C O N V E R G E

I remember a time spent at a preschool in Downtown LA as a child. My father who was an accountant for a furniture company or something in the city. He would always drop me off and pick me up at the same times. We lived in the suburbs of San Bernadino County; then maybe a thirty minute drive past the county lines of Los Angeles. He drove an old blue Mercedes he had been driving since he came to this country. His bright eyes and open interest in a culture I’ve now known as my own. The car ran on diesel and had a familiar idling sound that seems to be characteristic of the make. A low chuckling from the engine, I could always tell when he was driving up to the house from a few meters away.

The preschool was located in the Little Tokyo District of the downtown area of Los Angeles. I remember it being sort of a Buddhist influenced school as it had a shrine room for ceremonies. One could not tell this based on its students. My classmates were like any of those found in other preschools. Most of our parents probably had similar jobs and worked in the downtown area; before finding a job became an issue; before the LA freeways became over-saturated with cars that costed less than the gas it took to drive them. Classes were small and we remained with the same group of children for most activities. Finger painting, meals with sugary drinks, nap-time on cots or mats as well as recess. 

I recall having a good friend during my time there. I unfortunately do not remember his name but I specifically remember his face. He was light skinned, possibly a mix-one of his parents probably being African American and his other parent maybe European. He had curly dark hair which was kept at about short-medium length. He had freckles and during recess we would often pretend to be robots. Not particularly specific robots but we made the noises and trotted around the playground in stiff movements. We’d climb the dome structure comprised of bars aligned in angles making triangles big enough for a child to climb through. We’d ride the tricycles available to us around the enclosed playground. You see the playground was set into the earth a bit, so it was fairly isolated from the street level. It almost made it feel indoors. We could still play during the rainy season. It was as simple as it could get I suppose. Hours spent making robot sounds and wasting our energy on climbing, running and laughing.

Eventually there was a “graduation” ceremony at a certain amount of time or perhaps the time there was an allotted time paid for by my parents. I remember my mother dressing me up in a yellow blazer with a red bow tie. I am mortified to this day to recall it but I imagine if it were something more plain I wouldn’t be able to share it with you today. I remember saying goodbye to my friend, who apparently was going to be staying there. What do children say when they say goodbye? Write me? Add me as a friend on myspace. Call me? No, we didn’t have these things then. I don’t remember being overly upset about leaving my friend, but I recall him being pretty quiet about it. I guess I said my goodbyes and that was that.

Maybe several months or possibly a year later, my parents took me to visit the school again. I must’ve asked to visit as I don’t think my father continued to work in the downtown area. We went back and the halls looked the same and the enclosed playground was still there with all of its structures and amenities. I went into the busy class, they were doing finger painting and I saw my friend. Not much different from when I used to attend the school. I remember going up to him and saying “Hi.” and he practically looked right through me. It seemed as if he’d forgotten all about our adventures. I don’t remember him saying much, but then what do children say to each other after a few months of separation.

He did not stop painting as I talked to him. It was almost as if I were a ghost, trying to express my pain to the living. Maybe it was something I said, maybe it wasn’t even the right child. Maybe he was very emotional over our separation. To this day I am still unsure of those things. 

I think to myself, what an early age to feel a loss. What the years will bring and how much more of this we will be feeling, but in different context.

Different faces. Different cities. Different exchange of words. Same blistering sadness.