I jolted awake to the sound of construction outside my bedroom window. I tapped my phone screen to check the time. It was 8 a.m. Still pitch-black outside, I tried to go back to bed. My first class of the day wasn’t until 10 a.m., so I figured I’d try to get a few more hours of sleep in. Once I closed my eyes, though, I couldn’t stop tossing and turning.
Something bad was going to happen today. I could feel it.
On my way to my statistics lecture, I couldn’t stop thinking about my childhood dog, Lota. She was an English bulldog who’d been with us for 13 years. She had watched me grow up from my prepubescent, third-grade self to my now 19-year-old, college-student persona. There was no one who loved me as wholly and unconditionally as Lota did.
Unfortunately, growing up also meant Lota was getting older and older by the year. Every time I’d leave for college, I’d say goodbye to Lota. I didn’t know if that goodbye would be my last. Nonetheless, every time I’d gone back during breaks, she’d always been there.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the goodbye I gave her in January before leaving for my fourth semester of college would finally be the last.
Looking for a seat in one of the large lecture halls on the first floor of the Central Campus Classroom Building, I began to scroll all the way back to pictures from the 2010s that my family kept in our shared camera roll. I found pictures galore of Lota with me, my parents, my sister and our other dog, Trufa. They say bulldogs aren’t the prettiest of dogs, but Lota had always been the cutest dog to me.
I was looking at a picture of me with Lota laying down on the red tile floor that my house’s backyard used to have when, as if on command, I got a text from my parents: “Lota no se ve muy bien. La vamos a llevar al veterinario.” Apparently, Lota wasn’t doing the best. My parents wanted to take her to the vet to see what was going on.
I mean, she was a 13-year-old English bulldog. A bulldog’s lifespan does not typically exceed eight to 10 years, so this was bound to happen eventually. She’d been sick for years now, losing her eyesight and her hearing, walking slower and slower by the day. But why now?
In my mind, there was no way it could be a coincidence that I was scrolling through childhood pictures right when my parents decided to let me know that the dog who had seen me grow up into the person I am today might be dying in the next 24 hours. It was unbelievable. It was unfair.
In that moment, I swear I felt something shift inside my brain. I swear I felt my childhood end.
***
Who — or what — decides when childhood ends? Some might say we stop being children when we hit puberty, which typically starts around the age of 10. Others say we become adults at 18, turning into legal adults and moving out of our childhood homes, leaving them for places we often haven’t even visited more than once, or maybe ever, and embarking on the journey of learning how to live alone. Some might go as far as to extend childhood to 26, which is the latest possible age to still be able to seek healthcare under your parents’ health insurance plan.
Once I ended the call with my parents, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Lota’s death meant for me. I don’t know what about Lota’s death struck me so intensely. Maybe it was the fact that I have very little experience coping with grief and loss firsthand. Maybe I was just really missing her precisely when her body decided it was time for her to go. Nevertheless, there was a looming feeling of emptiness that accompanied her death. After 13 years of being in my life, watching my every move and observing me become, well, me, Lota died. I feel like, in a way, my childhood died with her.
In my head, my childhood had been withering away bit by bit, and Lota’s death took the last that was left of it. When I think of my childhood dying, I think of the many significant, oftentimes symbolic milestones that mark points of transition in life. Allow me to walk you through some of them, and the effect they had on me.
The time when I discovered I liked to read for fun
Anyone who knows me knows I’m a big reader. But believe it or not, there was a time in my life when I hated reading. I would do absolutely anything before even thinking of picking up a book and reading it for fun. In the second grade, however, that suddenly changed.
After what felt like a million nagging remarks from my mom to check out my elementary school’s library to see if I found any books that seemed interesting, I decided to give it a try. I was bored during recess, so I figured why not? When I stepped inside the library, an entire world was opened up to me.
