When the Kids Used to Play
By Rebecca Saint-Leger
It was '06. It's hurricane season and I am not where I want to be: home.
The power is out, the skies are sullen, and entertainment is lacking. "I want to be at Grandma's house. Grandma has a TV."
Grandma does have a TV. A fat backed one that sits in the corner of her living room, adjacent to the front door; a cause of my internal conflict when it's time to leave but Qubo is getting good.
Our TV is smaller. It's cute, quite quaint. But turning it on channel three leaves me with static pixels of gray, white, and black specs that Grandma was certainly not dealing with. She wouldn't allow it.
I think it's funny when people say you can't love someone you don't know.
Grandma wasn't my grandma. She was just an elderly, Haitian woman that babysat kids, a familiar acquaintance of my mother. The entire neighborhood in fact. Wild enough, Grandma’s name draws blank in my mind despite her impact.
Growing up, I was never told to address adult figures with familial descriptors.
Often, adult figures would be introduced and addressed by their first name. The titles, “Auntie,” and “Uncle,” were treasured only for a select few people that didn’t come from my bloodline. This would only occur on the special occasion that they brought to our home something I should be thankful for. "Thank you, Tati Yvette. The macaroni is really good."
Aside from exceptional moments, family friends were always addressed on the same level. The next time I saw Tati Yvette; she'd just be Yvette. But I knew, even without ever knowing her name, I couldn't speak to Grandma in that fashion.
Grandma was a stern, short, fair-skinned woman that I adored, even revered. I loved that woman. She opened her arms and life to me; I was fed, well rested, and welcomed into her home.
What more could I ask for? There wasn’t anything, since my adoration ran deep alongside fear.
There's something to be said about being in a familiar space with a stranger. I could be a child but, only in certain parameters.
A day at Grandma's house: I would arrive, my mother would speak with her, and leave me to watch the TV. After some time, Grandma would make sure that I'd eat, n to take a nap after her conscious knew my stomach was full.
I rarely remembered not being awake at Grandma's house.
There's so much to explore as a young child in this small efficiency.
Grandma’s bedroom was like her lair, sacred and not in my realm of sight or touch. On top of that, my mind could count the number of times I’ve used her bathroom. But I knew that kitchen and living room area like the back of my hand.
When Grandma went to sleep, it was time to play.
I was always a Ken girl. My older sister, Dorothy, was a Barbie girl, which wasn’t initially realized.
The first trip to Toys “R” Us, Dorothy and I would get matching toys. As a cashier, you'd either think these two are twins or they're close. And there’s potentially nothing more in proximity than Irish twins. A little past 3 years-old, Dorothy made sure that I, far and crawling to my 2nd birthday, was her partner in crime as we bridged a joint balcony, entered a neighbor’s apartment to snack on bologna sandwich slices and ketchup packets.
I was stuck at my sister's hip for a while until my little brother came and he was stuck at mine.
I quickly learned that I didn't like babies following me, copying my every movement and matching my breath. During our next trip for toys, I got my first Ken doll. And as time passed, more dolls were bought, and their names changed.
There was Ken, Brandon, Kevin, another Ken–to replace the first Ken once I broke his legs, having him wrestle with my brothers G.I. Joe– and Troy, my favorite, "Ken", and only black, Ken doll. They were outnumbered by the Barbies at least by double. The main Barbies that were played with most of the time had their Kens.
Except for one named Merliah, the only doll I truly cared to play with. Merliah was a mermaid, Barbie. I cherished her because she was different from the other Barbies; she had a story and distinctively flat feet. Due to this, she couldn’t wear accessorized heels. It bothered me, to see her bare feet touch the floor. Eventually, we remedied this by letting her wear the Ken's shoes.
For most of the time at Grandma's, it was me, my Ken dolls. A universe of commercials playing in the background, that I wasn't ever paying attention to, adding to the essence of the day. Occasionally, I wouldn't be the only kid Grandma was looking after. During one of these occasions, I met a boy my age, Joshua.
