We Would’ve Been Friends Then

I realize all the people I hold dearest to me now never met me at a young age. Sure, objectively, I’m young, but I’m also the oldest I’ve ever been. There was a point where I was one and could barely walk. There was another point where all I could do was babble and grip a crayon in the palm of my hand with my knuckles wrapped around it like a sword. Most of my best friends met me when I was already 18. The rest of them met me after I had already undergone so many transformations. I was forced to change when I moved to Miami. To acclimate and grow up. I think of the version of myself who lived on the island, who wore a navy blue polo dress and Mary Jane’s to school every day. I think of the girl who used to wear the two pigtails and had fake teeth because she knocked her front ones out years before they’d come in. I think of the girl who sat in the back and listened to the boy talk about Michael Jackson during a show and tell the day after he died. Jose didn’t know a single song, but his father loved MJ, so he brought the Thriller CD. It was the first I’d heard of Michael Jackson, who was dead. 

I think of the girl who memorized Shel Silverstein's poems, recited the Puerto Rican national anthem before class, went to Blockbuster during tsunami drills, and crouched underneath her desk during earthquake ones. I think of the girl who would drink grape juice every day during lunch, who would bring Orbeez in a Ziploc bag to put on top of sticks and play wizards during recess. I think of the girl who would beg her music teacher to let her dance in the talent show and the girl who spent every single lunch period choreographing a routine to Firework by Katy Perry after she said yes. I think of the girl who would pose with bunnies every Easter for a photo shoot, who would watch movies in the clubhouse with the other baseball brats while her dad played or coached. I think of her so frequently because sometimes it’s hard to remember that I am her. Once upon a time, I roamed my school hallways and would only step on the green tiles on the checkered floor. It’s not to say I’m not happy now or I’m not myself, because I am. It’s to say that there’s a version of me that nobody I love now will ever truly know, they'll just hear about. 

I remember so much about my friends back then, and I barely speak to most of them now.

I remember that they barely called me Nanna, and when I ran into some of them at a bar in Puerto Rico (out of all places) last year, they called me Andreanna. Only my parents call me that now.

How strange is it to grow up, to become something new? How odd is it to see photos of your friends when they were babies and wish that you could’ve been kids together? Sometimes, I look at my friends, and I wish that the little version of me could’ve had them back then, too. I know many people with these lifelong friends who can pull memories out of a hat and someone will always understand them. I don’t have anyone like that anymore. It’s isolating knowing that the people who knew me then don’t even have my phone number. The people who knew me only knew me then, and they got to keep little me. They got to keep Andre, Andreanna, Gordi, Nena, Dre, Nanni, La Nanna.

I used to think, at least my sister would get it, but she doesn’t. She was so young, how could I ever expect her to remember it? I’m the only one who remembers what it was like on the island. I still get homesick, and I’ve lived off of it longer than I lived on it. I cry every year on the anniversary of moving away because it’s like a funeral for a version of me that people will never really know. A softer version of me.

Sometimes, I can’t help but feel as if she’s been forgotten. I still watch cartoons. I still love Katy Perry. I still pick hibiscus flowers whenever I see them. I still wear frilly socks when I can find a twin pair in my mess of mismatched socks. I’ll drink grape juice if it’s from the same brand I used to. Every time I drive past where the Blockbuster used to be, I close my eyes. When the earth shakes somewhere, I know what to do. I still love bunnies. I don’t wear my hair in braids anymore. I haven’t worn Mary Janes since I was eight. I don’t do a lot of things I used to do anymore. The ballerina me has been gone for ages. I haven’t worn my natural hair out in public in years, and I probably won’t anytime soon. I don’t play pretend anymore. 

I might not do many things anymore, but I know I used to. If the little version of me is fading for others, I have to keep her alive. I must keep telling people I wish they could’ve known me then. We would’ve been friends then, just like we are now. I guess at the end of it all, I am her. Just a little less soft.