Let's be kind, and rewind to what details of my childhood I can try and piece together pre-fire. I think we can safely conclude that before one's story can be told, one must be conceived and ultimately born. So, we'll start there.
For the longest time, I detested anything lemony.
I know you're probably wondering what this has anything to do with my birth... bear with me – we'll get there shortly.
Anything that contained a strong lemon taste – I could not tolerate it.
I love the look of lemons and limes – aesthetically.
If it was used as a subtle garnish or as a zesty splash of flavor – fine. Could do.
If it was all lemon or a very strong lemony flavor – nope. No could do.
Here is where my birth comes into play. I recently discovered why I was like that for the longest time.
Would you like to guess what my momma craved while pregnant with me?
Yep. You guessed it...
...mango.
Kidding.
I love mangoes, actually. Give me some mango paired with sticky rice, drizzled with some coconut milk, and topped with some crispy rice cereal... one of my favorite desserts.
But yes, I'm sure you probably guessed it, she craved lemons... in their many different forms. Forget pickles with ice cream or chocolate cake with pinto beans, because fetus-Cece craved those lemons for some odd reason. I've warmed up to them since then. With that irrelevant fact leading us to my initial entrance into the world, we'll focus now on my actual birth.
I guess I just wanted to give y'all every detail I possibly could! I just wanna paint a clear picture for you, ya know.
I can't help but wonder that I was perfectly content where I was while hanging out in my momma's belly... given I was born about two weeks late. This was also just a matter of two days before my momma's very own birthday... making me the absolute BEST birthday present she has ever received.
You're welcome – momma!
So, on the first day of Spring, unless it's a Leap Year, I was born. A.K.A.: thrown to the metaphorical wolves that is the world we live in.
Let's have a brief history lesson to see if you can guess what year I was born by the following context clues:
• The U.S. President in the White House was Ronald Reagan – and even delivered his famous speech at the Berlin Wall that same year.
• The number one song the day and year I was born was Jacob's Ladder by Huey Lewis & the News – which is funny considering I grew up obsessed with Mark Wills and his version of the song.
• The number one movie the day and year I was born was Lethal Weapon.
• "Full House" debuted the same year I did.
• Gas averaged at about 83 to 89 cents per gallon, milk around $1.07 per gallon, postage stamps about 24 cents each, and a whopping 65 cents for a dozen eggs.
Notable events that occurred the same year I was born include, but are not limited to: Aretha Franklin being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Britain's Order of the Garter was opened to women, the first Final Fantasy video game for the NES was released by Square in Japan, Margaret Thatcher was elected as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom for the third time, Prozac first made its debut in the U.S., and a specific supernova became the first that was capable of being observed by the naked human eye.
I am certain those little tidbits of information will more than give it away.
Now, I don't remember so much from this part of my life, so I will share what I do know based strictly on eyewitness testimony from those who do remember.
Though the ability to determine the gender of your baby in utero was something that could be done back when I was born, I'm assuming that for whatever reason, my parents didn't know mine beforehand. I make this assumption because of what my paternal grandpa did when he found out that I was a girl; he either wasn't informed beforehand or didn't believe it if he was.
No girls had been born on my dad's side of the family in years. Because of this, when my grandpa was told that I was a girl – he did not believe them. Instead, he made a point to come into the room, made a beeline for my momma before giving her a small kiss on her forehead, undid my diaper, and confirmed that I was, indeed, a girl... just before bursting into happy tears. If you knew my grandpa, you'd know that this was something very out of character for him... he's very rough around the edges. From that point forward, apart from my brother, that side of my family only had girls for many years.
I never have been a big trend follower.
I say this with a heavily sarcastic tone because, for the longest time, I was heavily influenced by trends... whether I liked them or not. We'll get into that a bit more a little later on in the series.
I was born looking like what could only be described as "a little Indian baby," complete with a Mohawk in place of a tomahawk. To avoid any confusion, I need to provide y'all with a bit of context.
I am Native American Indian. I grew up in one of the states – if not 'the' state – most notably known for Native American tribal land, members, and culture. We even had an old Indian graveyard, like a potter's field, behind my neighborhood growing up.
Well, one of the neighborhoods.
I'm getting there, don't you worry, as I'm sure you were.
It also just so happens to be where bear wrestling was made illegal.
You didn't hear that wrong. Trust me, I thought I read it wrong when I first read it.
