(Editor's note: I explain the backstory behind this in this months Flight of the Vlogyries video, which you, if interested, are more than welcome to watch here.)
If I were to spend an afternoon with my 4th grade self, I'd take her bowling and rollerskating and to a planetarium and to go see some dinosaurs. I'd show her how to make a salad with spinach and cranberries and walnuts and have her help me make a casserole and a cake from scratch.
The whole time, I'd remind her of the important things, like brushing her teeth and listening to others, really, really listening. I'd remind her that the things we make up in our heads are dreams. I'd leave her with a notebook and a pen and tell her to keep her dreams there.
If I had a day with my 7th grade self, I'd give her a recipe for blackberry pancakes and a grocery list and take her to the store before making her make breakfast. Then we'd commander the TV and watch rented episodes of Buffy and Gilmore Girls and West Wing. I'd take her to buy nerf guns and frisbees and we'd spend the afternoon in the park.
I'd tell her that her body is a beautiful mess that she has to take care of. I'd make her promise, pinky swear, to talk to her mother about bras and makeup and periods and friends and basketball and boys, because I think her mother is just waiting for her to ask. I'd show her how to use a telescope and point it at the Orion Nebula and tell her that she can study things like this, if she wanted to. I'd leave her with a new toothbrush and floss, a copy of Sonnets From the Portuguese, a couple of script books, and a notebook and a pen, because there's a world inside of her that no one is going to know about until she tells them.
I'd spend a morning with my 9th grade self. We'd go to Target and after racing carts around the store and trying out all the furniture and perusing the music and movies, we'd go to the clothes. I'd have her pick out one outfit and then I'd pick one out for her. We'd go choose one pair of shoes each. I'd explain those intimidating walls of makeup and hair products, if I still needed to, and then I'd drag her home and show her the kind of pretty she can be when she wants. She can be the kind of woman that men want to look at, and that's okay. She can let a boy hold her hand and kiss her cheek- it's not going to crack her armor.
Then I'd take her driving with the windows down and the music up and teach her to sing along loud. I'd tell her that cars are perfect places for deep conversations and that when she meets a boy named Isaac, she should never ask him to try to change. When I drop her off, I'd stop her from leaving the car until she swore she'd ask her daddy to show her how to make a turkey dinner. I'd leave her with a reminder to brush twice a day, floss once, be present in everything, and to slow down when she talks to her elders. I'd put a notebook in her backpack with a list of movies and shows and books and bands for her to experience when she wants something new.
I'd spend the last week of the summer before sophomore year of college with myself because we have a lot to talk about and the hurt she carries can still sit me down today. I think we'd pull out the frisbee again, but this time take kites and sandwiches and make a day at the beach of it. We'd have a nerf gun fight, but I'd make her organize 7 person teams in the park. We'd see dinosaurs and stars and art and plays. We'd go shopping for a good cocktail dress and cosmetic basics and I'd buy her a pair of boots that she will adore.
In between driving the Blue Ridge parkway and listening to the Avett Brothers and cooking Sunday dinner for the family, we'd watch Lost or The Office and I'd tell her about how purpose is an amorphous blob until you find what you love, and that it will bounce you around all the way up until it solidifies and smacks you in the face. I'd tell her that she doesn't owe her Ideas of Who She Is or the Things She Said She'd Be anything. She is not beholden to the sadness she takes on her shoulders. I'll remind her that she is an old soul, one that maybe took too much joy the last time around, but that that doesn't mean she can't have any this time. I want to find her a boy that will spin her around and tell her that she gets to be happy and watch that stupid glorious hope dawn in her eyes.
And while she's distracted, I'd leave her with a set of pots and pans, $500 in a retirement account, a prepaid Netflix account, and a binder with core strengthening exercises, recipes, approximate cost of dental fillings and root canals, and articles on creativity, the large scale structure and fate of the universe, feminism, and false dichotomies. Beside the binder, I'd put a beer glass with a Star Wars toothbrush, the perfect shade of lipstick, and an empty flash drive.
She'll know what to do.
