When I was small, there was a playground in the center of my apartment complex. All the kids from the apartments and surrounding area came there to play.
That playground was our favorite place in the entire world. We knew of none better. It was just a small patch of grass with a lonely tree and a pitiful jungle gym, yet it was just large enough that we could pretend it was our own private kingdom, that we were invincible and all-powerful, at least until someone scraped their knee. Rather than bore ourselves on the rusty play equipment, we splashed in a nearby stormwater drain, (our River,) climbed the mounds of dirt yet to be used for construction, (our Mountains,) or ducked behind the drooping tree branches we'd propped up with sticks, (our Houses.)
We gave ourselves free roam of the park, declaring it all ours. We dug holes to find treasure, an activity that was always closely followed by throwing dirt into each other's hair.
Yes, it was our within-walking-distance paradise. Those who could go whenever they wanted, without parent supervision, were the envy of us all. The mothers who insisted on coming sat around a half-rotten picnic table, exchanging gossip and news and whatever else moms talked about.
But no place is truly perfect, no matter how much we wanted it to be so. There was a certain group of people who made our lives miserable; they were the scourge of the park.
Teenagers.
Their arrival was heralded by the roll of skateboard wheels on pavement, or the gaggle of loud voices. Though they were almost always on a bike, skateboard, or scooter, they never wore helmets. They arrived on the scene with confidant swaggers, smoking cigarettes and spewing out words that only a few of us understood.
They were taller than us, and many were taller than our parents. We would edge away from them, like the magnets on a fridge when the poles faced each other. If they decided to lean on the tree, our 'Houses' were left unattended. If they wanted to sit on a jungle gym, it was evacuated. A few brave souls ran up to them, stuck their tongue out, and ran back giggling. The teenagers didn't retaliate, but we still feared them.
One or two of my friends had siblings of that age, and the horror stories they shared only fueled our fear.
"My brother had a fight with my mom last night. The door slammed so hard!"
"My sister came home with a weird boy the other day. He had the biggest holes in his ears!"
"Garret, you know, my brother? He crashed our car."
And they went on an on.
I remember one day, after a particularly loud and fearsome encounter, I proposed that we take a pledge: to never, ever,in our entire lives, become a teenager.
"Unless," Someone added, "Our parents make us."
"No!" Whispered another one. This seemed like the time for whispering. "Even then!"
We made a document out of a large leaf and tried to write on it with a stick. When we couldn't write it all out we agreed to remember it, anyway. We swore with our right arm held up and our left hands on top of one another's, like one boy saw on TV once.
We never brought that oath up again- like so many things from childhood, it slipped out of our minds without resistance. I doubt many of the others remember it, but I do.
I am fifteen years old. Normally, I brush off that promise. We were ignorant; we didn't understand that growing up was inevitable.
But then, other times, when I overhear conversations debating the advantages of various drugs, or my friends drop f-bombs more often than any other word, and I find myself doing the same, I wish I'd found a way to keep that promise.
