All The Kings Horses

It's the late 90's, I'm 3 years old, significantly African looking and living in Holland with the rest of my f.o.b family. I remember being left at my very white, lesbian neighbours house to be babysat while my parents were at work, and my elder sister was at school. We spent our afternoons in her garden planting tomatoes with my miniature spade obviously being of no help at all. I don't have a clear recollection of what she looked like, but I have a foggy still image of a short-haired woman with soft almost unisex features further blurred by the sun behind her head as she gazed down at me seeming larger than life from my one-foot high perspective. I recall looking at her with absolute indifference. There was nothing on my mind at all, just a calm complacency while I took instruction on how to plant those tomatoes. A couple of years later, I found myself playing through those Holland streets on my scooter with my sister as we surfed those brick roads. I often would lose my sister and go on adventures on my own, squeezing in the narrow spaces between houses that only a child could fit as I weaved through the town. I remember being wholly unbothered and blissfully ignorant to any concept of being hurt or abducted or even the fear of being lost. Later that year, during Christmas time, I was introduced to a character by the name of "Zwarte Piet" for the first time. I think our family collectively blocked this memory from our consciousness, but it's possible they just shielded my sisters and me from it. Essentially Zwarte Piet, which literally translates to "Black Pete", was Santas helper. In reality, it was some dude in black face with exaggerated lip make-up and a curly wig who punished bad kids instead of just giving them a lump of coal. Nowadays I wonder what was going through the minds of those over-acting theatre majors and school teachers. I think I vaguely remember seeing the look of disappointment as their eyes locked onto mine while they scanned through the crowd of children landing on the only black face amongst them. Other times they didn't break character at all. Part of me thinks they were ashamed while the other more pessimistic part of me feels like they enjoyed it while being fully aware of the character's history. My favourite memory is a faint one that I cling on to as it slowly disintegrates in arms as the years' pass. It was just a friendship. A Companionship void of insecurities and judgment. No negative past experiences to prevent from reoccurring. Quite frankly I've been chasing that dragon ever since. I forget her name. She was the daughter of a friend of the neighbour who used to babysit me, and we'd often be under her care together. We'd literally play house and throw toys down the stairs just to watch them tumble. We would rarely even speak. Partly because we only knew about 20 words but also because there was no need. We were just enjoying existing with each other. Looking back, we hardly acknowledged each other at all until one of our parents would show up and then we would moan and sob while we were pried apart. I remember nothing else about her. I don't even remember how she looked. In my memory, she is just tv static in the shape of a five-year-old girl playing alongside what I imagine myself looking like as a five-year-old myself. Sometimes I wonder if she existed at all. A year later, we left the Netherlands and moved to Oman. I would experience my sexual awakening here, and my memories become far more vivid.