The Village: Part 1.2

***The village is a collection of memories based on the premise that it takes a village to raise a child. I will be jumping around so if you see an entry that goes from part one to part five, it doesn’t mean you’ve missed anything. I will be getting back to other parts as I go. I just don’t know when inspiration will strike.

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“I think you’re ready,” my dad said. He followed that up by asking, “do you think you want to give it a try?” Months of preparation had led to this moment. We had worked hard together to get there. We were partners in this. In that moment I saw him as my rock and if he felt I was ready, then there was no doubt in my mind that I must’ve been. “Yes, I’m ready,” I answered.

I was four years old at this time. Standing between the burgundy pleather couch and the coffee table. We were about 6 feet from the console television we usually huddled around when Vin Scully told us it was “time for Dodgers’ baseball.” My father was an athlete. He played baseball his entire life and understood the importance of hard work and exercise. Many of my favorite childhood memories took place on or near a baseball diamond.

My dad was the one who often put together city league teams. He was the de facto manager based on his knowledge and experience. No one ever questioned this. He was a leader whether he knew it or not. I saw the respect others had for him and it elevated him to superhero status in my eyes. So if he thought I was ready for me to take this step, then I must’ve been.

At an age when most kids are learning to ride their first bike, I was learning to walk all over again. While young boys and girls were looking forward to making it across their yard with soft grass ready to catch them should they fall, I was looking down at the worn out carpet beneath my bare feet. I looked toward my goal which was my mother’s smiling face. She was standing several feet away on the peeling linoleum floor. I can still the the intersecting gray and tan lines that had served as roads and parking spaces for my Hot Wheels only minutes before.

As my father held on to my hands, I began taking inventory of my readiness. Balance? Check. Desire? Check. Courage? Check. Preparation…. There was so much preparation that there was no way I wasn’t ready. From the moment we got home from the physical therapist’s office after my cast was removed, my dad had a plan. This is where the athlete in him took charge of my routine. We had daily sessions during which he would work on strengthening my legs.

We would usually start with him manually guiding my legs through each exercise. We would go from basic stretches, on to mobility exercises, and finally resistance sets. At first, he had to guide and manipulate my legs the entire time. Gradually we progressed to me doing the exercises little by little. By the time I was standing on the living room carpet ready to take that first step, he was only assisting me with the resistance portion. So was there preparation? Check.

I remember standing there. I wasn’t nervous at all. I was actually excited about this. I was looking forward to finally being able to run and jump with the rest of the kids that gathered outside. I wanted to play baseball more than anything. To put on my Dodgers cap and mimic Steve Garvey and Fernando Valenzuela in front of the T.V. No more standing off to the side, waiting for one of the kids at family gatherings to get tired of running around outside so they’d have time to sit with me. Sure watching them fight over who would pull me around in the Radio Flyer was good for my self-esteem, but it wasn’t the same.

So there I was. Looking at my mom, then back at my dad. I could feel my face flush and burn hot from excitement. I decided I would just go for it. I took my first step like many recent ones, with my dad still holding on to my hands. The second was also taken this way. Suddenly, I felt him let go as I lifted my foot off the ground. I felt free. That must be what a person incarcerated for a long time feels when they earn their freedom. The ability to walk is such a blessing and privilege that we often take for granted.

I’ll never forget how good it felt when my foot touched the carpet. It was almost as if I had been transported outside. It felt the same way it feels when you walk around barefoot on grass. It was such a great feeling to have the carpet wrap itself around my toes, as if to say “don’t worry, I’ve got you.” I lifted my other foot ready for that same feeling when it all went wrong. My knee buckled and everything around me went topsy-turvy. It was the disorienting feeling you get when first looking out from a merry-go-round. I was spinning and the carpet was holding on tight while lunging toward me, as if to say “NOW I’VE GOT YOU!!!”

Everything went dark for a second when I crashed to the floor. Then came the pain. I felt sharp pain shooting through my legs for a split second. Next, the pain began radiating up from my toes and it was joined by what I imagine it would feel like to have ten nine-volt batteries on your tongue at the same time. The electricity coursing through my body was paralyzing. I was stunned. I remember looking back at my dad thinking I had let him down. Instead, I saw a smile on his face.

I hadn’t let him down at all. I lifted my eyes and continued to scan his face until my eyes met his. There was pain in those eyes and I knew he really was my partner in this. He lifted me up, wiped the tears in my eyes and said “did you see that? You took two steps!” “Next time will be better.” I didn’t learn to walk again that day and we didn’t try again for quite a while. I think that moment took a lot out of both of us, but we never gave up on each other.

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***This is a raw project, meaning I will write and won’t be doing a whole lot of editing. With that out there, I hope you overlook any errors in grammar and try to focus on the content instead. Thank you for taking the time to read it.