What if tomorrow began in the past? At seven, the world made the most sense when the neighborhood kids would follow my twin and me into our living room. Because it was too cold outside and our front door was the closest, because it was too dark and we needed light to see each other, because Mami always had water ready to quench our thirst after an afternoon battling pirates. Children, when they are cared for, will find ways to care for each other. Fights only last as long as the screaming does. How funny is it to fist-fight a kid over who gets to drive the stolen toy car only to defend each other when the big kids come looking for it the following week? Caring then wasn’t the absence of argument, but the dedication to come together after every fight.
At twenty-four, I work in the most colorful area of the library. An obvious perk of the children’s section. The walls are painted an imagined ocean that is purple, green, and pink instead of blue. There is a single orange coral reef amongst all the bright fish. When a child is overwhelmed with a math problem or can’t figure out what sentences to make with their sight words for the week or a parent is threatening to take away play time because they can’t finish their packet fast enough, I invite them to stare at the fish with me. We move away from their homework and sit on the carpet to watch the ocean move along the wall. Alexa, who is in second grade, tells me she likes them. Most children do. She adjusts her pink hello kitty mask over her nose before saying, “I think they’re together because they’re friends.” She builds an elaborate story about how they all live on the same street and how some of them probably go to school as she does and how maybe even a few of them get tired of homework.
What if tomorrow we practiced caring for one another? Extended beyond ourselves, and the individualistic thinking capitalism champions, to become neighbors. The kind of neighbors who take turns taking out the trash. Who carpool together to the nearest mercado. Who call each other when the landlord is lying again. Isn’t there a reason we run out together to the street when we hear a loud car crash, or an ambulance stops its wailing in front of our apartment? What does it mean to leave the safety of our homes to find each other outside? All of us, adults and children alike, searching for the problem. How can I help? Isn’t this a source of power? A way to sustain our tomorrows.
I want to live in a today that makes tomorrow safe. That slows it down.
When Paco, my childhood friend, burned down his kitchen, those of us playing outside ran to tell our parents about the flames. Help arrived. When the entire block’s lights went out, my parents suddenly found their living room full of all the neighborhood kids. Our faces illuminated by the glow sticks the electricians passed out earlier. How humanly beautiful must it have been. A constellation of glowsticks. Childhood isn’t easy. Nothing seems to be. But I think it was a time when community meant something beyond the page. We tasked ourselves, with every game we played, and every fight we had, to read one another carefully. How are you feeling? Should we fight pirates today? Your dad is looking for you. My mom asked your mom if I can stay over while she goes to the market. I’ll see you later. Let’s play mañana.
Alexa taps my arm when she is ready, and we return to her homework. She makes a sentence with fish. Writes, i can rescue the fish. I remind her to capitalize the i. We take another break in between the sentences and math. I want to make rest fun. I want Alexa and the other children to remember to look at the fish, to imagine the ocean moving, to slow down. What if tomorrow made time for rest? Wouldn’t we have time to look at the ocean then, too?
What do you know of survival?
Sandra Sanchez is a Salvi-American writer born and raised in LA. She holds a B.A. in English from F&M. Her work appears in Tropics of Meta, Touchtone Literary Magazine, Sims Library of Poetry, and Sin Cesar. When not working at her local library, you can find her scrolling through twitter at writingisrad.