprint. As the drops intensify, you can parse distinct clusters of sound patterns. You soon notice the sound gets richer in the center of rooms. Finally, the drops come to a crescendo and a glorious downpour descends on my roof. Followed by an intense rush of fresh rain scent, bursting through every opening of the house and filling nooks and crannies without permission. This is how I remember it. Romantically. At the time it was happening, as a 7yr old (whose friends all lived in zinc houses) that’s how I thought of it then too – Romantically – or more accurately…I thought it was cool. When you’ve lived in a zinc house, and at times had to use an outhouse, or the occasional newspaper in lieu of the seeming luxury of a pit toilet, it’s easy to be grateful for things many take for granted. I’m not suggesting that I walk around in constant praise to the Gods for indoor plumbing; but even small things are a constant reminder of where I’ve been and where I am now. Nothing is a more salient reminder of where I’ve been than my experiences on the bus with my mom as a child of 5 or 6yrs. I remember bus rides being exciting adventures where my mom would make sure I was stuffed safely in the crowded mini bus. Jam packed mini buses always had a conductor hanging off the side yelling the destination and current stop for what seemed like eternity. He would fold paper bills in half and meticulously tuck them under his middle finger with the ends flapping on his ring and index fingers in the wind. On these adventures, I vividly remember asking God to make sure that as an adult I’d have $20 to pay bus fare. Because of course, in my innocent basic school mind, though I had no clue how much the bus cost, I paid close attention and figured $20 should cover it. Silly, I know! The power of social learning and observation cannot be understated; especially as a young impressionable child.
I share these stories not to reflect on hard times, because in my opinion my childhood was joyful and carefree. Instead the intent is to shed light on a portion of the foundation that undergirds my thinking to this day.
We all have childhood stories that mold our character in various ways; for better or worse. There is immeasurable value in mining these stories, truly unpacking the good, bad and indifferent (preferably in a safe space because memories can be traumatic). In our childhood experiences lay a gold mine filled with treasures that tell the true stories of how we love, play, trust, give, relate, work, find joy and peace. They tell so much of how we see and value ourselves and others in the world as adults. In many ways, these memories define the expanse of our world, whether we recognize it or not. As children we develop critical patterns of trust, love and relating to the world that molds or lives. These relational patterns, positive or negative, remain with us. We (most often unconsciously) hold on to them for dear life out of fear of losing ourselves.
The true and deeply reflective work often lies in bringing these memories to the forefront of our thinking, increasing our awareness of not only our memories but the meaning they hold for us and eventually moving to deeper levels of understanding how lessons learned in childhood compel our actions today. This work is intentional, not at all accidental, it doesn’t just happen because time has passed.
It’s helpful to start this work by assessing “what is”; reconnecting with our memories- starting with our fondest is always easier. Peaking behind the nostalgic veil of our younger selves can create space for us to relearn and unpack lessons unique to that time and space. In some ways, this work reminds me of Sankofa. But that’s a morsel I’ll reserve for another time.
Just some of my musings…till’ next time – be good to yourself – and each other.
~Kerry H.