The Wings I Once Had

The Wings I Once Had

My life has never felt that simple, being able to lay all the moments out on the table as I, the server, unveil it to the hungry eyes wanting to taste something fresh and unconventional. I see people online making videos or writing novels about a single moment in their life and stretching it until they’ve crafted a story that leaves viewers licking their plate for more. Sometimes I try to believe that my life is interesting enough to grasp the attention of a reader or a viewer, but the acceptance that this ability is accompanied with the inherent spiral into the unexplored aspects of my identity is something I’m hesitant to approach. My instance must be as humorous as the day James Thurber’s family panicked when they believed that the bed in the attic fell atop his father as he slept there. Such a chaotic scene from My Life and Hard Times can never occur in my household, as it is just me and my parents on modern, sturdy beds from which we never fall. 

I’ve considered alternative ways to express these ideas, like with a paint and a pallet. But how else am I supposed to translate these lingering thoughts from colors to precise meaning? The words that are spoken in my head, the reflections of the passing moment, and the fear of the minutes that follow. It’s the substance that keeps me sane in a world full of change and cannot bear to sit still any longer without being directly digested by another. My perspective is the only one I know and the only memories I can feel with scrupulous certainty. Therefore, the only way for one to understand why my current moment exists is to recount the ones that only I can retell with my eyes closed. I must face the battle of putting these images into words as accurately as possible. Maybe then, you can feel the way I did at that moment.

Now, I have to step into the shoes of a chef whose hat can barely fit their head, feeding their guests with life soaked in vividness and warm reminiscence. If those shoes fit, I’ll attempt to walk in them for the next few pages without tripping over. 

I: Senses

    The mirror has its way of keeping things from me. Every morning it has seen me brush my teeth, comb my hair, test the limits of flexibility within my mouth and eyes. I believe it keeps these moments embedded in its memory, cataloguing every new interaction and word I’ve said to it since I was 8. It is the only thing that has constantly seen me change in ways none of my family or friends could catch. Knowing this secret, I wish it could show me what it used to reflect: the teeth, the hair, the eyes and mouth that used to be in front of it. I could then see how I saw myself back then, and maybe grasp the good parts and fuse it with the perception of who I am now. Maybe then will I see myself as an infinite, ever-changing lifeform rather than a static personality.

    Nevertheless, the way I saw the world back then is far from a mystery, as I can find a way to dig my hand through the depths of the cob webbed sections of my memories if I so desire. Sometimes my hand can’t reach far enough, so grasping what I can is key in critical moments like these, leaving the unreachable images at the bottom as it disintegrates. Some memories come with a spike or a divot that makes it easier for my hand to feel for and hold onto, and is attributed to its defining emotions, or in this case, my senses. According to UCL News, it is proven that “children are able to keep information from their senses separate and may therefore perceive the visual world differently”, and a single smell or a combination of colors can easily trigger that sense of awe that I once felt when I was little, even if they are seemingly unremarkable (UCL). Despite this, they are remarkable in the context of life being easier, simple, and exciting through the eyes of a child. The eyes I used to own.

    If I could recall the world through those eyes in question, I’d vividly remember the Sun. I’ve heard that there is a phenomenon that explains why kids see colors brighter than adults and it’s because “bright colors stimulate their visual sense, capturing their attention and engaging their young minds” (Davis). It hurts to think that I will never be able to see colors and experience excitement the way I used to, which is why I rely on the small remnants of my ever-fading memory of the Sun in our old apartment. Almost every memory had golden streams of light pouring through our single window in the living room where I tried to catch it. Yes, I tried to catch the Sun. My mom would watch me dance around the slit of light, reaching out with my two hands and clapping to catch the tiny speckles of luminance. Education, consciousness, and life have taught me that what I was catching was never the sunlight, but the many visible dust particles that would disperse every time I clasped my hands together to hold them. After days and days of attempts, I realized it was impossible. I gave up, oblivious to the fact that the Sun was so criminally far from my tiny hands to ever have a chance to finally be in them. Now as I write, that same gleam of gold spills onto my desk next to me, and I realize how dusty my room is.

