My First Children's Book...and Why I Don't Own Anything from My Childhood

This was one of the first books I learned to read and I believe it explains everything. Funny thing is, I looked like that little tomboy on the cover and am an avid cat lover. On the website, the blurb at the bottom of the cover reads:

"Lots of things make me mad - when somebody breaks my best toy, when it rains and I can’t go swimming, when the kids tease me. This book illustrates how these feelings are normal."



I think I misunderstood the message in thinking that being angry is an acceptable emotion ALL THE TIME. But I digress...

This book and "Henry Goes the the Doctor," about a cat named Henry who is afraid to go to the vet, were my two favorite books.

Then I started to wonder where those books are. I'd love to see them again, with their torn up pages and my nonsensical pen drawings as I tried to learn to write in them. I thought to myself, Why don't I own them or any other memorabilia from my childhood? See, we moved a lot as my father drank a lot (and who has now been drink free for a good 10-15 years or so) and we ended up packing up and moving regularly when my father's drinking and abusiveness became intolerable for us (but mostly for my mother). We moved from apartment to apartment...then he would inevitably show up and the "honeymoon stage," (of which I learned during my stint doing domestic violence volunteer work) would give us false hopes that he would finally change "this time for real."

Subsequent moves indicated differently and so with every move, I could take less and less items with me. We once lived for a bout two years in a two bedroom apartment (me, my mom and my two younger brothers) where the walk-in closet served as my bedroom. My brothers still ask me if I remember when I lived in the walk-in closet and we have to laugh at the humor of it while also recognizing the fucked-up-ness of the situation we were placed in.

We finally ended up in a single wide mobile home - "single" for those of you not versed in the language of trailer parks, is the single, rectangular mobile home with one bedroom on each side of the trailer with a small living room, kitchen and bathroom between the two. The double wides are the "nice" mobile homes in that they essentially are twice the size of a single. In this single mobile home, my closet was tiny...a little bigger than a broom closet and so, once again, I had no place to store my things.

I often watch movies where people are comforted by their favorite childhood stuffed animals or other items from their childhood and I think, "How did they keep all of that for so long?" I guess when you have a stable home with a basement and/or attic, you can keep things for "memories."

I wish that I or my mother had kept things from my childhood, as I often feel disconnected from my past. I also seem to forget a lot of things/specifics from my childhood too which I believe to be a defense mechanism. Last year, I realized that I lost my photo album of all of my baby pictures. I was saddened by this, but then I thought that maybe this means that I need to focus on the future rather than on the past, which for me often brings up pain and resentment (hence the "I Was So Mad" reference).

The irony is that my love for books has forced me to continue to move in my adulthood from state to state as I pursue a career in academia and write my own books - books which, within the context of Chicana feminism and my own testimonio, in many ways still tell the story of why still "I get so mad."