When I was around nine years old, my entire social calendar, which was quite full between after-school four square games in my driveway, dance practice, and Friday night sleepovers, revolved around the Fall Festival.
The Fall Festival always occurred around early or mid September, just a few weeks into the school year, when your backpack was brand new, your pencils were sharpened, your classroom still felt vaguely foreign and possibilities were endless. It’s one of those memories that made a profound impact on me; a vibrant third grade feeling, preserved in a jar.
My elementary school would set up a string of tents peppering the lawn, each one containing a booth with games you could play in exchange for a couple of the tickets your parents bought for you. There were lucky rubber ducks in a kiddie pool, bottle stand up, ring toss. It was like your dad went to Home Depot, tried to build you a Chuck E. Cheese in the backyard, and did an impressive job.
For more tickets, you could access the massive inflatable obstacle course, bouncy house, and a towering blow up slide. There was also the infamous dunk tank, where bold teachers were publicly humiliated for the sake of charity.
Adults were in charge of working the booths in different shifts. As a kid, you would take advantage of popping in at times to “help your parents out,” while really just cashing in on the chance to brush elbows with older students. Maybe for thrills. Maybe for protection. Maybe just for a status boosting “hey” in the hallway. An elementary school networking opportunity.
The Fall Festival leveled the playing field. There was no hierarchy. There were no uniforms. The wings of the school weren’t there to divide us. The entire student body, from Kindergarteners to eighth graders, was outside under the same sky, enjoying hours of games, music and food; a nine year old’s paradise.
I spent weeks carefully planning out my outfit, meticulously selecting the items that would make the most impact so I could solidify my reputation as a fashion icon. Events without uniforms were rare. I had to make them count.
Would the pink knit poncho perform better or should I go for the bedazzled rockstar shirt with the fishnet sleeves? What would catch his eye?
During all those years of Fall Festivals, my heart beat wildly for the same rosy cheeked boy. If I even so much as caught him looking at me during class, it was enough to send my heart off galloping into dreamland. During family road trips, I would stare out the window and think about him while I listened to Hilary Duff on my walkman. When my parents took us out to eat, I prayed that by chance his family would happen to be eating in the same restaurant. The very thought of running into him outside of school made my stomach flutter.
Before I could enjoy the games, stalk my crush, or race my best friend through the obstacle course, I had to perform. There was a talent show and I was part of a dance trio. Between rehearsals, costumes, and choreography, we took it quite seriously.
We would get together outside of school, leafing through CD after CD, looking for the perfect soundtrack to really wow the crowd. A sassy beat was essential. A girl power aura, a must.
We came up with dance sequences, always with a lot of hip shaking and hair flips, memorizing the steps and synchronizing our timing in my basement. We’d practice our routine over and over until we could dance it in our sleep, switching formations so that the performance didn’t get stale and ending with our signature “wow ’em” move; the splits.
Those performances meant everything to me. Being up on the stage when you’re nine years old and the school year has just begun, knowing that maybe, just maybe, your crush will see your star potential and fall madly in love with you. It was having everything your third grade heart wanted in a single instant.
I remember years later having a conversation with my longtime childhood friend as we were rounding the bend of childhood. It was the year that first Halloween felt different, when you realize things are about to change. I asked him how he felt about having to let go of our childhoods, and he simply said that he tried not to think about it too much. It was too painful to think it was over.
It’s a sad truth that all kids have to grow up. But that youthful feeling – that shimmying on stage to Britney Spears in your bedazzled Limited Too top, feeling excited to get up and go to school in the morning, having best friends who love the same movies with the same intensity as you do – that giddy feeling of falling in love at the Fall Festival. That’s not something you ever have to trade in for a paycheck, insurance and so-called reality.
The secret sauce is to chase that feeling all throughout your human existence. To try to make your nine year old self proud. Because she always exists somewhere in time and that chamber of her heart brimming with giddy possibility doesn’t ever really die.
