My personal narrative

I spent the better part of the afternoon sifting through a mountain of closet “junk.” Spring cleaning had come early for me because of a concrete college schedule and I knew that this would be the only chance for me to salvage any childhood memorabilia. It would go to the trash if I didn’t.

                There were piles of old books, notebooks, drawings, and scouting badges. My first pinewood derby car was set tenderly next to my Pokemon card collection. Everything had its place in my life. Everything had a purpose. I felt that I had finally reached the end when a small picture fell from an old album. It was a picture of my kindergarten graduation. A small boy with a few missing teeth smiled back at me. His dark brown hair stood up in strange places despite all of mother’s care and fussing over it. His colorful shirt and jean shorts typified his everyday apparel. This was me. As my mind wandered to and fro I remembered a time much simpler. I remembered when I was seven years old.

                “Hey Nathaniel,” said my father with a smile on his face. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

                It took me virtually no time to respond to his silly question. I had thought long and hard about this question already and I had the answer to it on the tip of my tongue.

                “When I grow up I want to be a baker!”

                My father seemed a little amused by this statement. He asked a follow-up question just to be sure of my motives.

                “Why do you want to be a baker?” he asked carefully.

                “Well…,” I said, “I want to be a baker so that I can make bread anytime that I want to. I really like bread.”

                “Hmm…,” he replied, “I like bread too. I think that you’ll make an excellent baker.”

                When he didn’t ask me anything else I came up with a question of my own. I was, after all, quite curious about many things in life.

                “Hey Dad…” I asked.

                “Yes son?”

                “When you were my age, did you want to become a social worker?”

                He looked me straight in the eyes, then threw his head back and gave a little chuckle. His stomach jiggled up and down slightly as he laughed.

                “No son. Actually, when I was your age I wanted to be an archaeologist—.”

                “A what?” I interrupted.

                “An archaeologist. They are basically explorers that get to travel the world and look for old ruins and artifacts.”

                “Oh,” I said, “kind of like Indiana Jones?”

                “Yup! Exactly like Indiana Jones.”

                This revelation was startling to me. I had been so used to the idea that my dad was a social worker that I had just assumed that was what he had always wanted to be. It never even occurred to me that he had wanted to be something else. This was a puzzle indeed.

                “Well, if you wanted to be an archaeologist then why did you become a social worker?”

                He continued to smile and after a moment’s pause, responded back in his fatherly wisdom.

                “I became a social worker because I changed. I decided that I wanted to help people more than I wanted to be an archaeologist.”

                A call from downstairs brought me back to reality. It was dinner time. I had to leave my childhood memories behind for a while. As I leapt down the stairs I pondered on my own journey since those days of long ago. Dreams of baking and bread had been replaced with different dreams. Life had taught me more important lessons.

                As I entered the dining room wonderful smells made that ache in my stomach region even more powerful. Shake and bake chicken with vegetables decorated the table with kingly fashion. The best was the sight of my mother’s homemade bread. It all looked so good.

                I took my place and then we blessed the food. My dad said the prayer. As we passed the food around the table I looked at my Dad and something inside me made me proud to call him my father. He had fewer hairs on his head since my childhood years and those that were left were speckled with gray. His charm and kindness remained though. A thought passed through my head and I discovered within myself that I had developed a new dream to become when I grow up.

                I made eye contact with him and asked a simple question, “Can you pass the bread?”

                He winked and smiled. “Yes son, I think I can.”

                I didn’t have to say it to him. He already knew. There was something in his eyes that told me that he knew what I now wanted to be; what I wanted to do. I had grown up at last.