    In spite of this heavy feeling in my chest, the closest thing I have to being transported back in time by simply standing in it, is a specific time of day popularly known as “Golden Hour”. It is a sliver of the day in which I can feel the world around me as opposed to seeing it. All my memories glare with this shine, all smudging together the times when I was back in our old 2001 Nissan Altima driving to Ricochet swim school over the railway tracks, listening to “Wildest Dreams” by Taylor Swift on the radio. But no one else talks about when it was all together in that instance of time. The music, the view, and the scent. Especially, no one ever talks about the scent.

    Every time my parents and I went out, my mom made sure to pack a snack for me, specifically chips, since they were my favorite. And of course, a girl could never indulge without a dollop of sanitizer to go with it. Because of this, the intertwined scent of salty Lays Original potato chips and the scent piercing rubbing alcohol that followed is one of the most nostalgic senses one can experience. This, along with the stinging around my occasionally ripped nail beds due to the salt and sanitizer tops it all off. The sensation swirled with the smell of my car, which had a scent of hot, sun-beaten cloth and a dash of dust. It is only now that I have come to realize that recalling scents is very different from recalling a memory. It is not something one can visualize, but it is an atmosphere that the nose builds and connects to the mind. The only way one can describe it is by comparing it to other smells, almost like describing colors to the blind. I think the best way of describing such sensations as accurately as possible is by explaining the emotions associated with it, since that is the only measure that all humans relate to on such a definitive level. While I try to convey the idea, words and descriptions only peel off the page if feelings are understood first.

    This same concept goes for food and how one tastes it. When I was younger, I had this guilty pleasure that many people may relate to. Every now and then, I would take a scoop of nutella and eat it plain. No bread, no dessert, but just the singular spoonful. Plus, I couldn’t eat with just any spoon. It was a very specific spoon that had a thick, forest green handle with 3 white dots that secured it. I swore the chocolate tasted richer whenever I used that spoon, so it became a habit. Ever since then, we haven’t stocked our shelves with nutella, but everytime I taste it I get attacked by an instinct to maintain secrecy. I start to see the old white tiles on the floor of our kitchen and the high counter which I used to reach for. Every time I eat it, I always wonder where that green spoon went. I would give anything to feel the satisfaction that came with eating chocolate with that magical utensil. Honestly, I would give anything to feel things as strongly. Of course, I feel emotions strongly as a growing teenager, but most of the time it is chained to loads of heavy stress or anxiety. I want the carefree excitement and the ability to be intrigued by the norms. But until these chains fade, I will keep reaching for the spikes and divots of the sensations that once defined my world.

    

II: Media

    Every waking moment feels like a race. I only began to notice it once I hit high school. The acceleration started to kick in faster and faster till one quick trip for a snack downstairs or one call with my friends made the clock skip numbers. I look away for one second and it’s already time for bed. People say “time flies when you’re having fun”, but I honestly believe that time flies regardless of the level of enjoyment. If anything, it flies when I’m stressed, placing me in a loop where cortisol spikes higher the faster time ticks by. According to Psychology Today, it was scientifically proven that children experience life slower than adults because “as we get older, we have progressively fewer new experiences… we grow progressively desensitized to our surroundings” (Taylor). It’s true. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a sunset and shrugged it off after a quick pic. Those moments for me years ago felt like they lasted for ages in my memory. My legs are getting tired from chasing the days away. If there was a way to break open my old purple Dora chair that I used to sit on when I was younger, I would finally be able to feel the minutes waiting for my cue. I could tell them when I’m ready to move on to the next, and take control of my life’s speed once again.

    But since I am past that point, I can only reflect on the relics that keep me connected back to when times were slower. The movies, the tv shows, the music, and just the life of 2000-2010s technology. It may seem fairly modern depending on who is reading, but to me, this was my version of 80s retro. It hurts to know that no matter what generation one is born in, they always wish they could go back to when they were younger. It’s the tragedy of the human cycle, that happiness is always conditional. I know that I will feel the same way in the future looking back at this moment where I was 17, writing an essay. “Oh how I wish I could go back” I’d say then, while I’m sitting here wishing to be in college. Wishing to have a job and the freedom to choose what I want to do. Anywhere other than here. We are jealous of each other, but the girl we once were never even thought about anything else but her movies and her music.

