| Skeletons of Home
By: Tia-Brooke Farrow
Out of the dust coated windshield I can see the skeletons of a neighborhood appearing around me. The smell of plumeria trees still lingers in the air here; it smelt exactly this way fifteen years ago when I was a young resident. Reminiscing, I can still clearly recall a point at which the echoes of children laughing resonated louder than the hum of heavy equipment that can now be heard here on any given day. Being in this place gives rise to mourning, mourning the loss of my childhood and the magic of the place where it occurred. Dirt kicks off of my tires as I slowly drive down the nearly overgrown roads that were once inhabited by cars, bikes, scooters, skateboards, and the occasional pogo stick. In a time where bike riding was the main event of the day, only to be surpassed in importance by an occasional Spice Girls band rehearsal, this neighborhood gleamed with promise. Today, this retreat from reality is viciously being torn apart one piece after the next. The streets here are stagnant and the entire area feels lifeless. Each house I pass by is merely a hollow shell that once housed a family of thriving individuals; these homes are tightly woven into the memories of many people like myself. Separating the thread of my childhood home from my mind would unravel the fabric of my being; such an act could essentially reshape the person I have grown into.
Children are a breed of their own; they are fearless and liberated from the confines of worry. Parents, however, must live shackled down by the weight of fears that are ever absent from the minds of their sons and daughters. During the years I spent growing into young adulthood I lived in what felt like a gated kingdom. All of the men on base wore their military uniforms completed by mirror-slick shined shoes and pressed collars. It still amazes me that something as simple as clothing lent such a profound sense of security to countless mothers including my own. To add further to the comfort of our parents, the walls of our sanctuary were gated and monitored closely. At the time I didn’t realize that there were children in the world who weren’t able to play outside all day with whomever they pleased. Inside the safe harbors of the Naval base I was liberated from the monotony of hourly check-ins and pleading with my parents to allow me outside in the first place; such a lifestyle appointed me many treasured hours of sunshine and kept the worries of the streetlamps flickering on far out of my mind.
In those carefree days over a decade ago, my friends and I climbed trees to pass the time with an adventurous spirit. While overlooking our neighborhood from the highest limb we would dare inch out onto, we imagined that all of the pedestrians below us were tiny ants; they were only mere specks in comparison to our grand stature a top of our well-earned perches. The best tree climber in my neighborhood was Ali, a lanky dirty blonde tomboy with crystal blue eyes, and once the word spread that I was the most fearless swing jumper in the area the two of us became inseparable. When you are 7 years old nothing is more important than your best friend. I can’t recall an activity I participated in without the aid of Ali Cat: we were Barbie partners on rainy days; when the sun shone we ventured out on our bikes jetting up and down each and every street we came across; both of us eagerly raced to discover Where in the World Carmen San Diego was; we even went to our first N’SYNC concert together, swooning the whole while.
As each summer came and went Ali and I discovered the price of living within our beloved military sanctuary. With each years passing, fewer and fewer of our friends returned to homeroom on the first day of school; their familiar faces and laughs were replaced by new kids that felt so foreign amongst us. My deepest fear mirrored the events surrounding me. I didn’t want Ali’s dad to have to go work far away. I didn’t want to lose my best friend. Even as my Girl Scout troop dwindled in numbers I held onto the promise that nothing could ever take Ali away from me. I had my platonic soul mate and I refused to fully acknowledge the notions that anything could ever separate us. In the end my fears were realized, Ali’s abrupt departure rushed closer to us like a foul ball headed directly towards an unaware observer. When Ali’s mom, Karen, told me that the whole family was moving to Illinois I felt as though I had been hit square in the gut by fastball that left behind an aching pang that would never dissipate. Time passed by beckoning forward my last week with Ali and we used the time we had left to scheme relentlessly. More tears were spilt during those last days than could ever be recounted. After tiny hands failed to unpack several boxes a last stitched attempt was made to hide in my coat closet until Ali’s parents forgot about her and left. Although our plan was flawless, much to our dismay, my mother eventually found us in the closet and Ali boarded a plane to the mainland. Although I only saw Ali and her family once more during a trip to Chicago she has never fallen from my memories and she never will. Shortly after I lost my favorite tree climber to the windy city, my family moved to the other side of Oahu and I also filled the shoes of the new girl.
Today, I am driving to White Plains, the beach where I first learned how to surf on a mile long blue soft-top board. My father always stood behind me and held me up in the moments that I felt weak in the knees and almost lost my balance entirely. Through the years, my family has continued to stand behind me and support me as I learned of the sacrifices and rewards that come from being a part of a military household. I make my way down these dusty old roads with a few surfboards in tow and I suddenly realize that my childhood was not lost. It wasn’t lost to the heavy machinery that is tearing down the rugged three-story building to my right. I didn’t lose my youth when Ali somberly crawled out of the coat closet towards her solo future. I don’t have my entire collection of childhood memories tucked away in a locket that resides in dusty old shoebox at the rear of my closet in a corner that has been forever forgotten about. My personality was shaped right here in this empty neighborhood. I made countless friends and learned the value of true connection. Being a military child taught me to open my heart to challenge and accept changes as welcomed and encouraged adventures.
Looking in my rearview mirror, I leave my old stomping ground and take a deep breath inwards encouraging the scent of hibiscus flowers mixed with seawater to fill my nose and expand my lungs outwards until they feel as though they may burst open. This place is not sad or empty. Sure, the children are tucked inside the walls of their homes in a way I never had to experience, but this place is being reborn. It is resurrecting itself for a whole new generation to venture in and explore it. These new residents will climb the same old trees that I climbed; they will feel a sense of accomplishment mixed with terror as they slide out on to the highest limb that will hold their weight without wobbling in a deep up and downwards sway. I remember those feelings vividly. These kids will do great here. These kids will learn their own lessons they way I did and no matter what those lessons are or where they end up, they will only have to reach into their own hearts to find their childhood. Memories and lessons learned are never unavailable; no scissor is sharp enough to cut through the fabric of ones existence and history. This noisy, dusty construction is rebirth. Rebirth doesn’t take from anyone, it merely lends to the future. The fear and sadness has gone; this, my friends, is progress.
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