Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Narrative- My Suppressed Wild Side :: Personal Narrative Writing
Narrative- My Suppressed Wild Side Ten years old: 1975, still in my boy body, my boy mind. Solid and strong with the endurance to play all day moving from the tangled, viney Ã¢â¬Å"jungleÃ¢â¬ on the far side of the pond to the secret play house in the damp dark basement of my best friend DavidÃ¢â¬â¢s house, to the high speed heroics played out on our banana-seated bikes. I was not a boy of course, but wanted to be. I climb trees, even ones sticky with sap. The smell of pine hangs on me as I lie in bed at night. I ride up the hill on Saturday, find David and set to digging a big hole in the dirt. We collect old pans and buckets from his momÃ¢â¬â¢s messy kitchen and create a Ã¢â¬Å"hooey booey stew.Ã¢â¬ We are hobos having our meal by the tracks; we are Davy Crockett or Daniel Boone eating by the fire deep in the wilderness. The meal over, David and I pour our concoctions into the deep hole, add dirt and more water Ã¢â¬â he yells, Ã¢â¬Å"Get the hose!Ã¢â¬ Ã¢â¬â and then rolling up our Ã¢â¬Å"tuff jeans,Ã¢â¬ we stand in the muddy mix of grass and water and dirt, stomping up and down, giggling and falling over. What pleases me is to feel it between my toes and to feel the tightness of mud drying on my shins as we catch our breath lying by the hole Ã¢â¬â sun-baked. Afterwards, bellies to the ground, David and I crawl under the prickly, holly branches to get to our secret fort. It pleases me to taste the salty sweet of blood from a scrape that I refuse to get a band-aid for. Later, I ride my bike home from DavidÃ¢â¬â¢s full speed down the hill, but not fast enough to appease my full bladder. Ã¢â¬Å"Wonder what it would feel like to just pee as I ride my bike?Ã¢â¬ So I pee my pants and the sensation is a wonderful release Ã¢â¬â a naughty rule-breaking. And in the summer I jump with my brothers and sisters off a 25 foot high cliff down into the river where my dad waits for us. OhÃ¢â¬ ¦the force of the cold water on my skin and the strength of my fatherÃ¢â¬â¢s big hand as he guides each of us towards the rock to climb out. Summer nights I lie on the dewy grass, watch for shooting stars and try to the name the constellations as my dad has taught me.