Trigger Warning: This column includes references to childhood trauma and sexual violence. Reader discretion is advised.
When I reflect back to my early childhood, I often find myself beneath the canopy of a towering magnolia tree in my grandmother's backyard. Its sweet, lemony fragrance would linger in the warm air, and its large, waxy leaves provided the perfect shade for what, at the time, felt like endless fun adventures! I was just a little older than my son, who's almost 5, and similar to his life now, my days then were a mix of exploration, imagination, and the initial naïveté and wonderment that early childhood can sometimes offer.
My parents, both doctors and business owners, worked long hours, so I spent many days in my grandmother's care. Her yard became my playground, a world of discovery where I searched for and collected rocks, picked wildflowers, and spent time with her lively (and sometimes mean!) poodle, Charo. My grandmother named her poodle after the Spanish-born singer whose signature phrase was: "Cuchi-cuchi," which she often said while wiggling her hips. Lunch at Grandma's was just as unconventional: She let me eat buttery popcorn from a large bowl ("Don't tell your parents," she'd giggle) as we watched Judge Judy, Bob Ross, and The Golden Girls. Inevitably, my grandmother would doze off in her recliner, leaving me to resume my adventures outside.