“Red Rover, Red Rover, let Bobby come over!”
I can feel the wind on my face, the gravel at my feet—oh so minutely, but with enough realness to pull me back seven decades, into one of the earliest moments of my becoming.
For some reason I find myself, at age 77, pondering such moments—not simply random memories from childhood but, as I say, moments of my becoming: openings of awareness that were entirely unexpected and utterly personal and thus, oh so quietly secret. This is me?
Everyone matters. And we all have something valuable to contribute to our collective understanding.
I think my sudden fascination with such moments shimmers beyond me. I am continually confronted with the abstract statistics of war dead—in particular, the murder of children, each of whom was in the process of becoming himself or herself until they became the tactical victims of a geopolitical game about which they knew nothing.
“Red Rover, Red Rover... ”
I was in first grade and found myself surrounded by a wondrous, almost perplexing joy. This is really happening to me? I was in the middle of a collective game—fully a part of it—surrounded by other six-year-olds, boys and girls, being called to run back and forth, to break through the “walls” of other kids holding hands. I almost wanted to cry I was so happy. The feeling was inclusion. Had I never experienced it before?
In retrospect, what I know is this: My life’s earlier years were messed up. Only as an adult did I start learning the facts of this narrative, but they amounted to this: After my sister, who was (and is) two years younger than me, was born, my mother had severe post-partem depression, or what was called at the time a nervous breakdown. A beloved older sister had just died, as I understand it, and she wound up being hospitalized, where she received electro-shock therapy, which may well have simply made matters worse. And she had a newborn and a two-year-old (me))!
Her family stepped in to help. Dad was booted out of the apartment and several of her sisters moved in and took care of the newborn as Mom recovered. As for me, I was moved to an aunt and uncle’s house. I was just a little over age 2. I have no memory of any of these specifics. All I have are memories of being slightly older, after Mom recovered and our family had pulled itself back together. What I remember is a relentless fear of abandonment: Mom and Dad go out, we’re left with a babysitter, and I wake up at night crying in terror. Where’s Mommy?
At age five, when I start kindergarten, I also remember screaming and crying, once again fearing abandonment as I’m dropped off at school. Mostly I remember hating kindergarten—and feeling left out, watching other kids play and make stuff while I sat in sulky solitude. I remember pushing a classmate down, giving him a nose bleed, and having to sit in punishment under the teacher’s desk. Ah, kindergarten!
All this is the context for my “Red Rover” moment: a six-year-old suddenly aswim in collective belonging. The significance of the moment, as I think about it so many decades later, feels large, even though it was no more than a passing flicker. I went on with my life. But when I ponder........