It was difficult expressing the memories. The weight of the attached emotions were far too complex and intense for a child to comprehend. The full memories coalesced through the decades, giving context to the anguish, horror, loss and regret. For much of my childhood, they remained obscure, mostly nightmares.
I explore the idea that it is all a survivor’s coping mechanism, a fantasy of past lives. I’d almost be happy to accept that premise. Except this baby had no explanation for visions of clothing, weaponry and other details specific to other time periods. There was no TV or faithful re-enactments outside my crib. These visions sourced in my dreams and day-dreams. Clear memories like snapshots becoming video clips. Always the emotional meanings clear from the beginning. Some scenarios I am still trying to understand.
I couldn’t bear being dismissed, never heard. These seemed very important things, yet the more I sought discussion, the angrier it made adults. No real connection to another human being other than mom’s mercurial love/hate for me made my life only about her validation. To be fair, if your 3 year-old kept talking about details of rape and murder, you’d want to shut them up right away too. So I wrote it all down. I’d kept notebooks of sketches for years. Mostly birds, but other animals, trees, symbols I dreamt of. By the age of 11 I’d filled several, the last few with more text than images.
I’d begun to write down the memories and highly detailed dreams I experienced. It wasn’t for anyone else, just me. It wasn’t even about making it perfect or presentable. I’d never expected anyone else to ever see the books.
In sixth grade we moved to a different school for the year. It was a rougher district, with a far lower standard. I’d come from one of the best public schools in the state, and the new curriculum was mind-numbingly boring to me. It made me a worse student, making dumb mistakes and losing interest altogether in schoolwork.
But there was one ongoing part of the classwork that I enjoyed, besides art. Creative writing and journal-making. I basically re-wrote a lot of things I’d written in my old journals. One lazy week I just turned in an old journal. The teacher was too impressed. It brought too much attention to me. Before this class it never occurred to me to write the dates or identify myself. The first journals were just to get all these unbelievable and un-explainable visions that seemed like memories. This teacher was the first to show me the basics of writing. He was the first one to give me a copy of Elements of Style. Little would he know he was instrumental in the theft of the most valuable items of my childhood. The mystery was Why for the longest time.
I learned in sixth grade to re-frame the events as science fiction. This went over very well. I never had to explain why I saw things or what they meant. I wrote about them in detail. I felt somewhat fraudulent as I wasn’t putting much effort into imagining events. I just cribbed what unfolded in my mind’s eye, changing minute details for the sake of style.
Many of the ‘memories’ were dark, brutal and highly disturbing. Not all. But this was one of the worst. It is also one of the few that don’t appear from any known past. I’d like to think the story I submitted for the contest was a nightmare or an alternative timeline. But now, in these times of Agenda 21 and absolute global madness driven by psychopaths, it very well could have been this place. A time in the not-too-distant future but a billion times less fun than MST3K.
Carnival was a simple short story. It was the memory of being a girl, about the same age, who won a coveted ticket to the carnival. She and all her peers were incredibly excited, because they were told it meant great things, a better place to live. Parents of other kids all insisted they still see their children and they are very happy. But they don’t say it happily. None of the adults are happy about the carnival. It is a trick to cull the population. My teacher made me do several edits, taking out the parts that showed it was the rebellious kids, the poor kids, the children of color and lower academic performance that are chosen. I’m sure that was for the best. But all the same, that’s what the memory showed.
I don’t think I was too aware of the contest. We worked on a lot of my stories in class. I’m sure I knew it had been submitted. But I remember the shock at my name being announced on the school PA. It was called the NH Young Writer’s Award and I was to represent my school. Terrifying.
It was a large gathering of recipients and their families. Tomie DePaola was the speaker and we all went onstage to receive gifts and certificates. Nothing more than a nice morale booster for the kids.
It’s what happened in the following months that’s curious.
About two months later I was called to the school office. The receptionist introduced me to two men in suits. They were from the contest and wanted to speak with me. The receptionist put us in the meeting room in the office and left me alone with them.
“Alexandria! Such an honor to meet you! You are so very talented! Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Modest. She’s modest,” smirked the other guy.
“Listen, we were just amazed with your Carnival story. We heard you might have some other writing?”
“Y-yeah…?”
“We would LOVE to read what you have. Do you think you could send us your other pieces? We think you might be ready for bigger things!”
“Bigger things?”
“Well, you know, like being an author and writing books. Would you like that?”
“I guess.”
“Ok, we’ll give our address to Ms. Mellen out there and she can send it in when you bring it to the office. When do you think you can do that?”
“I dunno. Tomorrow?”
“That is swell! I’m so excited to be able to say I knew you when!”
“When what?”
“She’s so modest!” Said the other guy again.
I was flattered, deeply so. But it didn’t feel right. It felt like the men and boys who are super-fake nice before they hit or touch bad. It’s a dangerous false politeness that terrifies me to this day, makes it hard to tell when people are phony but safe.
This visceral reaction is what no doubt made me not cooperate. People at the school didn’t remind me and after awhile I was satisfied they’d forgotten about me.
Until I got off the bus one day to see them standing in the driveway of our apartment building. Arms crossed. Smoking cigarettes. Suits.