I browsed the chapter book section, reading book title after book title and not being drawn to any specific one, yet still fascinated by the sheer number of books that inhabited the bookshelves. After a few minutes of browsing, however, I stumbled upon a book titled “Beezus and Ramona” by Beverly Cleary. From the cover, I assumed the book was about two friends, one who was slightly older than the other. I decided to check it out and try my hand at reading it. I think I was particularly drawn to the story because the girls on the cover had brown hair, just like me. Although unconsciously, I felt seen.
Once I began reading the book, I found out it was actually about two sisters. Even better, once I finished it, I found out it was an eight-book series. So, the day after finishing the book, I decided to return to the library and exchange the first book for the second one. To say I was ecstatic to keep reading would be an understatement.
Compared to other moments in life, this memory is a particularly happy one. But I like to think it catalyzed the slow death of my childhood because the end of an era does not necessarily have to be plagued with sadness, nostalgia and regret. Part of leaving childhood behind is discovering who you are on a personal and emotional level. The time when I decided to pick up a book just because I saw myself reflected on the cover and ended up loving to read for fun reminds me of exactly that.
The time when a boy’s friends dared him to like me
For as long as I can remember, I’ve never been particularly boy-crazy. Sure, I had crushes growing up, but they were never distracting or particularly life-altering, especially in the early years of my elementary education. Unfortunately, near the end of sixth grade, that part of my personality changed.
The end of the school year was nearing and everyone was getting ready to say their goodbyes. Many of us would be switching schools come the new academic year — myself included — and it felt like we would never get to see our elementary school classmates again. As a result, many a melancholic goodbye came coupled with many confessions of young love. All of a sudden, everyone had been hiding a secret crush for the entirety of our time in elementary school, and it was time they all came to light.
During one of the last class activities we had, one of the boys in my homeroom came up to me. We’d barely exchanged a conversation in the past seven years, and I mostly just saw him at volleyball practices. I remember him being the cool, athletic type (exactly what I felt I wasn’t). He said “hi” to me and I said “hi” back, trying as hard as I could to hide the confusion I felt as he directed his attention toward me. After a bit of small talk and going through the motions of how sad it was that our time at elementary school was coming to an end, he suddenly said, “I have to tell you something.”
“What?” I nervously replied.
“I … I have a crush on you. I’ve liked you since kindergarten and, since you’re not coming back next year, I felt like it was now or never. I just had to tell you,” he blurted out.
“What?” I repeated.
“Would you … Do you want to be my girlfriend?”
In a matter of seconds, I’d said yes. You thought I would pass up the opportunity to become the girlfriend of one of the coolest guys in school? No way. This was a dream come true for me! Only, I didn’t really understand why. I’d never really cared much for guys’ attention. Why did it suddenly matter to me?
To make a long story short, we had a very happy two-week relationship. He would smile at me nervously from across the classroom, and I would shyly wave back. He gave me a flower from the school courtyard — no biggie. We were happy. Or so I thought.
On one of the last days of school, I’d brought a huge shopping bag to stuff my books and locker decorations in so I could take them home. I was on my way to my locker when I walked past a few of his friends. As I passed them by, I could hear them snickering. I assumed they were laughing about something one of them had said. That is, until I heard one of them say: “There goes the dare.”
“I can’t believe she actually fell for it,” I heard another one say.
“Who does she think she is?” said the third.
Safe to say, I was humiliated. As I emptied my locker, I decided I would confront him at lunch. I wouldn’t cry or make a fuss out of anything. I would simply break up with him. He didn’t deserve me, that much I knew.
When recess came, I made it my mission to find him in the school courtyard. I wanted to catch him off guard, embarrass him in front of his friends. It wasn’t long before I spotted him at a distance. He was playing jump rope with the three friends who had unknowingly exposed their little scheme to me earlier that morning. Bingo!
I walked up to him, ready to scream at him that it was over and dramatically stomp away. So much for not making a fuss. However, when I caught up to them, it suddenly became impossible for me to speak.
He asked me if everything was OK. I said yes. He asked me if we could talk for a moment. I said sure. He took me to a far-off corner, somewhere no one could see us. He said he really liked me, but it wasn’t going to work out between us. He said it wasn’t me, it was him. He said I was really pretty and he was sorry. He walked away.
