Playground in my mind

By Emmanuelle

THEN  our playground was gone.

It didn’t disappear overnight. It took a long-time coming, like all things proverbial, slow but sure. We should have prepared ourselves for it, like waiting in dread for the next tooth to give-up its walls, exposing the nervy pulp to pokes and pins.

The see-saw dropped off its parts first. One time we saw one seat plunked down hard to the ground together with one plump boy. Next time, we see there are no seats at all, just a thick metal pole balancing naked on a fulcrum, like outstretched arms praying for kids to come seesaw with it.

The swing swung out next, chains hanging limply, strung to no seat, seating no kid. Arms emptied, the chains weep. It rusted, it crumbled. We were left hanging on to the memory of holding tight to these chains with our dear life. We were pulled back, then we were pushed hard forward. The heart lurched out to the sky again and again until momentum slowed down to a stop. Then we shout: “gimme a push, gimme a push!”

It took longer for nature and the sheer weight of kids to bring down the bars and the beams, the ladders and the slides. The bright paint dulled, then off it chipped. A grimy brown remained – the color of little hands and little feet. The color of joy in the mud. And dusty little butts. One day, a little girl, with eyes wide and thumb in mouth, sat suspended forever halfway between top and bottom of the slide. There was no more shimmying slid to the slide. When one can’t slide on a slide, why therefore slide? When one walks-up the ladder, then one walks-down its slide, it is not a slide. It is a walk in the park.

When fun had gone out of the playground, the spirit of commerce comes in. The playground turns into a park, a mall, or an outdoor bar. Or a flea market that sells not a single flick of flea. The adults are the major players here though. At least, they arm the kids with credit cards, play money or lots of coins for slots. Pray, not sluts.

Because, as time ticks on, change comes to even as far as the farthest island.  Fun gets tagged up the bracket. Insert a coin and one gets to race a track, pin a ball, shoot a basket, melt a monster, bring down a UFO, save a hapless maiden, marry a witless prince, win a kingdom, etc.   The   playground   is an electronic box. Energy doesn’t come with real kids running fast, punching fists, kicking legs. . It comes out from a wire plugged-in to Napocor. 

Sometimes the price of fun is beyond imagination. One must come properly clothed with rollers or skates to top the booted legs. Add to the expenses – helmets, face guards, elbow and knee patches, warmers. Warmers! Isn’t the tropics enough?  Don’t forget the training, private coaches and equipments. This time, it is not fun when one cannot afford it first hand. It’s just voyeurism, plain and simple. Pity mini me.

And those whose toes had dug the ground, whose fingers had pushed against the grass, whose lungs had sucked-in the salty vinegary smell of sweat pouring rivers down faces and chests and arms of growing, grown-up kids at play?

They rally, of course, for Save the Environment, Protect  the Children causes. And wait for miracles. While majority of our lawmakers move in tandem with the rest of the chieftains camping along that rotting river. Plotting to sell out the land, every patch and hectare, to commerce, real-estate investors, foreigners. For want of anything matino to do.    

There is, of course, the playground in one’s mind. Where one can click off non-existent buttons anytime, and travel to NeverNeverLand. Where daddies plant red rice, fruits, veggies and all things healthily yummy.  Where mommies breastfed babies to cheekily rosy and cook all things healthily yummy. Where kids run, jump, climb and play on seesaws, slides, swings, bars – all properly working and   brightly colored with veggie-based paints. And eat all things healthily yummy.

Where classes are held under the sun, under see-through canopies only when it rains.        Where there are no nasty chief executives and pesky lawmakers but only good daddies and loving mommies. And God looking down, standing guard. A smile in His eyes, a laugh on His lips. A finger pointing to His Holy Forehead.

Only in the mind, my dear child. Only in the playground of your mind. 

(For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/)

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