    My dad told me, “When you were inside Amma’s [Mom’s] tummy, I used to play songs for you. Your little sharp elbow would stick out every time and I would feel it. You were dancing inside”. He wasn’t wrong. The second I came out of the womb, the sound of music would inherently compel me to jump and spin. It was almost as if I trained. Practiced. Music has always been in my life. On the radio, on those 2010 Vevo music videos on Youtube, and in the car. It’s never been silent. People would always ask “do you wish you had a sibling?” and I’ve never really had an answer. Obviously I replied “yes”, because how sad would it be to say that I wouldn’t want the company of another kid from the same lineage. And I did. But I never classified it as a “wish”. It has always just been an unachievable alternate universe. I was content with my life and I never felt truly alone. I guess that’s because music and media filled the empty space. One cannot feel the absence of a non-existent person when one has never felt the presence of silence. I thank my dad for that.

    Because of him, the radio was constantly playing whenever we went somewhere as a family. I became versed in pop culture at a very young age, following the top artists and hit songs that were inescapable at the time. One song I distinctly remember listening to was “Stressed Out” by Twenty One Pilots. I never fully took in the lyrics and their meaning because they didn’t make sense to me. “Wish we could turn back time to the good old days, when our mama sang us to sleep, but now we’re stressed out”. It may have been the fact that I was terrible at understanding lyrics and pronunciation when I was six, or it was just because I couldn’t feel his perspective. I was oblivious to the fact that I was living the good old days. My mom was singing me to sleep. When I listen to that song now, I realize how ironic it was that that song, being centered around growing older, brings me nostalgia to when I was younger listening to that song to begin with. I finally understood the true meaning of the song after experiencing the stress that they talk about. That realization was a gut punch.

    But aside from this song in particular, there is a collection of songs that are able to transport me back in time. I believe that music is the closest thing that the human species has gotten to creating time travel through this capsule of sound. The world around us is constantly changing. Places and people will never be the same after ten or twenty years, but the notes of songs will forever be burned into my brain in the order it always was. Those exact frequencies of sound waves may possibly be the only thing that me and my younger self experience the same way, and it is very well the only thing we now have in common. Music also possesses adhesive qualities. Some memories are glued to very specific songs. I remember in our old apartment, I used to love playing Just Dance on our TV through YouTube. My parents loved watching me dance and seeing how winded I would get after putting my heart into every move. There were always specific dances that I would do fairly often, such as “Love You Like a Love Song” by Selena Gomez or “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen. These songs remind me of those times as the moves come back to me. There is one specific dance that I would jump at the sight at, which was “Part Of Me” by Katy Perry from Just Dance 4 in 2012. Before doing this dance, my mom would put my hair in a high ponytail to match the girl in the dance, who had a bright blue ponytail that swayed when she jumped. Then, I would whip my hair around and mimic the girl, hitting every beat with aggression that shook the building. By the end, my thick hair drooped over my face, the ponytail now loose and completely down to the bottom of my head as I panted with a smile. I’ve never felt more free after dancing to that song. It always got my energy out in such a satisfying way. Now the best I can do is rip a paper in half and throw it across the room when I have pent up stress or energy. Again, I don’t have the time to put on a Just Dance alone just because I feel like it. My now thin hair hurts if I ever put it in a high ponytail. Jumping would shake the building harder than before. So instead, I just sit and remember.

    When I wasn’t jumping around and dancing when I was younger, movies helped me pass the time. The DVD player became my second home, and the whirring sound of the CD being pulled inside was putting in the key to another dimension. I used to sit directly in front of the TV, some might say too close. But that was my most immersive technique to feel like I was one of the characters. That purple Dora The Explorer chair reclined back and I cuddled one of my stuffed animals while I watched. Alvin and the Chipmunks, Horton Hears a Who, Over the Hedge, Surfs Up, Rio, Planet 51, and Madagascar, just to name a few. These movies, the stories and their characters all became my escape. It was an escape from boredom, and the silence that lingered with it. A scratched CD was just as much of a problem for me back then as a failed test is to me right now. The movie would glitch and stutter and the frustration bled to the present when seeing anything but perfection in my attempts to do well in school. Both kill me the same way, just at different ages.