You've seen those articles on ridiculous laws for each state and whatnot... yeah.
That's not the case here, as it needed to be enforced. I mean, I'm sure those laws sound so outrageous because we typically hear them without any context behind them. I'm sure they wouldn't just create a law if something didn't happen to prompt it in the first place, ya know? But I don't know the circumstances behind those laws. I do, however, know the context behind this one... so, I'll just quickly include what prompted the bear wrestling in my home state.
I guess some bars and their loyal, albeit moronic patrons, thought having bear wrestling matches was a fabulous idea– more than likely having to resort to drugging, declawing, and defanging the bear's pre-match. I can only speculate that would just defeat the purpose of the fights in general, but I mean... whatever bakes your cookies, or fights your bears, I suppose. To be completely honest, I didn't know that there even were bears in my state except in zoos or other animal exhibits like them. I mean, I'm sure there are some out there somewhere in the wild in my state – but I couldn't tell you where to find them... let alone collect them in bulk for drunken bar matches.
I know that seemed a bit random, but I'm trying to give as many details as possible to paint a clearer picture of my background without revealing other details if that makes sense at all.
Get used to this kinda scattered chaos – you'll be seeing a lot of it.
I now want to provide some clarification behind how my looks were described as an infant, so people know I'm not being culturally disrespectful. I'll go into more detail about my ethnic background and heritage a little later.
My toddler days may be a blur for me – but not so much for others.
I can't use the terms and phrases that were used because they're not very polite.
So, we'll just say I was the type that liked to make an entrance, make that presence known, leave an impression in my wake... and leave it at that.
I took my first steps at around eight months old.
My first word was "dada," which you'll come to learn was ironic.
I had a pacifier for longer than my parents intended because, allegedly, I was a little heathen child. I used to wrap my hair around my binky several times over. If my hair was long enough to do this with a pacifier, I asked my mom how old I was when I stopped using one. She stressed how many times they tried weaning me off it, even resorting to throwing it out the car window one time. They were immediately forced to obtain a replacement as soon as possible, considering I screamed bloody murder until I got it back.
I believe my momma when she says this... I always have been high maintenance. My family used other terms for it, but as I said earlier, I can't repeat them as they're not very polite.
I finally gave the pacifier up when they cut the tip of it off over the trash can and promptly threw what remained of the pacifier away. I guess this was resorting to drastic measures in my young, toddler brain... therefore, just affirmed it was unfortunately time to retire the source of comfort.
To answer your question, yes... I did end up having dental issues as I got older.
I would like to note here that times were vastly different back then. Let me give y'all a quick lesson on Generation X & Millennials... especially if you're referring to a Southern-most breed of the species. There is nothing simpler and more carefree than being a child spotting a gumball machine somewhere. We would spot one, beg our parent or guardian for a quarter, and turn that knob with utter anticipation, idly awaiting the moment we found out what color gumball we would get.
But what happens when you lift that panel to retrieve the precious gumball, only for it to fall to the floor, cracking the outer shell to smithereens? If it were salvageable, you better believe our southern mothers just scooped it up off the floor and gave it a quick dusting, just before popping it right back into your mouth. Heck, even if it weren't salvageable – you'd still end up settling for it... or nothing at all.
If only people could be like gumballs of Southern children – just pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and go about your business. We grew up drinking water hose water, told to rub dirt into scrapes, and the ever-so-popularly-known "brush it off". Complaining was frowned upon, and we were spanked relentlessly before quickly learning our lessons.
My Nana was someone my attitude was no match for. If I even attempted to throw a tantrum or what we call a "hissy fit," she would tell me that when I finally decided to stop throwing the fit – she would be waiting for me in the other room.
My gosh, I miss her so much.
I've come a long way since my toddler tantrum days, just to throw that out there.
Now, I just passionately disapprove of things.
I may have been an ornery little thing in my younger days, but my brother has me beat.
Sure. I may have sung, "Nanny, nanny, boo, boo... you can't get me!" over a Walmart loudspeaker in my toddler days, but that was quickly overshadowed by my brother accidentally setting our fridge on fire. So... there's that.
I'm telling ya... the kid's got talent.
A very specific kind of talent... but talent, no less.
Also, note the irony of the full-circle moment from singing over a Walmart loudspeaker as a toddler – to reading a memoir of my scattered inner chaos as an adult.