By: Jane Tabet-Kirkpatrick
The author and the "stars" of "Wildlife Adventure Videos".
My dad turned 60 years old on October 3rd. We drove to an Italian restaurant, ordered way too much bolognese, and sang a (un)traditional birthday song.* My dad, mom, grandma, and I drove the familiar route home. We had taken that route together every Christmas Eve, soccer tournament, band performance, or airport pick-up. Our conversation wandered in a similar fashion–leading us down roads we’ve been on before. We talked about younger days. We talked about how my grandma would babysit on Wednesdays and then drop me off at Catechism, where I would spend the hour arguing with the nuns. I joked about my father and I’s morning rituals when I was too young to dress myself. I talked about watching Arthur, how PBS practically raised me, and the time he unsuccessfully tried to braid my hair because I was supposed to be “twinning” with my best friend that day. Eventually, our voyage down memory lane brought us to an event that, despite its unforgettableness, I often forget.
My memory of the exact details is hazy but supplemented well with my mother’s retelling. I came home at five years old with a note safety pinned onto my shirt collar, demanding I audition for the school talent show.** I didn’t care about what I was going to do: dance, sing, or magic, but it was my mom’s responsibility to figure it out. At the time, the digital music paradigm shift was imminent, but still loading. Our music options were limited to unmarked CDs that my mom’s more technologically savvy friends had burned. Ultimately, young Jane settled for the most obvious choice for a young girl living in land-locked and water-starved New Mexico: The Beach Boys Surfin’ In the USA. We bought a “hula” skirt and a bikini from Walmart. My dad made cardboard surfboard props. I have no memory of the audition, but I remember when they announced over the intercom at morning breakfast that I had made the cut. I rehearsed every single day. My mom brought her high school cheerleading friends to help choreograph. When the show came, all I remember was sitting backstage, my teacher helping me change into the “hula” skirt***, and the blue boombox set to Track 2. I performed and at the end, a sixth grader told my family that they had stayed longer just to see my performance. I had made it big.****
The event, however, exists only in elusive oral form. All video and photographic evidence has been wiped from the family's VCR tapes (a special thank you to my brothers who filmed over my performance while recording their “Wildlife Adventure Videos”). Now, this moment only exists in slightly buzzed reminiscence.
Two weeks after my dad’s birthday, I turned 24 and continued riding my memory wave. I mostly contemplated forgetting. I thought most notably about how disconnected and strayed I felt from my five-year-old self. Every time my mom recants my talent show origin story she mentions how worried she was that I would embarrass myself (a rightful fear to have for your 5- year-old daughter). As I sift through my memories, I can’t seem to find any feelings of fear that I might have had. Fear of failure or embarrassment was far from my mind. It's this realization that makes me envious of this little girl. She was someone who knew what she wanted and just acted upon it. I find my current adult self so far from that mentality.
Throughout my birthday and the subsequent days after–I’ve ruminated about those young moments. When everything was fun and simple like front flipping off the high dive.***** Most significantly, I’ve thought about how much I forgot about myself. When I think of my talent show story, I’m always dumbstruck by my bravery. My confidence in my abilities is a possession of mine that has slipped into disuse. Over the course of growing up, I somehow forgot how I used to be. These qualities have over time become forgotten or even, at their worst, lost.
In my mid-twenties era, I find myself forgetting more often than remembering. I always seemingly forget about my motivation and independence. In my younger years there was a tenacious enthusiasm for life. One that just wanted “to be”. Whatever the price I would pay in fear or embarrassment would be inconsequential.
At my most pessimistic I think the worst part is that I used to be. I used to be brave and confident and I mourn the fact that I can’t even remember when I stopped. I was five and fearless and now I’m twenty-four and just… less. The number one song (played 45 times) on my birthday has a chorus, “I reach for me but I’m not there, it’s so lonely but who cares, it’s fine it’s okay, I’ll die anyway.”****** And I know what you’re thinking, holy shit Jane… a bit depressing for your birthday but it’s my party and I’ll wallow in self-pity if I want to.
At my most hopeful I think about the opportunity to grow up. How brave even the essence of change is. How I can still “be”. Throughout my life, I always believed I covered up my deep insecurities by a force field of false confidence. Now, I rather wonder (or hope) that it’s the other way around–if my self-worth and value are engaged in a desperate attempt to overcome the fraudulent feelings of insecurity.
It is in these moments of remembering that I feel (if even for a brief moment) a sense of ease. It’s a basic practice, the act of reflection, but it is something that I always manage to forget. I have tried to more actively think about the things that I have accomplished that should rightfully allow me to feel good about myself. I’ve searched for recent moments in my life that remind me of myself again. Moments like presenting to hundreds of people at a Fulbright conference, or moving hundreds and thousands of miles away from home, or hitchhiking in Costa Rica, or even teaching archery to eight-year-olds with no previous experience. These are things that I sometimes question if I even did, but have fond memories of.
What I am learning is that not forgetting about yourself takes cognizant effort, one that I haven’t properly taken the time to do.
FOOTNOTES:
*“Go out and have fun/ drink whisky and rum/ get plastered you baaaaaaaaaad boy/ happy birthday to you”–my grandpa Boni’s happy birthday song.
**In some renditions of this telling my mother says she replied, “but Jane, you don’t have any talent.” Which is…fair.
*** It was shredded orange plastic stapled to a waistband.
****Later, at the end of the year Field Day a group of sixth graders helped my team win our tug-o-war tournament because “hey, that’s the girl that did the talent show.”
*****True story, my mom took me to the pool at seven years old and I was immediately provoked by a group of highschoolers to front flip off the twelve foot high dive, which of course I did.
******girl in red. “I’ll die anyway” it’s not nearly as depressing as represented… it’s worse.
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