But I digress. For
your voyeuristic pleasure, here are some of the most interesting and bizarre
items I uncovered while cleaning my room in preparation for my big move!
Enjoy.
An ashtray made from the hoof of a deer that my
great-grandfather shot and killed. This is, by far,
the most Southern thing I own, and perhaps my most prized possession. A
friend once remarked, "It is really kitsch, but also very classy."
For a team-building activity at the beginning of City Year, they asked us
to present to the entire corps an object that symbolizes who you are. I
presented this masterpiece, because like me, it is Southern and unapologetic.
It is what it is.
A list written in my loopy cursive from the
seventh grade, "Reasons for not getting Braces":
1. My teeth told me they
don't want them.
2. The purple man in the
corner told me I don't need braces.
3. "It's against my
religion." "What religion are you in?" "You don't want
to know!"
4. I might pick up
radio signals and get in trouble for having a radio at school.
5. I'll bite you if you
come anywhere near my mouth!
6. My toothbrush will get
stuck in my braces.
7. If I throw up, it'll get
stuck in my braces.
8. My mom needs braces more
than I do.
9. You're just after my
money, you don't really care how straight my teeth are.
10. Queen Elizabeth I and
George Washington had horrible teeth, and they
turned out just fine!
11. I'm not vain; I like my
teeth.
12. My braces will rust so
I'll need oil to open my mouth.
13. I have bad reflexes; I
might kick you.
This dental impression of my teeth pre-braces,
made sometime in the fall of 2002. PTL (this is an acronym I learned from a coworker
since moving back to the South, meaning "Praise the Lord") my parents
forced me to go through with getting braces in spite of my compelling list.
My calendars from 2001-2008. Yes, I know.
Why on earth would I hang on to these? I asked myself the same
question, my cheeks flushing with shame as I confronted my glaring
shortcomings—my inability to let go of the past, my complete failure to
organize my life in a logical way. That is, until I opened my calendar
and read their contents (another problem I have when cleaning: I spend more
time pondering each item than is reasonable or healthy—I am utterly incapable
of making a rapid decision in what stays and what goes). I had forgotten
how faithfully and painstakingly I recorded moments and events on my
calendar.
On April
12, 2001, for example, I noted that ballet was cancelled, yet I still had a
"Stinkin' math test" that day. I burst into hysterical laughter
when I saw that on May 31, 2001, I had written (and misspelled),
"Deodarant Day" with an extremely cross frowny face. This one
completely baffled me, until I finally remembered that "Deodorant
Day" was my euphemism for the puberty talk we all got in the fifth
grade—girls in one room, boys in another. They handed out deodorant and
pads at the end. What would fifth-grade Anna make of her college-aged
self teaching middle-school girls about sexual health?
The week
of November 20, 2005, appeared to be a bad week for animals named
"Houdini." I had written in the square for Monday, November 21,
"No Dance, Houdini the Ferret Dies," while Wednesday, November 23 read, "No
Piano, Houdini the Mouse Dies." Houdini the Ferret was the pet of my
beloved ninth grade art teacher, Ms. Smith, whom I idolized. We remained
pen pals for many years after she left my junior high school to follow her
British lover to the ends of the earth (literally, to New Zealand). I had
once pet-sat Houdini the Ferret while Ms. Smith was away--he was old with
matted hair and reminded me of some creature from The Secret of Nimh. I still have no clue who this
"Houdini the Mouse" character was. Deaths of animals named
Houdini and the cancellation of my extracurricular activities—correlation, or causation?! These are the
important questions that gnaw at my conscience and keep me up at
night. ("Gnaw" perhaps being an insensitive choice of words in
the context of our deceased rodent friend. In addition to being hopelessly
disorganized, I am also a monster.)
The calendars
themselves, apart from my scribbles inside of them, brought back lots of
memories. My 2001 calendar (pictured above) contained drawings and
quotations from The Little Prince, in French, English, German,
and Spanish. It was a present from my grandmother Meme, infamous in our
family for her terrible unique gift-giving. (For my eighth birthday, she gave me
a candlestick holder.) Still, this calendar inspired me to read the book,
which became one of my beloved favorites. I had a couple of Emily the Strange calendars from my angsty teenage years, as well as calendars
of fairies, as my best friend and I would spend hours building tiny
fairy houses out of twigs and magnolia leaves in our gardens.
Cards people sent to my mom in the hospital
after I was born. I am not sure how
these wound up in a drawer in my room—presumably Mama put them there after I
moved away to college (as though I need more things stuffed into every imaginable
space in my room!).
The
messages were surprisingly moving. One letter was from a friend of Mama's
who had recently miscarried and who had written to apologize to Mama for
missing my baby shower, explaining that it was too painful for her. The
above card was from Gran Dot and Papa George, my mother's parents who passed
away when I was very young. The inside of the card continues, "...to
a world that's been waiting for you! Congratulations to the happy
parents!", with the handwritten note:
Dear Anna,
We are so pleased
you are here to be with our family. You have many loving arms waiting to
hold you!
Love,
Grandpa + Grandma Akers
As someone who has
struggled with depression, I was deeply touched to read messages from so many
people welcoming me into the world, celebrating my birth and existence. I think that this feeling is ultimately why I hang on to so many seemingly insignificant things--packed with papers and trinkets, my room becomes a treasure box of memories, a kind of map to my existence. At the simple opening of a drawer, I am transported to childhood years; through reading old letters, I hear the voices of loved ones long gone.
Cheers to building more
memories and accumulating more calendars and cards in Chicago!