And just like that, he’d beat me to it. Not only had he beat me to it, but I had been left speechless. Without a voice. He’d broken up with me and I hadn’t uttered a single word. To put it simply, I felt powerless.
My unfortunate reaction has followed me for years. Looking back, it was just a silly little elementary school joke. It was “boys being boys.” But, it was also the beginning of a lifelong journey to reclaim my voice. In that moment, I took my pride and free will for granted. I knew my worth, but what was it actually worth if I hadn’t made it known? Like I’d just been slapped in the face, I was thrown into the reality that sometimes we are left speechless and disadvantaged, but it’s not that we necessarily deserve it.
As I said goodbye to the innocence of feeling that I would always be able to speak my mind, I began to think, is this what life is actually like?
The time I got my period for the first time
I know what you’re thinking. But, it’s a classic!
Oh, periods. The physiological end of childhood. A welcoming vehicle into womanhood as we know it. When I switched schools from elementary to middle school, my parents decided to matriculate me into an all-girls Catholic school. Say what you want about it, but the experience came with many pros, one of these being that all of my classmates already understood or would eventually understand what getting your period for the first time was like.
I was in history class when it happened. I was taking notes on my teacher’s lecture at what felt like the speed of light when, all of a sudden, I got what I now recognize to be a cramp. It started in my thighs. It felt like the excruciating pain you feel after leg day at the gym but multiplied tenfold. Then, it made its way up to my stomach. I began holding on to it like somehow that would make the pain stop. I remember thinking “God, is this what it feels like to give birth?”
Luckily, one of my classmates noticed what was happening to me. She said my name once, twice but all I could muster was a barely audible grunt of pain.
“Miss, can I take Graciela to the nurse’s office?” my classmate asked our teacher, pointing at me.
“What’s wrong with her?” my teacher replied.
“She seems to have… a stomachache?” my classmate questioned.
“Ow!” I yelled.
“OK, yes, take her to the nurse. Please,” my teacher reacted.
My classmate grabbed my hand and walked me over to the nurse’s office, which, thankfully, was only a few doors down from our history classroom. As we walked over, my classmate asked me, “Graciela, why are there red spots on your skirt?”
And with that, I knew. I’d gotten my period for the first time.
At the nurse’s office, I was offered two little capsules of Advil, a water bottle and a sanitary pad. “Place this sanitary pad in your underwear,” the nurse instructed as I downed the Advil, “It’ll help control the blood flow.”
My classmate and I left the nurse’s office and went straight to the bathroom. The pain wasn’t entirely gone, but it was slightly subdued (thank you, Advil). I locked myself in a bathroom stall and began gently placing the sanitary pad inside my underwear. As I was finishing up, my classmate said to me: “I can’t believe you got your period! You’re a real woman now!” Quickly followed by, “I can’t wait to get mine.”
All I wanted to say to her was how much she was going to regret those exact words when it was her turn in a few months.
***
It feels a bit wrong, doesn’t it? Making sense of my childhood coming to an end as a result of my childhood dog’s death by comparing it to these seemingly trivial, girly experiences that, for some reason I can’t fully explain, helped shape who I am today. What’s wrong with me?
It is slightly clearer to me now, however, why Lota’s death struck me so profoundly when it happened. I won’t lie and say I didn’t know she was going to die soon. Her death, no matter how timely, still took a toll on me. But the reason I think this happened is because I feel things so intensely, no matter how worthy or unworthy of pain and dwelling the world might make them seem.
From things as surface-level as reading a book for fun for the first time and a boy not liking me back in the sixth grade to more adult things like first periods and childhood dog deaths, every single profound, or not profound, experience I’ve had has taught me something about myself. And while these experiences come with excitement, regret, anger and, most of all, sadness, I wouldn’t exchange them for anything.
Because, past me, your childhood didn’t end when Lota died. Our life is a transitory one, full of lessons in every little thing that happens to us, in every little interaction you have.
Just remember to keep living it.
Statement Correspondent Graciela Batlle Cestero can be reached at gbatllec@umich.edu.
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