Summer Break
A wish for all children suffering war and political upheaval.
Welcome to Love + Travel, a collection of thoughts and adventures for those seeking an audacious life.
Please enjoy my latest piece, a reflection on my time in Alabama, or the entirety of my work, here.
Next week, I’ll introduce something really special for the summer season. For now, I share a wish for all children suffering war and political upheaval.
Today is the first day of summer.
With nature in peak bloom, warm and predictable weather, and a long break for students, 13 weeks of adventure lie ahead.
This time of year has grown to mean many things as I’ve gotten older, but what remains consistent is the seasonal reminder to explore and have fun while doing so. The sentiment was the same when I was a child. Yes, there were days where I joylessly closed the door after telling inquiring friends “I can’t come out”, but more times than not I was outside ready to welcome whatever crossed my path, whether new or routine. I have the eyes now to see this is a privilege not extended to all children.
One of my most cherished memories was one summer when the kids on the block gathered together to have a picnic. We pieced together our money - stray coins, crumpled dollar bills, and whatever remained from those fortunate to receive birthday or holiday cash. We bought all of our favorite things: Chinese take-out, cosmic brownies, bags of Doritos, and pretty much everything sweet and sugar-filled from the corner store. There were syrupy juices whose color was also their flavor, honey buns that grew even stickier in the summer heat, and handfuls of those candy mini burgers. Someone brought out a flat sheet from their momma’s linen closet, and we had a time. I washed down every bite with swigs of my favorite drink at that time, Mystic’s Lotta Coolata, and the stickers from my Spice Girls bubble gum would last much longer than the flavor ever could. I applied each to my bedroom closet door with focus and care.
This stands out for two reasons. It was rare for all of us to be outside at the same time, with a little money, and - since we all know the fickleness of children - all in agreeance of the same activity. Also, I look back now and realize that was the beginning of my love for hosting. Young but keen on the power of a gathering, I was happy to organize our moment of unity on my front lawn and spearhead - demand with the coercion of mild threats – the breakdown and clean-up of our time together. It’s still something I value, the transformation of a space from a blank slate to an inviting surrounding. A seed was planted that day that would mature but wouldn’t come to bear until much later.
As humans, we learn through play and witness the glimmers of possibility within ourselves when exploring our surroundings. This is my hope for the children of the world—for their curiosity to rise alongside the summer sun and for that sun not to set too soon.
I wish for them to feel both the pride of being picked first and the sting of being left out entirely. I hope they play checkers and chess to keep boredom away. And when they grow tired of sitting still, they race to find hiding spots while yelling, “Not it!” while moving full speed ahead.
A summer where little ones take their first steps on soft grass, not shrapnel, while surrounded by a circle of loved ones. And the only shells they hold are the turtle and cockle kind, not those of bullets set free.
I wish for them first kisses and the psudo-confidence that comes with being liked. I hope it is everything and nothing like the story books and they eventually learn the comfort of falling in love with themselves.
I’d cheer them on if they lost the first set of keys they were given to enter their home. Who hasn’t grown a bit forgetful while running and jumping and pretending the floor is lava? And when retracing their steps, I wish them the good fortune of finding a stray dollar, and get even more sidetracked from what they were searching for originally.
I wish them apathy and excitement and the pursuit of escaping baths.
Maybe they’ll lay on their backs and look up at the stars one night, staring at the twinkling of distant light. Hopefully, they stare because they’re entranced by the miracle of the night sky and not because there’s no shelter between them and the unbiased hand of the cosmos.
If it were up to me, they’d play all day and then sleep for 12 hours as if they worked a double to support a family of four. They’d find perspective and adventure in books by bowing out of games they have no interest in taking part in. Then realize the power of having fun by themselves rather than feeling alone in a crowd.
I hope they climb trees and skip rope then jump a fence to pick fruit. I hope they avoid tall grass that makes them itch But if they must feel the prick of nature’s indifference let them feel it together and talk about it for years to come.
I wish them joy and anger and for the sun to brown them with its potent rays.
