Made on
Tilda
A pink room inside the dark archive. The childhood source of the law, the tenderness, the rage, and the promise to help.
When I was very little, I loved telling stories under my breath.
I imagined that the little sand people could hear me.
And if I frowned, they would start dancing so I would not cry.
In childhood, a selective mechanism formed in me.
Selective memory of moments.
And selective vision.
It was necessary for survival in the environment where I grew up.
This way, I could forget that my mother beat me and my brother.
And when she came to pick me up from kindergarten, I would run to her as if she were the most beloved mother in the world.
This is one example.
But I think you understand what I mean.
And when I imagined myself, I thought and pictured myself standing at a podium.
That I…
I…
I thought that when I grew up, I would become president.
For as long as I can remember myself as a child, I always wanted to be president.
It seemed to me that adults were so silly.
And I would giggle.
How can they not see that children need the best homes?
The best mothers and fathers?
And I would smile.
It seemed to me that I was so happy because I had figured out the secret.
Back then, I had big Asian eyes.
And a smile showing all my teeth.
Dentists used to laugh that I did not need to open my mouth: when I smiled, all my little teeth were visible.
I suppose that is still true now.
I had long hair.
And I was falling all the time.
For as long as I can remember, I was falling.
And falling.
And falling.
I was constantly falling.
My knees were always scraped.
And my lips were almost always split.
And there I was, spinning and having fun, inventing all kinds of laws that seemed clever to me.
I thought that adults had become so adult that they simply did not remember what it was like to be children.
Well, all right.
I am here, after all.
I will help.
I will be able to guide them.
I will help.
I am a child, after all.
I know exactly what the world of children needs, right?
And so I grew up, rejoicing and thinking about how I could become president.
I imagined that presidents were the most important people.
And I would start jumping with joy, shouting and laughing:
When I grow up, I will become president.
I will write laws.
I will write everything that is needed.
I will help people.
I want so much to help people.
I want to.
I simply want to help them.
Because they need help.
And when I was asked at school what I wanted to become, I would stamp my foot:
And no one laughed.
Everyone knew that my stubbornness and I would make it happen.
It is also worth noting that, even as a very young child, I could make adults fall silent.
I do not remember doing it on purpose.
But when they asked me questions, I answered.
And when I answered, adults would begin to turn pale.
I liked that.
I would smile.
Such things seemed funny to me.
Silly adults.
Such silly adults.
And time went on.
And I began to grow up.
The traumas began to press harder.
My confidence began to fade a little.
And my faith was shaken.
I still wanted to help people.
But it is astonishing what the world does to every pure soul.
Temptations began to press.
A young, inexperienced mind began to be tempted by false,
ridiculous,
cheap,
immature things,
completely knocking Kitten’s focus off course.
Later, first love joined the list.
And scars came with it immediately.
And at nineteen, I found myself not president.
And for some reason, not married.
I had always wanted to get married.
I dreamed that I would meet the love of my life, and we would have many, many children.
I would drag them everywhere with me, and we would have fun.
And I would be president.
I would show them:
This is where we change the world.
See, guys?
And the children would be proud of me.
That was how I saw it.
And let what happened back then remain where it was.
The problem of growing up showed me something I had not expected to see.
It turned out that adults do not simply know.
They guard these secrets.
And if, as a child, this touched everyone around me, then as an adult woman, it began to look inappropriate.
Irritating.
Stupid.
And childish.
What I had been so proud of in childhood now became offensive and humiliating:
And so I, being naive, declare that adults…
Not all of them.
But the adults who stand above adults are very, very adult people.
Usually, they are not young.
These people guard the order of the world exactly as it is.
And I became terribly sad.
That pain,
hatred,
cruelty,
and coldness
are not accidental things.
The world collapsed.
The little girl stopped spinning and dancing.
Now she sees signs.
Warnings.
Do not step into this.
The world is built this way because we want it to be this way.
And I thought about my son.
At kindergarten, he and his friends set a trap for ants.
Such an innocent game.
They lure the ants in and then do not let them out.
Tears started running down my face.
Roman hesitated.
“Sorry, Mom.”
I cried and opened the little gate.
The ants ran outside.
But two of them died because of the stones.
I sat down and cried.
I cried.
And cried.
I felt so sorry for the ants.
Why did those two die?
For fun?
For the amusement of boys.
Immature.
Insensitive.
Silly.
I cried so bitterly.
How cruel the world is.
When I calmed down a little, I wanted to bury the ants.
But somewhere no one would see me.
I do not want people to know that I bury ants.
They will start laughing and twirling a finger by their temple.
Saying I am completely cuckoo.
Women who are supposed to protect me.
To protect my feminine sensitivity.
They will be the first to start laughing.
Pointing their fingers at me.
And openly mocking my attachment.
I walked along the path, trying to step around every plant and little flower.
I had read that plants speak in a language humans cannot hear.
That there are instruments that can measure it.
That prove flowers scream when they see a person with scissors.
My hands began to shake.
I thought about how Roman breaks branches.
How he pulls at plants.
And how he tramples them for his own pleasure.
I sat down and cried.
Roman is still so little.
How am I supposed to explain to him that plants are alive?
That they feel pain?
Roman wants to be a commander.
He wants to become the main commander.
He does not care about plants.
About ants.
Or about other girly things.
Girls are always crying over nothing.
“What?!”
“Son,” I wipe away my tears, “you cannot talk about girls like that.”
And then I remember my boys.
Caleb.
Nate.
Colin.
I imagine that my boys will make the world better for me.
I believe that my boys are fighting the world.
That they move forward, breaking the system.
That they create schools.
Nurseries.
Shelters.
Laws.
Jobs.
Scientific discoveries.
I believe that all my boys bring to life what I pour into them.
That my boys are my pride.
That they become presidents.
That they use their strength.
Their power.
To protect.
To guard.
My boys are my support.
And my pride.
I believe in you so much, boys.
So much.