Nascence of a Memoir

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I guess I could start at the beginning, which is a very good place to start (an existential lesson from The Sound of Music). I was born in Aurora Colorado, April 1, 1992 at St. Mary’s or St. James….one of em. I am the third female in a house full of estrogen, with two elder sisters and an independent mother. Needless to say, Dad needed our male akita, Yoshi to tip the hormone scale a bit.

I was born early on a Tuesday morning, Mom says this is why I was such a grouch in the morning. At the time, Dad was a ‘green’ optometrist and had just gotten a job back in Colorado. During the day he would work, Mom would stay home with the two youngins, Chelsea and Brittany; when dad got off work he would meet Mom at the bus stop to perform ‘the handoff’ as they describe it and she would continue to her night classes in pursuit of getting her law degree. Was she also a Denny’s waitress at the time? With time, these stories seem to mix and harden like waxy acrylic paint, while the colors aren’t pure, they are all the more beautiful. Mom went into labor the night before, in her Constitutional Law class. The next week, she was back in class, preparing for the Bar. So this was the state of things, I was born into a schedule and naturally took my place, toddling behind the troops. Learning vicariously through my family who never seemed to sit down, there was always a job to do, an errand to run, a jazz class to drive to or soccer game to catch.

Brittany, the second eldest, had a slight speech impediment at the time of my birth. Mom and Dad thought she might be mute for the first few years of her life because she didn’t make a peep, but when she did, my lord did she make up for lost time. Doctors thought that because of this lapse, it would take her some time to pronounce her ‘L’s and ‘R’s correctly. Obviously me and Chelsea (the eldest) had our fun with the family videotapes when we got older. In the video of them bringing me home, Brittany kept talking to the camera, exclaiming, “Baby Kendo’s home! This is ou’ home baby Kendo!” The name stuck.

It is interesting, to reflect one’s childhood. I can never seem to distinguish memories that have been fed to me through years of reminiscence from genuine recollections. Funny thing about memory, it is selective, we choose to recall or repress certain things. Many memories are a fallacy, perhaps some have leapt off old photographs in mere creative inspiration to take their place amongst other baubles in my library of recollections. Memories seem to mash into each other. Turning over into one and the same, like a stew that you add seasoning upon seasoning until they steep together and turn into one unbelievable concoction, where you wouldn’t be able to name one single ingredient because they all complement the whole. I would like to say I can recall my earliest memories, but in calling forth one they all seem to eagerly pull my sleeves, poking, proding me, all wanting equal attention. So I suppose I could start with a collection of memories, memories who all raise their hands at the same time and I must play ‘popcorn’ as the writer. Let this be my disclaimer, these are the many voices of ‘child kendall’ which demand my attention and expression. Like ghosts who hang around just so their story can be told, friendly ghosts though.