Thinking Outside the Box

My life has always been in boxes. Some of them taped shut as I moved from apartment to apartment while others were open and overflowing as I lived out of them. What are you picturing? The chestnut cardboard foldable ones with package tape painted on the edges, the simple clear storage bins, that despite all of your efforts always seem to acquire dust, the cute plastic bins blushing from all the spilt bronzer or maybe the trapping social constructs that hold too many people hostage? All of these take up too much space, with no place to store them. One easier solution is to unpack them, sort through all of your stuff (the good, the bad, and the ugly), letting them neatly exist, present in your life. But most people do not do that. Most would shove them into the closet or some type of basement and slam the door shut. I fall into the latter, hiding my boxes and allowing them to consume me. For the young 18 years I have just started to live, I am an expert in packing boxes.

From the day I was born, my family was always moving around. In the first four years, I had already moved four times before my mother took me with my elder brothers and left the coffin my father trapped her in. That was the catalyst to a life that never stood still; no address ever given the chance to be permanent. By the time I was 13, that number rose to 11, steadily increasing at what I thought was a healthy rate. Then high school hit, my father’s abuse becoming one too tough to endure. In the span of two months, I had lived in three different houses, the rate was starting to climb, but it was nothing compared to my first year in college. In one academic year, I had lived in eight different places, a rate that I knew was unhealthy. Long story short, all of my moving had made me an expert in packing boxes. The composite of my childhood is composed of only two different boxes and a sack of stuffed animals. A lifetime of memories light enough to be lifted by my inner child. The cookie tin with baby photos, my mom’s wedding album and every sentimental note ever given to me slipped into a sleeve protector. That little girl is stronger than you think. She carries the heaviest of boxes: trauma and tradition.

The loss of my mother created a fear of closeness with adults, always scared they will be taken away or leave me if I’m not good enough. My father and stepmother’s overbearing authoritarian demeanor disposes me to despise any type of authority or rules. My social worker’s ignorance of the power and change my writing could have on this world. And lastly, all the “adults” who confirm my qualms. This little girl is stronger than she and you will ever know. It’s the smallest box of all with the most inside of it. My tenth and twelfth birthdays are the most memorable. The fond warm feelings and smile induced scenes are in one of those ignored boxes, depriving my sensible cold heart. For the story plot, the twelfth birthday tale will have to come first.

My mom’s cancer was terminal, but this fact was packed away, and it was my twelfth birthday, a very big occasion in Jewish culture. She had spent months and funds we didn’t have to give me the best Bat Mitzvah I could have, knowing that this would be the last milestone she wouldn’t miss. The event was amazing, and then two days later was my Gregorian birthday. My mom guaranteed that it would never go unnoticed. With funds sparse from my coming of age commencement, I wasn’t going to get a “real” gift. She wished me the happiest of birthdays and got me what she could. We ended up going to the Famous Footwear and let me pick out a pair of sneakers that I needed. I was young, but understood some of the financial stress she was going through. I selected a black and purple pair that was on sale and featured my mom’s favorite color; hoping this would put a smile on her face. I can still picture the soulful shimmer of her smile, the sparkle in her serene eyes. If you’ve read my other work (which I recommend you do ;) you will know the affinity I have for the sky and this scene is set with a magnificent sky. I remember some tension before we entered the store, probably because of my materialistic immature mindset about getting a mere pair of sneakers for my birthday and the gloomy rain didn’t help uplift or enlighten me. As we walked out of the store, the rain was disappearing, skies clearing as I silently started to understand our circumstances. We drove away from the shopping mall and the most miraculous thing happened. A double rainbow appeared right in front of my gullible sorrowful eyes, the best view to be seen from the dark Chevrolet my mom chauffeured us in. At the moment, I thought it was g-d saying that it was a good day, which is true, but finally seeing the wisdom shoved into the shoebox, I am truly enlightened. It’s not about what people get or do for you, but their intent. A pair of shoes coming from true love will mean more than any iPhone or card lacking this on both sides.

Now that we’ve got a stellar pair of sneakers, the plot can run forward. I officially made it to the double digits, a big milestone that I could hit with two whole hands. Our small nuclear family was in a state of homeostasis, the closest we would ever get to stable. Besides my Bat Mitzvah, this birthday felt the grandest. Being the Rhode Islanders we are, our day started at the Warwick Mall. I felt euphoric, on top of the world for my four foot six stature, eating Pinkberry with their custom candy while window shopping. The experience and feeling prioritized made it so meaningful but my gift was deeper than I could have ever imagined. I opened the smallest box I have ever seen and saw the three words I needed most surrounded by a gold bangle with a star charm: love…beauty…inspiration. It was a much needed reminder of the things I needed to hear most: you are loved, you are beautiful and you are inspiring. I had no idea that I had opened Pandora's box. The star that met the center of my eye was that of Ishtar, the goddess of love and war. This charm was supposed to be my north star, guiding me in my endeavors with a love for all, but that didn’t happen. I let the war out and trapped the love, similar to Pandora letting the evil spirits out and leaving the hope inside.

I didn’t dare open this box for eight years, afraid of the love and hope inside of it. Not of losing it, but feeling it. I had become accustomed to suffering, stress and strain thrusted upon me. Hell, it even became a safe space to occupy. I had been conditioned to survive through trauma that thriving through life seemed impossible. In writing this story, I opened that little box hoping to spark that little bit of love and hope and someday unpack all the sorrow and war. To let it neatly exist and validate its presence in my life. I have packed and stored quite a few boxes in the short life I’ve lived so far, but I learnt that if you don’t unpack some of the boxes and let the stack tower, then they will fall.