Curiosity Killed the Girl

When I was younger, fairies danced around my head. I counted the flutter of their wings, instead of sheep. I would envision fields of sunflowers, with endless sunshine. These visions often lead to dreams filled with magic; fairy dust filled my unconscious. Before I knew it, my dreamland was interrupted by my brother throwing my beloved stuffed animals at my head. I spent the day anticipating their return.

By the age of nine, I could make perfectly toasted grilled cheese, a symptom of my oldest daughter syndrome. If I placed a lid on top of the pan and cooked buttered bread on low heat, I would be left with a crunchy outside sheltering a gooey middle. My older brother always requested my simple creation, and I was proud to present him with my masterpiece. One day I burnt the toast because my barbies distracted me. I frantically tried to flip the toast to limit the damage, but instead, I elbowed a glass plate onto the ground. Glass shattered across the tile floor. I fell to the ground and wept.

In the winter, my older brother and I would chase each other around the house in wool socks. My younger sister would follow behind attempting to keep up. The lightly stained hardwood floors were slippery

against our thick socks. We passed the family room, we moved quickly past the front door that looked out to Thornwood Lane, we picked up speed as the large, untouched living room became a blur. We were now running through the dining room, dodging large wooden chairs and cabinets filled with delicate china. I blew out many years’ worth of candles at that dining room table. Each breath was filled with anticipation of the freedom that accompanied the extra candle carefully placed upon my favorite chocolate cake. We slid, we fell, we laughed, and we cried as we chased each other in circles. Our faces reflected genuine joy, until someone’s foot was punctured by a split in the old wood floors.

I knew how to remove a splinter by the time I was 10 years old. I hated needles, but I hated seeing my siblings in pain even more. At our young ages, a splinter carried the same weight as an amputation. So, I heated the needle, waited for it to cool down, and dug it into the bottom of my sibling’s foot. While holding their clammy hands I tried entering at different angles until the tip of the splinter broke the skin's surface. Sometimes the slivers of wood were very stubborn, they didn’t want to leave the comfort of my sibling’s skin. I understand the splinter's hesitation, another symptom of oldest daughter syndrome.

Many years, and splinters later my family visited my new temporary home in Ireland. I anticipated the arrival of the people who knew all my flaws and loved me regardless. We spent the week in a stone cottage outside of Galway. The cottage sat upon a small hill surrounded by an eerie fog every morning. The first morning my mom and I, with two Americanos in hand, walked through the backyard of the house. The morning fog rising in front of the dense greenery created a majestical image. Tall green plants barely revealed a weathered metal bench.

That morning, at about 10, we piled into the car. I got in first, securing a window seat. My parents were given a van as a rental car. It was the only car available to fit 6 people and seven suitcases. Sarah followed me. Wherever I go, she is always a few steps behind. As she sat down beside me, her bright blue eyes met mine and gave me a look I was all too familiar with. It was early, we hadn't had enough coffee and our 14-year-old prepubescent brother was annoying us.

Soon after the quick exchange Tommy stepped through the large sliding door of the van. Before his head could fully enter the van, he was greeted with an unpleasant request.

“Get in the back.” my sister Sarah said abruptly.

I suppose the request was more of a demand. His head lifted and his gaze met mine. I gave him a look that solidified his fate as it was too early, and I was too un-caffeinated to be the problem solver. His gaze fell back down as he slid his preferred seat back to reach his selected seat. I feel bad, but he’s younger and it’s just how it is.

Our youngest brother, Eddie, was the last to hop into the back of the van. Eddie can’t sit in the back row because he gets ‘car sick’. I believe he has grown out of said car sickness, but he has assumed the identity from a couple of prior incidents on the road. I don’t think the shaky movement of a car on unpaved roads makes Eddie sick. Rather, the true culprit is the massive bag of Swedish fish and Doritos he consistently consumes when we travel. But Eddie is the baby, and my mom’s favorite, especially when my older brother is not around. Although she would never admit to her favoritism, I don’t blame her. His olive freckle-filled face accompanied by his big blue doe-eyes makes it impossible to accuse him of doing anything wrong.

My parents got in the car last. My dad was ready to leave by 9:30, and my mom would've left at 11:30 if my dad hadn’t politely rushed her. As everyone settled in, we made our way to Connemara.

