Life of a King

I started playing chess at five years old. I never thought much of it, just a game my dad and I did to pass time. It wasn't until I was ten years old when I realized how important chess was and how vital the lessons it could teach were.

My dad was watching a movie, something about an ex-con teaching a group of students in detention how to play chess. I happened to enter my dad's room to grab something I can't recall, but a particular scene was playing. The protagonist was holding up an oversized black king, and said the sentence that changed my perspective of life and chess alike:

"This is your life, one mistake... and it can be taken away."

I didn't watch the rest of the film at the time, but the words of Cuba Gooding Jr.'s character Eugene Brown sent me into what I believe to be my first existential spiral.

Every time I played chess, whether it be against my dad or myself, I kept those words close to my heart. I now know all too well of the phrase that "chess is life", but I spent ages asking the question: if the king is you, who are the other pieces?

For pawns I figured that they must be strangers, people you pass on the street and never think twice about, but no. The pawns are the first to be sacrificed, the most loyal soldiers on the board who would defend you in an instant. The pawns are friends, allies, parents, whoever your support system is, those are your pawns on the board. My pawns were my teachers, I always got along with them better than my peers. The Queen was easy, like the pawns, but so much more vital: the most important person in your life, the person who cares as much about you as you do about them. My queen was my mom, the woman who would stand beside me no matter what. The rooks are your guardians, steadfast and straightforward, they'll do what it takes to sustain you. My grandparents fell into this role, more distant but willing to provide me whatever I needed. I always viewed the knights as those who would jump through hoops to help you, for me it was my swim coach and my fifth grade teacher, who both did what it took to get me to where I needed to be. The bishops were my favourites, to me they represented my dad and my favourite teacher: the mentors, the people who may help in the vaguest way in order to help you reach your own conclusions.

After I had made my connections with every piece on the board, I started to thank them for their help whenever my dad would steal one of them off the board. The look of pride in his eyes never vanished, no matter how repetitive I got.

As I got older, I would always play black. I liked being at even more of a disadvantage, because it seemed to fit where I was socially. As a lesbian in poverty, I've always felt like I've had to rush to catch up, had to be able to shift my goals in an instant in order to thrive in life. To me, the black side represented that fully, always one step behind, often needing to play defense rather than take the offensive, and always trying to reach above the white side to succeed at all. It was also the colour of the king Eugene held up during that scene.

Every since I saw that "Life of a King" scene, far before I knew what the movie was called, I've lived by that phrase. I have cherished my fellow chess pieces, I have forced myself to remember that if they hurt me, they're simply playing their own game and need to do what's in their best interest. Like when I got into an argument with my best friend at the time, and he didn't speak to me for months, I knew he needed to focus on himself and avoid the poison we served each other. Or when the cash in my wallet was stolen, a mistake on my part helped someone sustain themselves for a little longer. With the knowledge that one mistake could take away everything I have, I've gone out of my way to not make mistakes.

My friends fell for the romanticization of self-harm, in my mind I heard the words echo: "One mistake and it can be taken away". They would plead with me to drive them home after we all had been drinking, I pay for a cab because I heard those words. I pushed myself so hard in school that I made myself physically ill, and I slowed down because those words replayed in my head as I laid in the E.R..

But, sadly, I wasn't always careful enough. I was wrestling with my sister when I broke my shoulder, and my swimming career ended with that. But like in chess, I was still standing on the board, one of my pieces had just been taken. I adapted, I changed my strategy, I turned to coaching for the swim club instead. Despite how well I treated my first car, it still broke down, and it took a lot of planning and effort to get a new one, like getting a pawn to the other side of the board. I got in a fight at school and after I managed to walk away, my stomach dropped as I reminded myself of those words, how that could have been the mistake which ended the game.

I was careful with my game, with my life, but others didn't do the same.

My dad made many mistakes in his life, but the one that cost him his life was his choice not to go to a doctor in the decade before he passed. It was a bishop I placed atop his urn.

For my friend who drove her car into the river, it was pushing their support system away and backing herself into a corner.

For my grandmother, she had simply played her game, and when it was only her and last living son on the board, she conceded.

I'm twenty years old, and now I play chess with my mom whenever I can. A tradition that used to belong to me and my dad was passed down to her and I. Every time we play, I make sure to thank every piece she takes. I've tried explaining it to her, but she still doesn't understand why.

Even more recently, I've started teaching my sister how to play chess, and it was when showing her all the pieces that I picked up the black king, looked her in the eye, and finally said those words aloud:

"This is the king," I told her. "It's you, your life. One mistake, and it can be taken away."