I think about my childhood a lot. I had a pretty good childhood, I think. And when I tell people that, they always ask me what I liked about it. It’s hard to say, but there is one story that always comes to mind.
When I was around nine, one of my classmates brought a conch shell to school, and everyone crowded around her, trying to take a turn listening to the ocean inside it.
That day, I decided I wanted my own. Perhaps part of what impelled me was a childish envy, but when you’re a kid, you don’t think about those things. You see another kid with something cool, and you want it yourself. And I wanted a conch shell.
So when our family decided to go on a day trip to the beach, I saw my opportunity. I asked my dad if we’d find conch shells there, and he said we might. To me, that meant we absolutely would, and I was just about boiling over with excitement.
The day was beautiful. Sunny, not too hot, just the right amount of breeze. We were all in a splendid mood, I especially. As we got out of the car and began taking our things out, it seemed certain to me we’d find a conch shell. A huge, beautiful one. Maybe more than one.
I set out looking for one right away. My dad and mom and older sister laid out the picnic blankets and set up a little gazebo while I went out on my own, conch-hunting.
I didn’t find anything for those fifteen minutes, and so I came back and got my dad and dragged him into looking for me. He obliged, then told me we might find some in the sea, and in this way convinced me into swimming with the rest of the family.
We didn’t find any, and after lunch, we didn’t find any either. I was becoming quite anxious and dispirited, but there was still one more spot we hadn’t checked, and it quickly became my final hope.
Over on the far north side of the beach, there were some little crags. They towered no more than three meters high, but to nine-year-old me, they seemed to penetrate the sky itself.
The sun was not quite ready to set yet, but the sky was already beginning to descend into orange and yellow hues. I took my dad by the hand and led him to the cliffs, and we searched until the sun began to dip into the sea, and the clouds were blushing pink.
My dad had to lift me up and carry me away from the beach; I was so desperate to find a conch. I cried the entire way home, but by the time we arrived, I had fallen asleep.
I had all but forgotten about the conch the next day, but the sting was still there, a painful whisper. I think that was the first time I realized my parents weren’t perfect. It was a strange feeling, like the world was no longer the paradise it had been before, though of course, it had never been one in the first place.
Two months later, I got a conch for my birthday, and I was ecstatic, but at school trends had moved on, and when I brought the conch to school, only a couple kids paid any attention. I ended up putting the conch on my windowsill, and it would stay there for a few years until I replaced it with a mini figure of a male idol I liked.
But anyway… I can’t remember why I’m saying all this. Oh, right. I think what I liked most about my childhood was exactly this: I had simple desires. Simple, wholehearted desires. Now that I’ve grown up, I can’t seem to find it in myself to want anything innocently. There’s always something else in my heart, something that complicates things. But when I was a child, and perhaps my parents deliberately brought us up this way, or perhaps it was just a product of the environment, I could chase after things with no other thought. I was my freest when I was a child.
Would I go back? No, I don’t think I would. I’m a big believer in your experiences shaping who you are. But I would like that freedom back. The freedom to desire and to delight in things without worldly cares interfering.
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