The Sunflower Quilt
I've been a bit lazy today, so I'm just posting the essay that I used for my college applications. Although it takes a while to make its point, the piece says a lot about me and where my head tends to be. Enjoy!
The teenager’s bedroom: whether it remain cluttered or clean, simple or sophisticated, it’s a space whose organization tends to reflect his values and mannerisms. Mine is no different. On a long wooden dresser next to my unkempt bed sit a Betamax and a Nintendo Entertainment System. While my use of these two obsolete items is sparse, I am absolutely enamored by them, wondering daily what these things meant to their previous owners.
Rising out of bed each morning, I glance at the clock on the Betamax, thinking not only of the tiring day ahead, but also the days that have passed before me. I can imagine the pride swelling within my grandfather as he gifted his son with “the latest and greatest technological marvel”. Likewise, I can envision my dad curled up on his sofa following a tolling business trip, entranced by the escapades of Tubbs and Crockett that he had taped during his leave. What a time it was to be alive: pink blazers, golden watches and a magical box that records your television programs. I can just as easily picture him shoving this giant paperweight into his attic only a few years later. Today I pore over his collection of tapes in awe, realizing that most of them haven’t been touched since my birth. It is times like these where I feel like I’m preventing the past from fading into obscurity.
My experiences with the old Nintendo are no different. Holding its antiquated controller in my hands, I ponder the path it took to land in them. How many times was it thrown in anger, scuffing a living room wall? What pixelated challenges taunted its buttons? I begin to build a connection with another child, from another family, in another time. I would never know his name--was it Jake? Billy?--but from playing his games, I realized that we both knew the joys of being a kid. And then it hits me: there was a day when little Billy, all grown up, decided to pass off his beloved childhood toy. Such a time may come for me as well. A sentimental symbol of youth, exploration, and freedom was gone from his hands, but his greatest treasure still remained in his grasp: the childhood stories of pixelated triumphs that will be passed on to children and grandchildren, the ones that he couldn’t sell. These stories I cannot hear myself, as they will never belong to me. They only exist fully in the lives of those who brought them to life, yet imagining such stories fills my soul with wonder.
Just outside of my bedroom, a simple sunflower quilt dangles assuredly over the weathered balcony. Despite it being such an unassuming decoration, the allure of its past consumes me. On an ordinary day in 1975, my mother began work on that quilt, only to finish it during an ordinary evening in 2015. I often think about the 40 years that passed between those two days, and how in that time she gained a husband, two boys, and a plethora of unforgettable moments. It was who she lost, however, that I think about the most: her supportive father, who was certain that the quilt would never see completion. It somehow did.
Throughout my life, I have been drawn to the people, periods, and experiences that I will never be able to witness. My head has become stuck in the past, as that is where I believe all of the world’s great stories lie. Only recently have I realized that I have stories of my own to create and that if I’m not careful, my children will not have anything to be inquisitive about. A lot can happen in 40 years, and while I may not weave a physical quilt in that time, the stories that stick with me will create a quilt of memories for all to cherish.
The teenager’s bedroom: whether it remain cluttered or clean, simple or sophisticated, it’s a space whose organization tends to reflect his values and mannerisms. Mine is no different. On a long wooden dresser next to my unkempt bed sit a Betamax and a Nintendo Entertainment System. While my use of these two obsolete items is sparse, I am absolutely enamored by them, wondering daily what these things meant to their previous owners.
Rising out of bed each morning, I glance at the clock on the Betamax, thinking not only of the tiring day ahead, but also the days that have passed before me. I can imagine the pride swelling within my grandfather as he gifted his son with “the latest and greatest technological marvel”. Likewise, I can envision my dad curled up on his sofa following a tolling business trip, entranced by the escapades of Tubbs and Crockett that he had taped during his leave. What a time it was to be alive: pink blazers, golden watches and a magical box that records your television programs. I can just as easily picture him shoving this giant paperweight into his attic only a few years later. Today I pore over his collection of tapes in awe, realizing that most of them haven’t been touched since my birth. It is times like these where I feel like I’m preventing the past from fading into obscurity.
My experiences with the old Nintendo are no different. Holding its antiquated controller in my hands, I ponder the path it took to land in them. How many times was it thrown in anger, scuffing a living room wall? What pixelated challenges taunted its buttons? I begin to build a connection with another child, from another family, in another time. I would never know his name--was it Jake? Billy?--but from playing his games, I realized that we both knew the joys of being a kid. And then it hits me: there was a day when little Billy, all grown up, decided to pass off his beloved childhood toy. Such a time may come for me as well. A sentimental symbol of youth, exploration, and freedom was gone from his hands, but his greatest treasure still remained in his grasp: the childhood stories of pixelated triumphs that will be passed on to children and grandchildren, the ones that he couldn’t sell. These stories I cannot hear myself, as they will never belong to me. They only exist fully in the lives of those who brought them to life, yet imagining such stories fills my soul with wonder.
Just outside of my bedroom, a simple sunflower quilt dangles assuredly over the weathered balcony. Despite it being such an unassuming decoration, the allure of its past consumes me. On an ordinary day in 1975, my mother began work on that quilt, only to finish it during an ordinary evening in 2015. I often think about the 40 years that passed between those two days, and how in that time she gained a husband, two boys, and a plethora of unforgettable moments. It was who she lost, however, that I think about the most: her supportive father, who was certain that the quilt would never see completion. It somehow did.
Throughout my life, I have been drawn to the people, periods, and experiences that I will never be able to witness. My head has become stuck in the past, as that is where I believe all of the world’s great stories lie. Only recently have I realized that I have stories of my own to create and that if I’m not careful, my children will not have anything to be inquisitive about. A lot can happen in 40 years, and while I may not weave a physical quilt in that time, the stories that stick with me will create a quilt of memories for all to cherish.
Comments
Post a Comment