    Although the stress translates to different circumstances as time pushes me forward, the thing that has kept me sane throughout my years of growing up has always been YouTube. Even now, watching YouTube while eating dinner is part of my daily-unwind routine. I believe I was lucky enough as a kid to experience communal culture, like pop music, radio, camcorders, and CD stored movies while also living in the modern age where new technology and social media began to become mainstream. It was like I had two sides to my tech use, one being the remnants of the early 2000s, and the other being the rise of the 2010s. YouTube, or the modern side, however, was arguably the source of personal exploration that offered ways to learn about the world outside of our four walls. I would watch shows like Miraculous Ladybug and toy review channels like Cookie Swirl C, which were typical for girls of that age. Although, this was only possible after I received my gift for my 3rd birthday. When I watched the old camcord  recording again years later, I distinctly remember the red bow and translucent red wrapping paper around the box. It was the most my parents have ever done with gift presentation. I unwrapped it meticulously, making sure I didn’t ruin the hard work that they put into taping it together. The squeaking noise of the paper’s friction lays the floor of that memory. The box had another layer of newspaper underneath. After what seemed like layers and layers of unwrapping, I finally got to the white Apple branded box. It opened to reveal a new iPad 2. My dad placed a blue case onto it. It had a screen cover that separated into three long sections for easy foldable action, so that it doubled as a stand. From then on, my free time revolved around movies, toys, and that bright blue iPad. 

    Aside from YouTube, mobile games were popular as iPhones and other handheld devices became ubiquitous. I would spend hours cuddling on our brown cloth couch to pass my high score on Flappy Bird, or cackling when throwing around Clumsy Ninja. The background hardcore EDM music in Asphalt 8, where I compete in car races, is embedded in my brain folds. Remembering all of this, I’ve attempted to connect to my prior love of games and downloaded new mobile games on my own phone. It was only 5 seconds in where I realized that the simple passion that people had into making these games was replaced with pure, money-hungry capitalism. Ads are now, in the current day, inescapable. So even if I attempt to enjoy what I used to, the world has already grown up, gotten a job, and has a high paying salary for exploiting people like me who refuse to be dragged by the minute hand. It is the cost that comes with desensitization: games are widely produced and seen everywhere, so why not make a quick buck?

    I guess my goal is to find games that are ad-free. To find moments and passionately take in the information. All of it. Live it as if it was my first time, because I know that one day I won’t be able to sit in the same chair I’m in now. I’ll have new friends, a new house, a new life. It is possible that time feels fast because I never stop to listen, to smell, or to feel. Desensitization of the world is honestly the biggest crime a person can commit. The world and its beauty is overshadowed by man-made problems like money, jobs, and grades. I think time rushes me as a punishment for doing so. For not looking around. Regardless, the media that once kept life on tempo is still here. It is still on my computer, our cameras, and the internet. I want to teach myself to really consume it. If I do, maybe time will give me a chance to take a breather.

III: Foreshadows

    The realization of  a “full circle moment” is defined as an instance in time where one believes that they have returned back to their starting point through the lens of experience or higher knowledge. Seeing these prior habits repeat themselves in real time makes me realize that even as we shape into new beings through experiences and influence, the story that was written in the bonds of our cells was made to bring out the qualities we possessed when we were first introduced into this world. Through all this change with the people we meet and the situations we face, the qualities that sustain us are the only continuity that lies within ourselves, not the outside world like with music and movies. As I grow older, I begin to understand the significance of small things that occurred during my childhood. I never knew it at the time, but I slowly see the layers peel and the subtle foreshadowing sewed within the seams of my memories. These instincts for events in the present to connect with the past are nothing but subconscious understandings that arise when it’s needed.

My mom told me a story some time ago. She told me our neighbor “called our phone from downstairs and said, ‘Tani is jumping too much and my head really hurts. Could you ask her to stop?’ You were standing over Nana’s [Dad’s] phone and you looked at us confused. Because of that, we bought our sofas.” I remember that day, and I don’t know if I should’ve felt bad or grateful. We lived in the top apartment above another family which we became close with. Consequently, a hyperactive four year old was probably not a good pair with the thin floor separating my stomps and the heads downstairs. That’s why my parents got our cushioned sofas. They were brown, cloth-stitched, and soft. I could jump on them as much as my heart desired. All the energy stored in my tiny body could dissipate into my attempts to fly, because jumping made me feel bigger than I was. I did it with Just Dance, music, and just because I could. Now, I believe those sofas, the desire to fly, and the need to feel like someone greater than I truly was, is why I fell in love with volleyball. Simply jumping at home “for fun” is inappropriate for the constraints of my age. I had to put a purpose to it. The constant jumping to hit the ball and the desire to reach higher than before, was the only way to obtain a familiar feeling. So now, I try to get as close as I can to the ceiling, and someday, maybe even the sky. But for now, the history of my take-offs are embedded in the creaks of that same worn-down sofa in my loft.

