I tote around a large stuffed golden retriever I named Goldie, which towers over me. I think how soft, warm, and cuddly he is. He is my favorite Christmas gift I got from Santa this year. I squeeze his neck tightly as his fluffy ear grazes my chubby cheek. I hear my mom from the other room call out in a dazed panic, “Boys start packing up your clothes.” I am too young to do that alone, but I persist as if I was the “big girl” my parents told me I was.
“Goldie” and I at 2 years old in my house in New Orleans (prior to Hurricane Katrina)
I stroll, Goldie in hand, to my room that seemed to be a magical palace to explore. I have pink rose bed sheets that I count every night as I doze off to sleep, a rocking chair in the corner where my grandma always sings to me while I’m in her arms, and a small dresser that I sometimes climb into during hide and go seek. I love my room. I don’t want to leave it. As I attempt to pack my bag, my mom comes into my room and hastily restarts the whole process for me. I do not understand why we need to pack but it seems urgent. I forget about packing for a second and begin counting the roses on my bed sheets.
Then, Mommy shoves my clothes into my pink backpack and pulls me to her chest as we walk towards my two brother’s room. Mommy exclaims to my brothers that “It’s time to go.” I’m placed in a car seat in the back of our car without time to think about where we’re going. My feet dangle aimlessly above the floor. A wave of sadness hits me – where is goldie? My small chest heats up as I look around in the car for traces of my furry friend. I yell out “Goldie!” as tears begin to drown my eyes. Mommy doesn’t look back at me. I cry harder when I notice Daddy isn’t with us either. Where is Daddy? Why isn’t he here?
I look out the window to see my house in the rearview mirror. I still don’t know where we’re headed towards, but I know it’s farther and farther away from Daddy, Goldie, the pink roses, my rocking chair, and my hiding place. The road seemed darker than usual and unfamiliar. I drift off to sleep and wake up in a place that seems sunnier. I sink further into my seat and resist Mommy plucking me out to show me a new house — but this one doesn’t feel like home.
As I slowly began reimagining this memory through the perspective of my two-and-a-half-year-old self, I highlighted the details that stood out to me the most. These memories consisted mostly of my emotional reaction to the situation rather than the search for an explanation or logic. While it’s not terribly common to remember things at such a young age, I remember this event because it was a particularly emotionally charged and jarring part of my life. I could not fully grasp the extent of the devastation that was Hurricane Katrina or the urgency to evacuate to Florida while my dad stayed behind to help rebuild the city of New Orleans. My story focuses on what I could grasp– the comfort of my old stuffed animal, the pretty and familiar roses on my childhood bed sheets, and the confusion and overwhelm I felt in the car driving out of the city.
The lack of information or logical explanations relates to the experiences Javier Zamora depicted in his memoir Solito. Zamora describes his tumultuous journey of migration from his home in El Salvador to the U.S. As a young nine-year-old boy, Zamora portrays his story through his senses and omits the broader political discussion. For example, Zamora writes, “Carla makes me feel weird. My chest is like hummingbirds fighting for the hibiscus in Abuelita’s garden. I feel dumb, and now we have to share a much smaller bed. I hate watching Patricia and Carla help each other before bed. Patricia braiding and unbraiding her daughter’s hair. I want that with Mom. with Mali. I just want a hug (Zamora 183). During his memoir, he pulls from his senses such as how he felt and how he yearned for physical comfort. He did not necessarily dive into the broader implication of the moment but rather how he grappled with his emotions as a nine-year-old boy going through a traumatic experience.
Similar to Zamora, my younger mind did not grasp concepts that were particularly analytical during the evacuation; I recollected the abruptness, emotional shock, and feeling the loss of familiarity. Reading Autobiography Now by Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson also points out how senses are crucial in conjuring up memory. According to Smith and Watson, “Memory is evoked by the senses– smell, taste, touch, sight, sound– and encoded in objects or events with particular meaning for the narrator” (Smith & Watson 39). Therefore, it makes sense that both Zamora and I cling on to memories involving our senses and how we come to understand the meaning of them. My story highlights what I felt even if I could not find meaning or factual evidence at the time. Through the process of tightly capturing a single event lodged in my memory, I was able to depict an intimate and emotional experience that transforms how I perceive the power memory.
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