We all have memories of childhood, some more than others. Not all these memories are happy, and fewer still are memories that actually happened. I find that many times I’ll concoct some story that occurred when I was a child, which stems from memories being misplaced and jumbled together to form one complete, false memory. My false memories tend to paint me as a wonderful, hard-working student. A tomboy who had more guy friends than girls, because girls were too complicated, and who was always polite to everyone she met. However, upon spending more time contemplating my childhood, I’ve come to realize that I was probably a huge, little dick.
I’m sure I’m not the only one who has this issue. Even those of us who are seemingly obvious about ourselves and how awful we were growing up tend to highly over-exaggerate actual events so we sound “more badass” than we really were. Sure, you probably got in trouble for stealing some candy one time, or trading your teacher’s mug of coffee for beer, but it’s highly unlikely that you went to juvie for a whole year, while learning how to make a shiv, and you probably had As and Bs in school—just saying. Not saying that didn’t actually happen to some of you, but we all know that most of these stories are very embellished and sprinkled with many white lies.
So, I went through some examples through the deep recesses of my mind of times when I was a complete dick, versus the stories my family or I have portrayed of me as a fairly wonderful, easy-to-raise child.
We used to take yearly trips to Orcas Island for Christmas because my dad didn’t want to spend time with our extended family, and while waiting to be checked into our cabin, I saw a woman sitting on a bench, minding her own business, reading a book. I stared at her, and she smiled politely at me. I stuck my tongue out at her and scowled, and I watched her mouth fall agape as she gasped. I turned around like nothing happened, and we left without anyone but that woman being the wiser. I was about 6.
I used to tell my brother to "Look!" as he would turn to me and see a garter snake in my hand. He was like Indiana Jones back then, with a fear of snakes. I did the same thing with jellyfish, telling him it was alive and going to shock him as I pretended to kick a dead mound of goo at him. I was probably about 9, and my brother was roughly 8.
One time, I forged my mom’s signature on a detention slip so she wouldn’t know I had detention, but I got caught by the teacher and then lied about it. My "signature" was not great and pretty much just piss-poor cursive. I think I asked my mom to "write down your name for me so I can make you a card," so that I could see how she wrote her R’s. Anyways, I was caught. I was about 11.
While working at a grocery store, I was frequently asked to stop dyeing my hair different colors, or they’d have to fire me. I told them to fire me then, but they didn’t. I kept my hair. I was 16. I also went to buy a label maker at Bi-Mart and put "#1 Courtesy Clerk" on my name badge.
I’ve hot-handed many pieces of makeup from stores because makeup is stupid expensive for no good reason. Still, I was most proud of making entire bottles of Red Robin seasoning disappear from two tables while eating, and then reappear as my mom’s birthday present (she loved that stuff). I was a great daughter, see?
I used to be really tall in high school, so in sports, I was always paired with a hefty gal, twice my weight. I used to purposely elbow them in the side because I was pissed I had to guard them in the first place. It was like having a string bean with boobs guarding an ork. I quit playing when I started getting caught. It’s called defense and offense for a reason, coaches. Don’t hate the player, hate the game.
I would hang up on friends who would call me on our land line, and the conversation lasted longer than 3 minutes. They’d still be talking for probably a good 10 minutes, then call back pissed, wondering when I left off. "Oh…what was the last sentence you said? Probably there." I don’t know how I still have some of these friends or why they liked me. I wasn’t a great conversationalist as a child.
I tried sneaking out of my bedroom window by cutting the screen with a really dull pair of scissors. It didn’t work out, and I didn’t think about the 6-foot drop and how I would get back inside. The cut was noticed by my mom the next morning, and I tried blaming it on bears. We didn’t have bears.
I had a friend who was terrified of clowns. So, of course, I used my clown mask from the 1960s to jump out of a hallway and scare them to the point of tears and peeing. Again, I’m not clear how I kept friends back then.
On the subject of making friends, in order to be my friend, I required them to sit through the movie Kung Pow! Enter the Fist and enjoy it. If they didn’t enjoy it, then they weren’t my people. I’d usually make some excuse about why the sleepover should probably end, and was about as tactful as someone trying to end a terrible first date, "Welp…uh, it’s been cool, but I’m actually feeling pretty tired, and I left my goldfish in my room. I don’t wanna put you out. But I’ll let you know if we should hang out again." Queen Hannah, sitting on her ivory tower filled with caramel corn and terrible comedy DVDs, handing out "thanks for the memory" cards to all the little people.
My brother used to have a Stretch Armstrong toy, which I bit into because I wanted to see what it was filled with. Apparently, a bunch of silicone beads and some oily substance, which will leak all over the place and stain the carpet. When asked how this happened, I kept my mouth shut. “It wasn’t my toy. That was definitely not me.” There were many times in life where I learned to just keep my mouth shut about something I knew I would get in trouble for, if I fessed up and was "a good, honest person." Yeah, right, I was smarter than that. I know how to stay out of jail, whether that "jail" was juvie or being grounded. My parents had a hard time trying to punish me for things because I never fessed up to a crime, which is why I am still considered "The Golden Child." And it’s gonna stay that way, since neither of my parents reads this magazine.
Hannah One Cup is currently sitting at home with her dogs, listening to Ambient Swim on the TV, ignoring texts that she will probably make excuses for much later on, and only really regrets sticking her tongue out at that lady. It really keeps her up at night. You can email her at hannahbird6@gmail.com—or not. You probably won’t. But if you do, she says she’ll probably respond, eventually. Maybe.
