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Day 20: Ocean Adventure

4/25/2015

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We were enjoying the midday sun from our family friends’ catamaran. The boat had stopped off the shore of Lanai so people could snorkel. My best friend, her sister, and I ventured through the clear water to the side of the boat, where we could swim above schools of neon fish.

Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain on my arm. My mind instantaneously envisioned scenes from the film Jaws. I had once glanced at the TV while the movie was on, and seen just a flash of the massive shark lunging at a swimmer. I ran from the room, but the image was seared into my memory. Now, with a terrible pain engulfing my arm, I was certain I was going to die a terrible shark attack death. Maybe a film would get made about it. As I contemplated my inevitable rise to post-mortem cinematic fame, I heard a scream erupt from my friend’s sister ten feet away from me. Her panic opened the door for my own, and I started screaming with her.

Some of the adults jumped in the water to rescue us, and quickly hauled us onto the boat. In my screaming and tears, I finally glanced at my arm. It was intact, with no blood or missing appendages. My friend's sister wasn't bleeding either. 

It turns out that there was no shark attack. There were, however, several Portuguese man-of-war patrolling the seas that day, deeming my arm (and my friend's sister's arms as well) worthy of its venomous tentacles. Meat tenderizer is apparently a great remedy for Portuguese man-of-war stings, and our recovery was swift. 

While I was relieved to escape that day with all my limbs, I’ll admit I felt a trace of disappointment at missing my chance at infamy via shark attack. Being stung by a Portuguese man-of-war doesn’t make compelling film fodder.
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Day 19: The Alibi

4/24/2015

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I knew better than to draw on walls. I was, after all, 6. Nonetheless, I held a felt-tipped pen in my hand like a dagger, and slowly dragged it along the wall of our hallway. It felt satisfying to watch the curves of the ink emerge as the pen kissed the white surface. After I had completed my artwork, there were designs lining the entirety of the wall.

A few hours later, when the expected shout from my mother sounded, I was prepared with my alibi. “I’ve been in my room. Adrian must have done it.” My brother, who was 3, was my perfect scapegoat. My parents turned their questioning to him. Satisfied that I had dodged the blame, I skipped off.

I was playing in the garage when my parents approached me. “Adrian is crying, and keeps saying he didn’t draw on the walls.”

“It wasn’t me,” I stuck to my story.

They looked at me with hard, set eyes. I wavered. Had they seen through my airtight explanation? I realized that lying would be more exhausting than it was worth. I wanted to move on and do other things, such as go to the bakery for doughnuts like Mom had promised.

“Yeah, I did it.”

After a full confession, Mom and Dad launched into a tirade. Firstly, I should have known better than to draw on the walls. Secondly, lying about it was unacceptable. Thirdly, blaming it on my brother was really unacceptable.

The punishment to fit the deed: timeout in my room for an hour. And no going with Mom to get doughnuts.

I expected the timeout. But no doughnuts? That one really hurt. I screamed, I pleaded, I cried from within my bedroom. But to no avail. My mom and brother drove away, leaving me in my regret.

When they returned, there was a quiet knock on my door. It was Adrian, holding out a napkin cradling a doughnut. A peace offering and extension of his forgiveness. 


That wasn’t the only time I lied to my parents. But that was the last time I ever wrongly blamed my brother.   
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Day 18: Fragmented

4/23/2015

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I changed so many things about myself to keep him. I pretended to agree with his worldview. I disregarded friends. I let his image of me become my identity. 

And when we finally (and predictably) ended, I had to endure an excruciating process of picking up the pieces and reassembling myself. 
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Day 17: The Santa Lie

4/22/2015

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For my first years of life, I readily embraced Santa as real and true. Why wouldn’t I? An extra Christmas present made by elves? I’ll take it!

When I was about seven, I started to wonder about all this Santa business. “Is Santa real?” I asked my parents, not quite sure I wanted to know the real answer. “Of course he is,” was their response. I supposed they were trying to keep the magic alive for me, at least for a little while longer.

The following Christmas, I again asked if Santa was real. My parents told me the truth. And even though I had had my doubts, I was still shocked and dismayed. Sure, I was sad that the magic of Santa was actually a facade. But what most disillusioned me was the realization that adults (my own parents!) could lie to kids.

Taking on the role as whistleblower, I spread the truth to my younger siblings and cousins. “We’ve all been lied to!” I declared, to their wide-eyed horror. After I explained everything, several of my cousins were in tears.

Later that night, my mom got a phone call from my aunt. My aunt was not particularly pleased that I had ruined Santa for my cousins. Despite being reprimanded by my mother, I felt justified in knowing that I had freed others from the deception.

Now, as a mother of three young kids, the matter of Santa is again at hand. Do we foster the Santa story, or will we let our kids onto the truth? Is life even that binary? Or maybe there’s a place for Christmas magic and pretend and myth. The answer doesn’t come quite so easily to me these days.
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Day 16: Drama Queen

4/21/2015

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I practically came across theatre by accident. 

Mrs. J, my high school English teacher, was also head of the drama department. She offered us extra-credit if we auditioned for the upcoming drama production. I figured I could use the extra boost for my English grade, so I seized the opportunity. 

For the audition, we were asked to read through several monologues and scripts. When I stepped on the stage, something happened - I was transformed and transported. With a toss of my hair and an expanding of my imagination, there was an opening into a whole new world. I was Helen of Troy, I was a 20-something in a cafe, I was Anne Sullivan. I was immediately addicted.  
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