About 30 minutes into our drive I was thinking about a WB Yeats poem, titled The Stolen Child, that I had read earlier that week:

“Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand…”

The poem reminded me of a conversation I had with my mother a few weeks prior. I was telling her about the history of the Irish Fairy Changelings as our English professor had explained. According to the myth, children would be stolen from their parents and replaced by fairies imitating humans. We shared a laugh as I would have most definitely fallen into the trap of a fairy luring me into their world, as a child with an expansive imagination, that was constantly seeking an entity larger than me. Yet, the story stemmed from an attempt to explain children with mental illness or disabilities. I suppose we all makeup stories to explain complicated realities. Fairies depicted as evil supernatural creatures, murdered the remains of my younger self who dreamed of spending a day traveling alongside the magic-filled world of said fairies. 

“Mike” screeched my mom in the passenger seat.

The same screech had been repeated multiple times that day in an anxious response to my dad driving a van that takes up two lanes of the shockingly thin foreign roads of the Irish countryside. I often hold my breath when my mom yells. It reminds me of the nights when we were younger, and it all got too much for her. When her children’s ungratefulness pushed her beyond her nurturing capabilities. In those moments, I was taught that my mom isn’t superwoman, but she is more impressively human.

There were a few more “Mikes” and “Oh my gods” and a lot of my mom tightly grabbing the seat. In between my parents loving bickering, there was intense arguing between four of their five children.

“Shut up!”
“Stop kicking my seat, Tommy.”
“You are so annoying!”
At one point, Eddie lunged the top half of his body to the back seat and slapped Tommy in the face. I suppose he never stopped kicking his seat. My parents didn’t flinch as they continued singing along, in unison, to Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. After twenty-two years of parenting five children, you eventually become immune to conflict. After 20 years of being the oldest daughter, you become accustomed to searching for solutions to dissolve conflict.

“Last dance with Mary Jane, one last time to kill the pain” Mom sang, accompanied by Tommy and Eddie arguing as backup vocals. God, I wish I could kill my pain in the ass brothers.

I began desperately searching my surroundings for a distraction from the chaos. The solution to my problem was staring at me through the windows of our comically large van.

“Shut up and look out the window or the fairies will come get you!” I had strategically told them the folktale a few days prior.

An inevitable silence broke out as my siblings' gaze moved toward the breathtaking landscape. Hues of brown, green, and gray defined the rugged ground. Each hill caved into the horizon, as another one stood beside it ready to attract your eyes. Now the water was the real star of the show. In opposition to the large bodies of water that surround Galway, small lakes occupied rugged sections of the vast land. Vacant Islands filled the pools. The gray sky made the water look eerie and uninviting. The thought of taking a plunge into the dark abyss sent a shiver down my spine. Visions of perfect asymmetry met my gaze. The grass was tall, with weeds spilling over the greenery. A few moments later, the greenery was interrupted by a surplus of remarkably flat stones. Large slabs of stone covered the ground until the overgrown grass slowly appeared again. The diverse landscape made it feel as if we had passed through five different countries in five minutes.

My poetic experience had brought Yeats' lyrical text to life. Within the abrupt dips in the mountains, I saw the island inhabited by the fairies that lured innocent children. I saw the water, and I saw the wild coexisting. I saw the innocent Calves keeping close to their mothers. However, I could not find evidence of weeping or sorrow or misery. Even as the bickering between my siblings picked up again, I experienced no emotions of misery but instead, a strong sense of gratitude.

As I was attempting to fall asleep that night I thought about Irish folklore and the Yeats poem. A flood of images of my childhood flashed through my head. I began to understand the effectiveness of persuasion through misery. As a child, small inconveniences evoked such a strong sense of misery that the idea of it getting worse was unbearable. Maybe, that is the meaning of innocence. That’s why I dreamt of fairies and a supernatural world. That’s why I made fairy houses and hoped that they would take me with them to their world of fantasy. That night, I fell asleep to the image of the Connemara landscape. I imagined I had a house there, on the small island, with large windows with views so beautiful, they could be mistaken for paintings. My whole family was there, running around in a chaotic scene. Everything was perfect.