The St. Patrick’s Day Debacle of 1995
Once upon a time, I was mobbed by five-year-olds.
Now I can’t watch zombie movies or television.
It was any other spring day, or so I believed.
Dad made me eat breakfast, mom made sure I was dressed appropriately and drove me to kindergarten.
It was kinda foggy and cold. Well, for me it was cold. I guess it was an ordinary Oakland morning, around 65 degrees with the fog sticking around.
Dad was busy, his work is always crazy intense in the spring, and mom was finally gestating the future sibling I’d been demanding for years. (I really really wanted a little sister.)
I spent the drive to school looking out for my landmarks: the hidden off-ramp from the freeway, the blue structure at the top of the hospital I’d been born at (or so my mother claimed…). All the little things that made the route familiar and comforting.
I had no idea it was a special day. Like every other day, the first thing I did when I got to the small fenced-in yard with the outdoor play area that my class used was look for my BFF.
When I found her, she said, “You know it’s St.Patrick’s day, right?”
“No.”
“You’re supposed to wear green on St Patrick’s day.”
