To the weird little girls on the playground. There were many of us, gathered in small clumps in schoolyards all over. We focused on different projects, different creations. We cherished the potions. First we knelt in the dirt, tiny rocks and mulch chunks stabbing into the skin on our knees but we couldn’t feel it. Then we carved a hole in the ground, a crater, dark and endless. In the backs of our minds we wondered whether the rumor was true, and a few more inches of digging would get us to China. There was the refilling of the hole– the pot, the cauldron– with new dirt, blessed dirt. There was the neapolitan-like assortment of tan mulch and deep brown mulch, dusty, grayish brown dirt and dirt wet and dark from that dug-up-spot-just-before-China. Sometimes someone would remember to bring their half-drank water bottle outside and the small stream would make all the dirt melt and mix together. The ingredients would begin to cook. Depending on our mood that day, we sometimes added twigs and rocks we found mixed into the mulch. The rocks made a neat circle around the pot, and the twigs reached past the lip of the pot, sticking up into the air. With two lines of defense against evil spirits and nefarious boys, the creation was complete.
To the girls who wanted to get dirty. The ones who wanted more than anything to feel dirt under their fingernails. To the girls who craved that magical state of imperfection, who craved what childhood had always been described as, who knew that this description was designed for the boys a few yards away. An unregulated joy, scraped knees, and colorful band-aids sticking your hair to your forehead. An ability to climb trees and jump off the stairs. An encouragement to make noise. To want this promise of childhood was obvious, but for the ones who were denied it, in some cruel twist of reason, in some enjoyment of confusion– be quiet, be polite, cross your legs, get down from there, don’t play with your brother’s toys, don’t say that, don’t do that, don’t. So we made mud pies and mulch potions. We found a way. We discovered ourselves in the dirt.
Now I hate when my skin feels dirty. There is always an invisible layer of dirt coating every inch. I wash my hands often. Soap doesn’t smell like anything anymore. I wash my hands again.
To the weirdness. To the shrieking and laughing. To something resembling witchcraft, though we didn’t name it that way. But it still contained weirdness, a type that made the boys run away scared. We were fascinated at the exhaustion of our instructors. They didn’t know how to handle the picture in front of them, asking us if we wanted to play with the jump rope instead (we did, sometimes. At least, I did. But I was busy). This confusion, this unsettling feeling within those standing on the outside, this sensation that almost resembled horror. We rejoiced in it, and continued on, still.
To the divine communities. To the sisterhood, to the protection. To the way in which we cared for each other without realizing our profound impact. I still recall how we fostered connection and reconnection under the shade of the big oak tree, rays of light piercing through the leaves straight into the cauldron (the potion had to cook, after all). We helped each other.
“That boy kicked me.”
“Do you want me to put a curse on him?”
“Yes.”
Who’s to say whether the spells worked? It didn’t matter. What mattered more was the fact that we were forming intricate networks of protection and imagination on the playground that momentarily freed us from the suffocation of being told nothing belonged to us. We were creating something with a purpose. We were inventing something. To the well-kept secret of the abundant innovation on the elementary school playground that was instead just labeled “playing in the dirt.” To asking, what does it mean to play? To play. To make something beautiful. To feel instinctively that you have to run, to climb, to escape something, for a minute, for a second, for now.
When was the last time we played? I’m not sure about my last time. It has something to do with my inner child. Something to do with finding her again. She wouldn’t recognize me now. Probably.
To the girls who didn’t know they were girls, or were the only ones who did, to the ones who weren’t girls but still knew the secret recipes, the formulas, how to get the potion exactly right, how to make magic in the hour of freedom given each day. To the ones who call our past selves weird girls though things look different now. To the ones who would be unrecognizable to their inner child, except for the lingering dirt on their hands.
To the weird girls who didn’t move on, didn’t have to be reminded, who kept the knowledge of the mulch cakes securely within their minds, honoring our divine practice. To the girls who created to survive, who slowly built a shield out of rocks and twigs to defend themselves from an environment that was built to keep them out. To the girls that found moments of peace in the chaos, and joy in the brutality. To all of the magic. You kept me sane.