I DON’T WANT TO BE // A PROLOGUE TO HISTORY

Spanish-speaking kids are rolling down the hill. The sound effect they make is “roll! roll! roll!” The smallest one in a red turtleneck doesn’t really know how to roll and has to push himself through every turn. “I’m alive!” Another small one sitting with another family tries to imitate them but it probably isn’t as fun alone. A young francophone family has sat down to my right and the boys’ path is obstructed. Today, Sunday, is free museum day and the sun is out and many families are around. Some guys below strum and drum against a single guitar. It is late afternoon and the shadow cast by the Redpath Museum shifts and soon I will be entirely consumed. “Elle consomme moins que votre blonde,” reads the car ad (for a BMW mini) at the Roddick Gates. A helicopter chop-chop-chops above. The tent is set up for Convocation. The shadow has now consumed me and only the tip of my left shoe sees the sun. The francophone family beside me actually speaks Spanish. I should move back into the sun. I should read about the Soeul punk scene. Sometimes more than I wish I spoke French, I wish I spoke Spanish. I could be like a character called Molly. The skinny girls get up and check their bums for grass stains. The guys put away their guitar. I am going to move back into the sun, until the shadow consumes me once more. The last song on the album has ended. A young dad tries to help his pudgy little Asian baby stand up to pose for a photo. It’s hard kid, I know. (on lined paper from a couple hours ago, sitting on Lower Field, Sunday afternoon)