I hope they climb and swing and avoid getting impaled by rebar from fallen buildings that now resemble jungle gyms. Each rusted spike is a lethal playmate in the childhood game of keep away.
I hope they’ll get booted from the house, with blind innocence, to give grown folks their privacy. They’ll be ignorant of the tussled hair and broad smiles that welcome them back upon return. I hope they ask for change for the ice cream truck and then look for things to sell when they grow tired of hearing “no.” Then, they get reminded life isn’t all about money once they are successful in their quest, although that’s all they hear adults talk about anyway.
I wish for candy to fall from their pocket and become completely forgotten until a quiet moment is punctuated by “…hey? Where is my…”
I hope they run through sprinklers and dodge blasts from the hose. And when their puffs and plaits get wet, the scent of all the love rubbed into their scalp – hair lotions, pomades, gel, and grease – rises like the temperature as it approaches high noon. I hope the only thing that exceeds the scent of their own body odor is the fragrance of roast meat and boiled corn, and they stare in awe at the glowing heat of charcoal until they turn ashen grey. I hope they chew fatty pork and lick greasy fingers, delighting in every bite. Their parents will look them over for ten fingers and ten toes, then say something like, “That girl can sure eat!” with prideful satisfaction for supplying a belly filled with provisions.
I wish for juice spills on their shirts and grass stains on every knee. I wish for their dreams to include taffy and cotton candy plumes, not ones made of smoke that cause them to flee in the dead of night.
I hope they feel sadness when a friend leaves for camp, a family holiday, or to visit a grandparent in a faraway land like Trelawny, Bahia, Accra, or Brixton. I’m certain that sadness will be replaced with excitement at the arrival of their own cousins who’s last visit was the year before last. Energized by storytelling, they’ll try to stay up all night to gleam the first light of day. Only to realize their buddy has knocked out mid-conversation. Perhaps they’ll make up phrases and code words like “The cock crows at midnight,” only to fall out with laughter. The source? Their sharing of witty phallic perversions without getting into trouble.
I wish them growth, and health, and the carrying of sand home in all their creases when returning from the beach.
I hope when their cousins depart, their hugs bring tears because they will be missed, and also, summer is coming to an end. They’ll resent their parents for having them practice their times tables or read a book aloud before bed, only to be reminded education is a lifelong thing. In first day of school tradition they’ll lay out clothes at the foot of their bed the night before with carefulness and certainty it will be there in the morning – that they themselves, too, will not be vanquished in their sleep.
And when they see a dead thing, like a squirrel or baby bird fallen from its nest, they detail its gory novelty with excitement by shouting, “Mom, guess what?!”
Its existence is a thrilling discovery, a departure from the norm, and not a reminder of all they’ve already lost.
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TODAY’S TIDBIT
Sandra Uwiringiyimana survived the Gatumba refugee camp massacre on the western side of Burundi at the age of ten. Her memoir, “How Dare the Sun Rise,” is a heart-wrenching retelling of loss, belonging, and the power of hope.
I read this book when it dropped in 2017 and am due to spin the block.
COMMUNITY CORNER
🐦⬛
’s, Twenty Crows is simple but potent, like all the best things in the world. Enjoy, because I sure did!🌏 Sometimes, you have to do it yourself.
created the Asian Writers Collective to amplify Asian publications and voices. I’m excited to watch the directory grow. Don’t forget to bookmark to return to it over and over again.😴 This is pretty much the opposite of the summer I have planned, but what I love about the piece Boring Girl Summer by
, is I can see, taste, feel, and smell the entirety of it.LET ME KNOW
What’s your favorite summer memory? Is the season special to you?
What role should outdoor play and exploration play in a child’s experience?
What does safety mean to you? Is it truly possible to be carefree, whether as a child or an adult?
This was so beautiful and sad and hopeful!! How dare you?!
I just love the descriptive narrative shared. It has brought back so many memories and broad smiles. I also wish and pray the same for the children. Truly enjoyed every bit of this passage. Thank you so much for it.