You’re Staying Where You Are Because You Choose to

A long time ago, I took a step I’ll never forget. And it changed everything.

It’s where I met my first crush, broke my first bone, and threw my first punch. Interestingly, those last two things happened at the same time. Even more telling, they happened because of the first.

The Playground: It started with pea gravel, encased in a sandbox the size of a large movie theater. In it, swings swung, monkey bars monkeyed, and slides slid. Tag was the game of choice. On and around a wooden jungle gym the shape of a horse, but at least three times as large.

Just off the ashen borders of a million pebbles, there was a basketball court that would one day become my second home. Just not yet. Beside that, a tetherball court, an overgrown soccer field, and a few dozen middle-class homes across the street.

The further you traveled away from the Playground, the more sparse things became. A row of trees was the first line of defense. It stretched from the staff parking all the way across, and it said without saying that you probably shouldn’t go much further than this.

There were teachers on duty, of course, but how could they possibly police an entire Elementary school?

After the tree line, there was an open field perfect for flying kites. Once a year, they’d drag us out there with a stopwatch and a promise, “if you get it in under 13:00, we don’t have to run it again.” Free tip; you can walk a mile in thirteen-minutes.

There was a broken-down baseball field a lot like the movie Sandlot and some of those Little House On The Prairie fences made of railroad ties blocking the more expensive homes. If you strayed too much, there was a knee-high bit of chicken wire between you and an ankle-deep creek. My house was about two blocks from that.

After edging past the trees a little more each day, I finally pushed the boundary to the creek. In my mind, the stream was where the school ended. Arguably, I could explain that I was playing and could still hear the bell. But If I crossed that watery line, I would’ve officially left school on my own.

So I stared, watching the water, refusing the internal struggle to go back before I got caught. Behind me, my friends whispered. But teacher never came. And no one ever tattled.

That night I planned my escape. Surely someone had done it before. This wasn’t Alcatraz, this was Elementary school. Still, I’d never heard of anyone being so brave, and I wanted that. Something in me needed to test the limits of what I was told I could do and where I could go. I wasn’t rebellious, I didn’t hate school, and I had plenty of friends. It was the idea that got me. Something kept telling me there was more if I’d only keep going. A voice kept saying, trees and chicken wire do not a prison make. It’s all in your head. You’re staying where you are because you choose to.

The next day, a glare bounced off the metal Playground equipment as crisp November air reddened exposed skin. Teachers huddled to stay warm, kids sprinted to do the same, and I became the world’s best and escape artist, starting at the tree-line and working my way to the water, drawing as little attention as a kid could with a dozen cult-like followers behind him. All of them, just like me, somehow knowing we had more control of ourselves than others would have us believe. Remember that movie The Village? Kinda like that, I suppose. Borders, I mean, not fake monsters. And spoilers.

The ground, several shades of rust and full of forgotten limbs and leaves, was stiff with frost, but the water flowed. The big freeze was coming, but not yet. Maybe I was Lewis, perhaps I was Clark, maybe I was some no-name settler. A pioneer on The Oregon Trail, about to ford my first river, hoping I didn’t get dysentery, whatever that was.

For what felt like an entire afternoon in kid time, no one said a word. The dozen or so friends I brought with me watched from the high bank, unable to move. Transfixed like I held the secret to Santa and the Toothfairy and the Easter Bunny.

With a look back to my fans, because the showman in me said you are going to want to remember this, I lept, landing atop the smooth stone between me and the rest of the world. For a moment, I balanced, somewhere in kid purgatory. A limbo I hadn’t considered. What was this place? This in-between, itchy sweater feeling place? A second later, dry and heroic, I landed on the other side.

At first, I didn’t turn around. I thought if I did, a teacher would be there waiting with the noose, having just given me enough rope to hang myself. When I finally mustered the courage, I turned to face my friends, now split by a drizzle and dream, barely a creek, and yet as broad as The Grand Canyon.

Everything changed, and nothing did. I escaped, but there was nothing to escape from. Everything was imaginary, nothing was real, and I could do whatever I wanted. I knew it. My friends knew it. And the teachers, all those adults, well maybe they knew it too. But had they forgotten it? Why did they never play in the stream or go on adventures our push boundaries?

To cement my newfound glory, I hustled to the road that was hardly a baseball toss away. A car passed, and for a second, I froze. That’s when it hit me. This road, this one right here, leads everywhere. Those on the other side, still frozen within imaginary boundaries forced upon them by others, can’t see that. I could disappear and never come back. I could leave and never return. I could go.

“Recess Is Over.”

I heard the shout the way you hear real voices when you’re dreaming. Far off and close at the same time. I hadn’t crossed over to leave, I just wanted to know that I could. Even if I was stuck inside a classroom with smelly kids and tired teachers, I wanted to know that I could leave at any time. That even at that age, I could make decisions that could radically change my life.

Fear did a weird thing then. It left me. I should’ve been scared, especially at that age, but I wasn’t. It was strange, but I immediately understood that I was on my own in this world. I called the shots. I’d made it this far, practically to the other end of the world, and I’d survived. What did I have to fear? What will I ever have to fear again?

With a smirk far too mature for the face of an elementary kid, I walked through the frigid stream, back to my friends. Ice water licked at the cuff of my jeans, but I didn’t hurry. I savored the stroll, and for the rest of the day, I was a hero.

I’d done the unthinkable. I’d proven that power exists in an individual simply because they believe it does. And that borders and boundaries are only there because we choose to live within them.