On Growing Up and Achieving Independence

We all have those times from our childhood that stand out as distinct turning-points, rites of passage, if you will, into the next stage of childhood, middle childhood, pre-teenhood, middle teen-hood, old—well, you get the idea.

When I was 18, and my dad made me drive the whole way to Ohio by myself (ok, so I was following Uncle Matthew's van, but the responsibility of my car was all mine), I left with trepidation, afraid I wouldn't be able to manage the big evil city interstate stuff on my own. I returned completely exhilarated. That was easy! It's just like driving to school every day, except that it takes all day to do it! I came home from that trip and said “I feel so free! I could honestly go anywhere I want to by myself! I'm not afraid to drive anywhere! I can do anything! Life has no limits!” (The overuse of exclamation points here is intentional, and serves to show my general state of excitement and feelings of maturity.) My mom's response was to sigh, in a motherly way, and say “Oh, this is just what I was afraid would happen. I told Daddy you shouldn't do this.”

But really, this whole independence thing was Mom's idea. When I look back over my childhood, most of the memories that stand out as rites of passage, the times when I realized I could really do all this on my own, were Mom's ideas. Like the time when I was four and Irina was two and we were staying in the trailer close to Grandma Yoder's house during a visit. I woke up in the morning, stumbled out to the kitchen, where I found no mother, but only a note instructing me to wake up Irina, eat some cereal, and then go to Grandma's house, where I would find Mommy. I was the Big Girl in Charge. I could eat breakfast by myself. Life held no limits!

After a few more years, when I was 7 or 8 and Michael was 2 years older, Mom again expanded the limits of my world when she first allowed Michael and I to go to town with no adults. Now I know, by this time, you may be thinking Mom to be an irresponsible person, but given the situation, it made perfect sense. She couldn't go to town. She was sick, or pregnant, or both, or had a small baby, or something that prevented her from going to town. We were living in Belize at this time, and “town” was Punta Gorda, about 13 miles down the gravel highway on the morning bus. Practically everyone in the entire district knew us, so it wasn't like she was sending us out among strangers, and since our road was basically the only road out of town, it really didn't matter which bus we rode coming back because they all passed our house anyway. She equipped us with a list, some money and lots of directions and instructions. “Make sure you get on the bus at noon to come home.” “You can buy some panades for lunch.” “Don't miss the bus to come home.” “Stay around the middle of town.” “You need to get on the bus early and wait, to make sure it doesn't leave without you.” “Tell the bus driver you're going to ride back with him so he won't leave without you.” “Make sure you don't miss the bus to come home.” Michael, being the oldest and most mature, put the money in his wallet, while I carried my coxdal—a brightly colored woven Mayan handbag, with my little purse inside, containing my life savings of probably about five Belizean dollars, though I don't remember the exact amount.
As we stood at the end of our lane, watching eagerly down the road for the cloud of dust that heralded the coming of the bus, I tried to look casual, like I did this every day. We hailed the bus, climbed aboard and headed out for a day on our own.

I remember wandering around town that morning, after we had purchased everything on Mom's list, my flip-flops beating out a rhythm on the hot, rough streets, feeling so grown up and independent. I was in town without parents! I could do anything! We had time to kill before the bus left, so we headed to the cobenaros' stands in the middle of town. These peddlers from Guatamala sold nearly anything a 7 year old could desire: combs, little pocket mirrors, hair grease, little tin bowls, brightly colored hair accessories, new slippers, toys. I hardly ever bought anything here, unless I needed a birthday present for a sibling, because that would involve spending my money, which was something I didn't do, because then I wouldn't have it anymore. But that didn't keep me from wandering among the stalls, examining treasures, and trying to think of ways of getting things that involved me still keeping all of my money. This day at the cobenaros, I was drawn to a display of watches. One in particular caught my eye. It was a beautiful gold watch, one that had the little hands on the front that went around instead of a digital display. It had a sparkly face and a narrow gold wristband, and I thought it was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. I asked the cobenaro how much it cost. “Ten dollars,” he said. I knew that just meant the starting price was ten and he would actually sell it for far less if one knew how to bargain well. I did know how to bargain well—I liked to keep my money, as I mentioned before—but I also know that I had no need for such a pretty, extravagant watch, no matter how grown-up I was. (This was also in the days when I thought owning more than one pair of shoes was completely ridiculous. I've matured even more since then, but that's another story.) Michael, however, started bargaining for the watch. This puzzled me greatly, since I didn't know why he would want a beautiful gold watch. Nobody's birthday was coming up. He bargained the guy down to a mere fraction of the originally named price, and then—he purchased the watch. I was an inquisitive, nosy child, so I asked him why he was buying the watch, but he wouldn't tell me. It was nearly noon by then, so we stopped the panade lady on the street and bought several of her delicious fried panades, stuffed with minced fish or refried beans, and holding the newsprint wrapping carefully so the spicy cabbage and habanero pepper topping wouldn't fall onto the street, we made our way to the park, where all the buses were lined up waiting to go home. On the way home, Michael handed me that beautiful watch and said “Here, this is for you.” I was shocked. For me? It wasn't my birthday, or Christmas, or anything else that deserved presents. I was completely speechless, which even at seven, was a remarkable thing for me. That watch was my most treasured possession for years to come, even after the gold wore off, and the hands stopped turning. When I wore it, I felt beautiful, loved, and all grown up. I had gone to town without my parents! Life had no limits!

Too late did my mother realize that allowing me to experience life without limits at four, and at seven, would lead to drives across the country at 18 and moves to the other side of the world a few years later. Mothers, take heed to this tale. Never give your children the opportunity to feel all grown up, or someday they actually will be all grown up, and leave, and go places without you. Only you can prevent forest fires—er, I mean independent children. Go now and do your duty.