Guest Essay: The color in our memories

By Guest Columnist Zoe Sisson, 11

I’m wearing a long-sleeved fuchsia dress with Minnie Mouse on it. I readily put on my cyan, unicorn-printed backpack that is proportionate to my 5-year-old self. It is just big enough to fit the picture book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, my six-pack of Crayola markers, and my light pink pencil pouch with just a pencil and a magic rub eraser that has been written all over with a sharpie inside. Packed for lunch, I have ketchup and bonito powder 柴魚粉 (chái yú fěn) on bowtie noodles (my grandma’s go-to lunch to pack). Notice how it isn’t bigger than my whole back or doesn’t weigh more than a newborn baby. My bag must now fit a 16-inch Macbook, two textbooks, three overfilled folders, two notebooks, my lunch, and a 32-ounce water bottle. Ow. There’s more: my pencil case that fits four kinds of black pens, two colored pens, two erasers, two mechanical pencils, 0.5 and 0.7 lead, and a ruler in case someone forgets their materials for the 17th day in a row or I suddenly break something out of stress. And that’s not even including everything else I might need for my 12-hour day out of the house to prepare myself to learn more material and fulfill my 20 extracurriculars for the Common App. I miss the lack of effort I had to put into going to school. Everything was just so lively then … 

I jumped onto the playground, up the rubber stairs, down the bright, mustard yellow slide, and landed on the rough tanbark during recess. After 20 minutes of fun, I went inside for story time. On the alphabet road rug, I sat criss-cross applesauce and intently listened to Green Eggs and Ham read by my kindergarten teacher. My recess is now reduced to a mere six-minute passing period, where I can maybe fit in a chat with my classmate after getting a dry, bagged piece of bread from the aggressive school brunch line. I am assigned to read the novel Fahrenheit 451 that reveals emerging societal issues about the reliance on electronics, AI, and the increasing literary crisis while tracking Bradbury’s every motive through his literary choices. Why does life feel so tiring now? Maybe it’s just me … ? I sit in a cold, plastic seat desk unit with an arm holder to support my hand, filling out lengthy worksheets while the HVAC runs loudly. We students all pretend not to mind it, but we really do. Ugh, there is an increasing amount of problems to deal with. 

How do we adapt to the present when the color of life feels more drained out than the dry seasons of California? I do miss the past, and you probably do, too. But what is there in our childhood that we can’t create in the present? I take time to look back on my previous most frequently used items and parts of my day: books, backpacks, how I spent my time, and artwork I made. I reintroduce my past favorite foods and I spend time with my family to understand my past. This way, I can take back some of that nostalgia and turn it into memories I can classify as “good ol’ memories.” Life can be good even if you aren’t young, clueless as a 5-year-old and actually have responsibility in the world to achieve. There’s color in every aspect of life whether you notice it or not. Maybe I have to spend time creating the memory now in the present to find my own comfort in life through my past memories of family, joy, and traditions.