Childhood Narrative - The Day I Began to Treasure Water

It seems like I never get a Saturday to myself. The weekend is supposed to be fun, right? Apparently, my parents think that “fun” is a forced family outing to support my ever-favored older sister in all her athletic endeavors. This particular Saturday was no different, except this basketball tournament had to take place in a non-air-conditioned, non-ventilated gymnasium light-years away from where we lived.

“Time to go! Come on, we’re gonna be late! You’re just gonna have to eat your breakfast in the car”—those phrases plagued my childhood, and the weekends did not bring any relief from the rush to get to the next place.

As I sat with my granola bar and chocolate milk in the backseat of that white, rickety Chrysler minivan, I steamed hotter than a teakettle left unattended that yet another Saturday was being stripped from me for Hayley to play basketball.

We sat and watched two games, got a quick lunch break, and then had to sit through two more games.

My eight-year-old self could not handle the utter boredom, hunger, and stir-craziness.

“Dad, can I have $2 to go get a water,” I asked, hoping to kill at least a little bit of time waiting at the concession stand.

He gave me the money and off I went.

The only problem is I really hate water. It’s bland, it’s boring, and it tastes a whole lot like backwash to me.

So I really didn’t drink it, which irritated my dad to no end that I would blow his money on a Dasani with no intention of drinking it.

“Give the rest to Hayley after the game,” he finally ordered me as he watched that I had barely made any progress by halftime of the fourth game of the day.

But I loathed Hayley. She had been ruining my weekends for every Saturday for the past eight years. Why reward her (or thank her) by giving her a cold bottle of water? That would be far too nice of me.

The fourth game finally ended, and we were ready to make the trek back to Atlanta as soon as Hayley’s coach stopped talking and debriefing the game with all his players. While we were waiting, I once again walked out to get a change of scenery.

Like an unexpected treasure, I saw it—the trashcan. I walked on over there and threw out the rest of that Dasani. Sweet revenge; she’ll be thirsty now and at least suffer a little bit like I do for her every weekend.

Coach Jeff finally finished his debriefing, and our family made our way back to the minivan.

“Can we stop for a drink?” Hayley asked, only for my dad to tell her I had a water for her.

“I threw it away,” I declared, a little more proudly than I should have.

And then I saw it, the part of my dad that scared me the most. His neck got red, his voice got deeper, and his voice was a little more emphatic than normal as he asked, “Did you finish it?”

Oh crap. This is not good.

I’m the world’s worst liar, so I knew I was too far into this to get out successfully. I told him the truth--that I threw it away because I didn’t want Hayley to get it.

What followed that confession was what felt like the world’s longest car ride, hardest spanking, and lengthiest spell of shame.

Never again will I throw a water bottle away before it is completely empty.

Why do I write?

For me, writing has always been a way to figure out my thoughts. Much like Joan Didion explains in Why I Write when she says, "Let me tell you one thing about why writers write: had I known the answer to any of these questions I would never had needed to write a novel," most of my writings produce an end result or idea that I was not even close to contemplating.

Especially when it comes to my thoughts on deeper, more meaningful matters, writing is the easiest place for me to start. I like to gather my thoughts on paper, and it is often in that process of gathering that I uncover beliefs and opinions that I did not even recognize within myself. There is something about the way writing allows you to uncover and organize your thoughts that frees me from my own lethargy in discovering what's inside my heart.

So often, my writings are just for myself, to organize my thoughts so I can then verbally articulate if need be to others. But sometimes, my writings are advocating for something I believe in, and those writings I am happy to share with others.

I know many people will find this crazy, but besides being able to process my thoughts, my favorite aspect of writing is the grammar. To me, grammar makes sense, and it adds a finite structure that is not easily found in day-to-day life. And, like Didion says, "All I know about grammar is its infinite power. To shift the structure of a sentence alters the meaning of that sentence, as definitely and inflexibly as the position of a camera alters the meaning of the object photographed." Pristine grammar makes writing an object of its own, standing on the structure and security of rules created years ago, but each aspect of grammar takes on a different meaning as the individual writer chooses.

For me, writing is an outlet, a hobby, and a means to advocate for that which I believe.