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Confessions of a Childhood Ninja (915)
I'm currently writing/editing this piece as a personal essay for a class, which was assigned with the objective of allowing students to relate a personal experience to a wide audience. Any critiques or comments are greatly appreciated.
If each child were able to choose his or her profession at four years, seven days; I would have been a ninja. At four years, eight days, I would have retired and became Spiderman. I walked down the stairs of our two-story, suburban house each morning as a different character. Tuesday, it was commonplace to find me in my underwear, claiming that I was a wrestler, only to witness me sliding down the handrail on Wednesday insisting to my family that I was then to be referred to as Robin Hood, defender of justice—and although I did want to defend damsels in distress and foil evil plans, I much more desired a homemade bow and arrows, complete with a quiver made of cardboard from my dad’s work place.
It was the end of December. School had let out for winter break last Friday; my entire family was celebrating the Christmas season; my Uncle Jeff and Aunt Jamie had even flown in from New York for the event. My parents were looking forward to a relaxing vacation from work. They were always so boring.
I looked at myself in the mirror next to my bed and slowly put on my white karate gi, trying all the while to move my eyebrows lower and closer together to work on my fiercest scowl; I would never resort to violence if I could solve a problem with my glare alone and thus practiced the art daily just in case it was ever needed. I picked up my sisters black scarf from the cluttered floor and wrapped it around my head. I created a makeshift knot and let the excess material hang down on my side. I felt like the wind, I was silent, I was a killer, I was ready. What perils would I encounter?
I stepped out from my room cautiously, lest the enemies hear me, and slinked along the papered walls of my upstairs. My headband began to slip over my eyes and I desperately struggled to keep it above my brow, while still continuing my steady breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Think like the breeze, I repeated to myself. I discarded the headband; my mission could not be compromised for anything. I made my way to the top of the staircase and sat on the top step, listening and analyzing. I smelled eggs and bacon—merely a ploy to lure me in. I heard whistling—another clever artifice to confuse me. The attack had to be quick, I thought. I could give them no chance for escape. I closed my eyes and breathed one last breath. I walked quickly down the stairs and turned left into the kitchen. A robot dad was cooking a robot’s breakfast in robot pajamas whistling a robot tune. Haiiiii-ya! I screamed. I kicked and punched furiously at the mechanical body before me, I was teaching him a lesson.
Robot dad let out a nonchalant “huh?” and turned his head. I continued screaming. I hand chopped the bionic tree trunk like the blocks of wood from karate class. I rained down hammer fist strikes on the bolts where his shins met his thighs; I did anything I could to vanquish the opponent and secure safety for my family, who were no doubt tied up in the basement, deprived of food and water. They would welcome me with tears of joy and gratitude; I would help them stand and cut their bonds with only my hand, and our family would walk upstairs to shake presents and to praise how daring and brave my actions had been. I would hush them, to be modest, and say how any of them would have done the same thing in my position. They would cheer and clap; I would take my bow, and then my encore, and then things would be normal until the next crisis arose.
But first I had to knock down this robot. He was just lucky I hadn’t chosen to be King Arthur that day; my wooden sword would have felled him with one blow for certain.
I always felt I played my roles much better than any of my siblings’ feeble attempts, and I never missed an opportunity to take center stage when I walked down the stairs in my attire for the day. My dynamic attitude, my own unique style, and the cleverness I used to project my character bemused my parents, and I would often return from school to find a new disguise laid out on my bed; my parent’s subtle way to get me to wear something cute for the next day. And I played the “young toddler’s” part well. I was a dancing monkey willing to please anyone and everyone because while others delighted in my actions, I was making myself happy too. Nothing else mattered, but the internal happiness that’s instilled in children at birth. My parents never missed an opportunity to comment on how cute I looked on a particular day or how much they delighted in my behavior.
They must have been lying though because on the day after my fifth birthday my favorite outfits were bagged up and shipped to the basement. “You’re a young man now, with no need for such childish things”, they said. My outfits would remain in the depths of the basement clutter until I discovered them twelve years later as I searched desperately for an old paper, for a class that I don’t remember.
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"The barometer is at 29.58 and wandering."
Living with Chris Ted Berrigan
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