As I walked up the hill to the house, a small woman got out of their car. She had wire rim glasses.
When I got closer I saw she had steel eyes.
The men were creepy. She was dangerous.
I sensed she was there to put me at ease. I guess they didn’t know the worst abusers I’d known were women.
“He-ey Alexandria! Long time no see!”
I gripped my sketchbook and stared at them. They stood between me and my front door. Mom wasn’t going to be home for hours. More predators. What the fuck was with these people?
“Listen, we know it’s weird to stop by unannounced. But we were passing through and thought we could pick some pieces up. We heard you showed your teacher some journals?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, do you think we could look at them? Maybe take them to be copied?”
“And you’ll bring them back?”
“Absolutely! No problem!”
“If you’d be more comfortable I can be the one to walk you inside, since your mom’s not home.” The woman stepped toward me.
“I can go inside myself, thanks. I’ll be right back.” I noticed it was weird she knew my mom wasn’t home but assumed they just knocked with no answer. But why wait outside? I also noticed the door was unlocked. I left after my mom in the morning. I knew I’d locked the door.
Inside I noticed kitchen cupboard doors sightly ajar. But my mildew-stank room in that strange basement apartment clearly had been disturbed. I assumed my mother came home, unexpectedly, from her job almost 3 hours away, fucked shit up and went back to work. Of course later I found this not to be the case.
They’d been in there. Looking for my journals.
They couldn’t find them because I had to hide them very well. Mom was a clean freak, a control freak and a highly distrustful person. She’d long had enough of my stories – those stories. If she saw any evidence I was continuing with these ‘lies’ I’d get hurt. Worse, a journal might get hurt. I knew these were vital to me, I just didn’t understand why. At that point it was therapy, not developing writing skills. Mom was repulsed by my confusion and lack of grace. She was disgusted by all of my metaphysical questions, viciously dismissive of my puzzling experiences.
Once it was legitimized by the validation of things like the young writer award, the story was no longer dangerous. Barely changed from the unspeakable versions in the journals, but suddenly acceptable because others found me acceptable.
The basement apartment had what seemed to be purposeful hiding places. Removable slats in the floor, bricks in the wall or the hidden space in the back of my closet. Mom hadn’t found any of them, I found them only by chance. I kept the journals in a hole under the tiles under my mother’s bed. I’d kicked it askew when we moved in. I later found the one in the closet and used it for the rest of the time we lived there. I left pieces of art and poems in all of the holes when we moved on.
Her bed was on stoppered wheels, on an inclined floor. It was kind of tricky for a girl to maneuver without the bed crashing down into mom’s TV and desk. When I finally got it and stood up from straightening the bed, the woman was standing in the hallway.
“Auggh!” A startled sheep. “I told you I’d be right out!”
“We were concerned. Are you sure you’re alright here alone?”
“I’m fine. When will you bring these back?”
“It’s a bit late right now, and then it’s the weekend. How about we bring them back to you at school next Monday?”
“Ok. I really need them back.”
“Don’t worry about it! We want to show your work to some agents. What would you do if you made so much money you’d never have to live in a place like this again?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean let us take these and we are going to make all your dreams come true!”
“I have really scary dreams and some of them already happened so I don’t want that.”
“Oh my goodness. You are a special one, aren’t you?”
She softly flicked my chin. There was a thin band of a smile and she left.
I was relieved. My anxiety grew over the following weeks as the journals and their kidnappers never reappear. I begin checking in at the front office every morning and every afternoon.
Mrs. Mellen was patient but eventually fed up with my pestering.
“I have a lot of work to do. Would you feel better if you called the Young Writer’s Association?”
“Yes, please. That would be good. Thank You.”
She handed me the number, ushers me to the meeting room where I’d first met them. Shuts the door.
“NH Young Author’s Association?” A cheerful voice answers.
“Hi. Yeah. My name is Alexandria Brink, I won your award at Horne St. School?”
“Congratulations! How may I help you?”
“Yeah. I was wondering when I could get my journals back?”
“Journals?”
“Yes, my writing journals. You guys said you wanted to show them to agents and publishers?”
“Oh. My. Well. We don’t do that, as far as I know.”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t take materials from students. We only take nominations for the awards from teachers.”
“But you came to my school, and my house.”
“I’m sorry, miss, I don’t think that could have been us. Do you remember any names?”
“Can you hold on for a minute?”
“Of course.”
I rushed over to Mrs. Mellen as she’s getting off the phone. “Mrs. Mellen, I’m sorry, I know you said not to bother you but what was the name of those guys who came to see me from the award place?”
“Huh. Let me think. I believe the taller one was named…Ellis, Mr. Ellis. She checks the slip of paper in her desk. “Yes, PO Box 333, Boston. Ellis. I don’t recall the other gentleman’s name.”
I fast-shuffle back to the meeting room.
“Ellis! It’s Mr. Ellis!”
“Ellis? I’m sorry, dear, we don’t have a Mr. Ellis here. Any Ellis.”
I was speechless.
“Can I help you with anything else?”
“Naw, thanks.” I whispered.
Gnostic OOPA 