    While volleyball plays a big role in my life, it pales in comparison to the impact that art has had on me and the way I view the world. It has always been there, and I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t something I loved doing. I distinctly remember a shift in my life’s path on the first day I was proud of a drawing. At the end of Kindergarten, we were given a summer assignment packet to complete and return to our new teacher the following year. While I went through the packet, one question asked me to draw my favorite object, with an empty box underneath. That year, I begged my parents to buy me Grace, an American Girl Doll that my family friends had that I wanted too. At that very moment, Grace was my favorite object, so I decided to draw her. I leaned her against the wall and sat down on the floor using her as a reference. I glanced up and down, trying to translate every detail from my eyes to my fingers. I had no idea I would be doing that same motion years later in an Honors Art Portfolio class. Once I was done, I could not look away from what I had made. In my eyes, it looked strikingly similar to the real doll. I was so proud. It had been the first time I’ve ever truly drawn something by myself (without the help of my parents) while putting in full effort. School had me color and trace, but this was astronomically different. I craved that feeling of satisfaction again. The pride was almost addicting for such a young age. But I can assure you, that the addiction still persists, except it takes far more missteps and effort to obtain. Drawing the doll ignited something I didn’t know existed, and may have possibly changed the course of my life into majoring in Media Design. The 5 year old inside will forever want to find her next Grace. 

Inklings of future interests were also accompanied by persistent personality building. Again, while I ate my chips silently in my car seat during our trips to the mall, I remember my parents would always ask me for a chip from the front seats. I would know the second their outstretched arms and cupped hands would appear next to the tiny bright-yellow bag. Whenever this happened, I took the liberty to give them the smallest chip in the bag, digging deep if I needed to. I would place the crumb in the center of their palm and see their reactions. They would crack up every time, and I would giggle back slyly. “You were so selfish when you were little,” my mom started. “You would search and purposefully give us the smallest chip in the bag every single time.” But I would never call it selfish. My four- year-old heart would flutter at the sight of my parents laughing. I believe those small moments of seeing my only people react in such a way to something I did planted a seed of desire that continued to grow as I grew. The desire to make people’s lives something to laugh about and something to smile at. It persists when I talk to my friends, family, and strangers, because humor is something that everyone loves. It may seem “people pleasing” to act this way, but it keeps my puzzle in place when I can even make myself  laugh sometimes. It’s healing, and it gives me purpose outside of my goals. Life is too short to be serious anyways. 

Because of these moments of reflection, I’ve come to a conclusion. Everything that has

happened in my life was for a reason. Of course, at the time of its occurrence, I am oblivious. It is part of the process that I have to keep trust in the Universe's story for me. This belief has given me a sense of peace in a way, especially in a time where college and application season is on the rise. I’m scared that my future won’t be what I want it to be. That I’ll end up hating where I am in a few years. But knowing that these small moments have continued to keep the good in my life has allowed me to treat it as evidence that my life right now will be a learning experience for the future. It is always for something good. It will lead me to be somewhere happy, no matter what happens.

    But the beauty of life is that it is always a mystery of what comes next. Will I get what I want? Will I achieve my dreams? Will I have finally made a fulfilling plate for the people to feel stuffed with? I’ll never know in the present moment, and neither did the girl with my old wings. Since then, my wings have wilted and hung down my back, occasionally lifting at the sight of enjoyment. I will forever reminisce on the days I used to fly and see the world through the colored stained glass. She has landed and learned to thrive in a world that was built to pull them down after years of gravity’s weight. And I will learn to use them when I can. They are not clipped, but the way I see the world now is just part of growing up. Times will change and the world won’t be as bright as it once was, but I can always find the beauty in it if I try. Accepting that, is a step closer to growing into my shoes. Growing into the chef’s hat. The girl I once was and the wings I once had are still here, and they are still, and forever will be, excited for the next song, the next movie, the next jump, and the next journey.