Little Black Rambo

Our early memories are often defined by a quirky combination of vagueness and distinction. We remember the crux of a context, the emotions that were elicited, but seldom do we recall every specific detail — perhaps because the feelings and the gist is just enough!

I’ve an early memory, one of my earliest, and it happens to be one comprised of shame and embarrassment.

When I look back on my much younger self I see the flowers of my ego blooming rather early; I remember my ego when it was little, and even then it was big.

I was, maybe, five years old. A tiny toddler, sharp for my age and academically able, a genuinely promising mind. The setting was familial but foreign enough for some juvenile fun and legitimate exploration. There were nine folks gathered at my nanny’s house for some celebratory reason, probably Christmas. I, being uninterested in and incapable of engaging in the adult dialogue, dawdled around the house which had enough nooks and crannies for me to explore with my soft, fat, inquisitive mittens.

In one room, sort of a computer room, I found some draws filled with just the kind of baubles and odd bits that might allure a young kid (well, allure him at least a trifle more than the seemingly encrypted confabulations of the adults): some permanent pens, some retro tip-ex, highlighters, a stapler, etc. Then, amongst these items, a penknife with a red colour took my eye.

Aforementioned is how our early memories are hazy and tend to revolve around a theme rather than specific details. They do. So, I can’t comment on exactly what went through my mind other than the desire to make this cool knife my latest acquisition. I took it, sliding it into the front pocket of my little corduroy trousers. It was that easy; I wanted something, so I took it. How turbulent could my little heart become if anyone found out? They wouldn’t, why would they? So I thought.

Laughter and conversation was filling the room, everything was peachy, that is until my suave, bold Step-grandad from New Jersey decided to exploit my size and pick me up to twist and tickle me in jest. All fun and games until that knife slips perfectly out of my pocket and falls on the floor in front of the surrounding family: brothers, sisters, mother, grandmother… And that sonorous, undeniable, American expression of composed dismay shot from my grandfather’s throat. “Uh oh, what have we got here?”

The feelings of shame I sensed much more profoundly than the feeling when I took the knife. Actually, how do I recall them when I totally abandoned them?

I went into shutdown mode. I looked at nobody; instead, planted my face into the sofa and swam in the darkness which was empty and cold but far more appealing than the pairs of eyes that would be judging me if I lifted up. Little did I apprehend that one can’t exactly keep their face squished into a plush couch for especially long. But it was long enough! I remember that desperate, internal clamour for escape, that fear of everything that lurks around me which I am uncommitted to see — afraid to see! Years down the line I still relate with that very same sensation.

This episode represents the ultimate drive to avoid a self-made reality. That’s what shame is, right? To have to look at something related to you, that originated from you, that is a part of you, that you created. God knows it’s one of the toughest things to do in this life: to hold up a display of ugliness truly with wide eyes and an open heart and say: “I manifested this, I am the cause of this, this is a part of me.” I didn’t do it when I stole that knife, and I’m still trying my best to as life moves on, for Time does not pause for the apprehensive.