Initially, I’ve always been shy but in double measure a bold child. As I got older, I was not the child to initiate any sort of mischievous, go against the grain, stir the pot, kind of plans. I would stick to the script unless there was a way in which I could immediately benefit from or possibly get away with something.
My risk-reward skills were at a ten now but, watching TV, is what really started to come in handy.
On channel 30, my humor, wit and sarcasm grew from House M.D. There wasn’t another show that could describe the truest version of myself. This show continues to be accredited for affecting my personality and providing an unhealthy love of medical dramas.
The night my mother introduced me to the show, House said something that unlocked another video game level in my understanding of the world: "It's a basic truth in the human condition, everybody lies. The only variable is about what. What they're willing to die for is what they're willing to lie for."
At eight years old, my whole life ahead of me. I began to wonder about the lies I couldn't accept from people. All I could think about was my father, who was also a good liar; not in the sense that he’d tell it straight to your face but in the manner in which he withheld the truth.
A motto of his was to not promise things he couldn’t fulfill and that sounded noble until I realized he didn't give out any.
This information took me back to the drawing board.
What would I lie for that I was willing to die for?
To this day I live by this moral:
I don't lie. I'm a pretty candid person. And because of this I will not accept lies from family, friends, colleagues and romantic partners.
There was very little I would lie for.
I'd only lie if it benefited someone else and it’s completely harmless. I’ve narrowed this down to certain pranks and surprises. If you tell me you're planning a prank and need me to help, I'll gauge the risk, see if the person being pranked will be alright, and then agree. If I’m planning a surprise party for you, and after asking you a series of random questions, you start to become suspicious, “when asked what this is all for?”, I’m lying or simply saying nothing.
These morals were identified by a mature, parentified, eight-year-old child. Sitting across from Joshua, enjoying a rerun of WWE's Monday Night RAW, a child was willing to die for the littlest of things.
To make nice, I asked him if he wanted to play wrestling with my Kens. Initially, he looked put off but, after a quick glance, the familiarity of Ken dolls threw his reluctancy away.
As an avid lover of wrestling, I wasn't lost in this game. And because the Ken dolls were mine, this was MY GAME. On Grandma's living room floor, I had home court advantage in our newfound WWE ring. When he did something, I didn't like, I'd step in as referee and remind him what was right and wrong. He tried to check me for stuff, I'd change the rules to work in my favor.
This pissed him off. Throwing the Ken dolls after losing another match, to a three count, he moves back to watch the TV. Still seated on the floor with his side to the sofa, his elbow rested to support the hand that held the frustration in his face.
Lacking engagement, I shifted my eyes between Joshua and the TV. Watching the wrestlers go at it as I built up the nerve to ask, "Do you want to play wrestling?"
And the demons within him influenced a snark on his face, a sense of confidence that IN THIS, he could surely beat me. And I suppose part of his confidence was because he was a boy and in turn a man. And he didn't say this, but I saw it, blatantly written on his forehead.
"Are you sure? I don't want to hit a girl." He chastised.
"I'm fine. Pretend I'm a boy."
With those words, a bell rang, and we reimagined the living room. The front door and wall near the kitchen were opposing ropes and the couches–parallel to each other–were another set of ropes as well.
We had a four-corner ring.
We walked around each other a while before anyone made a move. Noticing that he would never hit me first, I pounced, sneaking under and around him. My hands clutched around his waist to slam him. He wasn't heavy but also wasn't light. My budge lifted him slightly, but his firm grip twisted around and broke free. He danced around me unserious, throwing light jabs. This time I was furious.
It amused him to keep me this way, not considering me as a serious opponent.
I pushed him at his chest. He bumped slightly into the couch, hitting the wall and resulting in a thud that suspended our hearts. Our eyes stared into each other’s souls, reflecting our fears.
“Did Grandma wake up?” Joshua asked.
Continued silence and no movement from the bedroom.
“No.” I said.
“Parley? No, continue.”
This went on for about five minutes or so. He taunted me less and we played a fair game of the program playing on TV. I landed fake hits while he, “sold", my shots. He lunged me towards a wall and I pretended that he had the force to while, running back into his arm to sell his move.
Tit for tat. I make you look good; you make me look good. No one ever really won and every pin for a 1-2-3 count resulted in a "One, Two, KICKOUT."
I knew I wasn't going to win that way and eventually my mom was going to pick me up. Growing tired of lollygagging, I clobbered him with a closed fist at the side of his head, for real. Stunned, he stumbled to the side, holding the side of his head with one hand and closing his mouth with another. He held in a scream that would of kill both of us.
Behind his pain, he smirked. It's game time.
He began to swing wildly. Landing some soft hits, missing others. His targets were varied and not focused. I shuffled and shuffled around him as much as I could, but he landed a big punch that connected to my nose, stifling me.
He dragged me to the floor, and I contested for him to stop because, "I think my nose is bleeding."
The fiend I fought disappeared and there again lied Joshua, hovering nearby, entirely fearful that he hurt me.
"Are you okay? Are you okay? You’re, okay? Are you going to tell Grandma?"
In all honesty, the first stung hurt like hell, for a second, but I played this out on the ground.
"I'm fine. It just hurts, I don't think I can play anymore."
I look at him. He was devastated for two reasons; I was hurt, and he could have gotten in trouble. But we also couldn’t play anymore.
He stayed there waiting for me to shrug it off and say we can still play. The anxieties in his eyes grew.
My eyes no longer looked at them and turned the focus on my nose. The nose that didn't hurt anymore. I held it, rubbed it sideways like all the wrestlers with broken noses do on TV and then looked at him one more time before grabbing his left elbow. I wrapped it beside his head, locking my hands around the nape of his neck in the suffocating manner that was learnt as,
The Anaconda Vice.
And I held it, bending his body toward me. Increasing the pressure, letting go for a second–so he could breathe because I'm not a murderer–before I squeezed my hold again.
As we squirmed around the living room floor in circles, I realized, this is what I'm willing to die for.
For this boy that I would’ve most likely never seen again to tap out and lose!
My eyes closed with a dirty grin on my face. I rejoiced in a child's jubilee as he began to tap out, but I continued because my favorite wrestlers–at least the "villains", soaked in their glory a little.
With no sense of location, I opened my eyes to see our grandma rushing over. Her eyes: red, filled with a mixture of deep sleep and boiling anger.
"Lage l! Kisa ou ap fè la a?"
("Let him go! What are you guys doing?”) Grandma wailed.
Joshua ou pa sipoze frape tifi. Èske li frape ou?"
("Joshua, you're not supposed to hit girls. Did he hit you?”) She continued.
My mind deafened. I saw her yelling, but my heartbeat moved to my ears.
"Èske li frape ou?"
("Did he hit you?") She interrogated for another time.
I knew the answer should be, “No,” because we were both playing. Yet, in the back of my mind, I could only think about how she would view me if I said, "No, we were playing, this is how we play." And in my mind, I factored my risk and reward.
1. I couldn't and really didn't want to be at fault.
2. I would probably never see this boy again.
3. I would have to come back to Grandma’s next week.
I shook my head yes.
(“Retounen frape li." )
"Hit him back."
I looked at him, remorsefully. He wasn't even shocked, just sad and disappointed. He lent out his hand as I tapped it. Not hard enough for it to hurt but firm enough for it to look like it was.
Grandma laid at the couch closest to the TV and Joshua sat on the floor in front of her. She switched the channel from wrestling and after breezing through the programming guide, settled for a local news channel.
I sat on the floor next to the opposing couch, in a shared silence.
Grandma does have a TV. A fat backed one that sits in the corner of her living room, adjacent to the front door. A cause for the splitting of myself when I leave before Joshua, and he thinks he's not worth the truth.
