I’ve always loved the idea of a thick forest, so tangled with branches and magic that it engulfs you in moments.
But I didn’t want one behind my house. It blocked my view of the expressway (which I preferred over a bunch of trees), and at night, it made my open window look like a sheet of lead instead of a nighttime landscape painting.
Someone else wanted that forest there though: a black panther. The day the city bulldozed the forest, the panther wandered into our backyard as if it were a common house cat.
The closest I had ever gotten to seeing a real black wild cat was the black panther Bagheera in Disney’s live-action version of The Jungle Book. The panther in my backyard was younger, brasher. He ambled silently like a trapeze artist at the beginning of a tightrope walk, graceful, balanced, and sure of the path ahead. He looked like an ink drawing, all ebony shine with curved lines and perfect proportions. It looked at me with the steely and unperturbed stare of a defiant teenager’s, its eyes enchanting marbles of fluorescent pale jade. Its poise made me feel pathetic.
I assumed I had seen a Florida panther, the state animal and endangered subspecies of Puma concolor. My theory was too fanciful; black panthers are about as real as Bagheera. According to the Florida Panther National Wildlife Refuge, large black cats are leopards or jaguars going through a melanistic (black) phase or spotted cats in a rare melanistic phase. More interestingly, the refuge claims, “there has never been a black or melanistic panther, cougar, or mountain lion [different names for P. concolor] documented in the wild or in captivity.”
And I thought the idea of a panther in a suburban backyard was far-fetched.
So the enchantment is this: sometimes, something you want to be real can never be real, but the idea of it is real, and an idea is the start of everything.
When I was eight, I wanted to be a chemist. Knowing this, a classmate gave me a chemistry kit for my birthday, and I made perfume with it, feeling intelligent in my cheap plastic goggles while holding a test tube above a flame. I used those goggles to dress up for career day and show my classmates what happens when baking soda (sodium bicarbonate) and vinegar (acetic acid) combine. Their awe fueled my dreams of concocting potions in a mad-scientist laboratory.
But my career aspirations were as fickle as that temporary reaction. It’s a multi-step reaction, meaning several steps happen so quickly that they seem to be one step. In the same way, several things combined to halt my career progress even while I fiddled with test tubes and practiced science with a mad-scientist themed computer game called Widget Workshop (shout out to the fun CD-ROM games of the 90s).
When sodium bicarbonate (NaHCO3) and acetic acid (CH3COOH) combine, they form unstable carbonic acid (H2CO3), the acid that gives soda that pleasant zing. Carbonic acid becomes water and carbon dioxide bubbles in the following decomposition reaction: H2CO3 ➜ H2O + CO2. In my life, the combination of the complexity of the chemistry kit experiments and the fact that chemistry was not included in the second-grade science curriculum formed the unstable foundation for my love of science. My demotivation reaction was the following: Curiosity of science (CS) ➜ Unwillingness to work hard (LaZ) + No knowledge of science (NO2How).
As the carbonic acid decomposes, sodium “leaves” the baking soda and acetate “leaves” the vinegar in a double replacement reaction. They combine to form sodium acetate (CH3COONa), a salt used in food preservation. Because carbon dioxide is heavier than air, the bubbles flow downward and dissipate, leaving only water, sodium acetate and a funny smell.
Two broken test tubes later, all I had left were chemicals too dangerous to use at home. I don’t even know what happened to my career day project. That's probably a good thing since it was all grey and used no colors like my classmates' projects. I thought I was being a good scientist by being professional sticking to one color. But I was just kidding myself.
Thankfully, unlike many, I didn't come to regret my decision later. In tenth grade, I finally took chemistry. The first chapter of the textbook was easy. Basic stuff that encouraged me in my studies. Then came the second chapter, and everything fell apart. Especially when I learned about moles, a concept I could never fully understand and had lots of trouble applying.
So the enchantment is this: the dreams that you have as a kid aren't always the ones you stick to and that's okay. But kids should be allowed to follow their dreams anyway. You never know when it might stick.
Once upon a time, a large family of perfect Barbie dolls lived in their perfect Barbie world. They were plastic; it was fantastic.
One day, a giant toymaker named Mattel invaded their land. Mattel kidnapped them, cloned them, packed them in boxes, and shipped them to different parts of a strange land. Miraculously, I reunited the family by choosing them out of all the clones in the toy stores and the family was happy again.
This was the story I made up to make all sixty-seven or so of my Barbies related. The mother was a glamorous white-haired beauty and their father had the the distinction of being able to grow facial hair. They had about sixty or so daughters and I named each one. (None of them were named Barbie, so I kept careful list of their names on paper.) They obviously raised their daughters to be independent as they all had successful careers—a dentist, a teacher, a model, a diver, a student, a princess, a biker, a veterinarian, and more.
Like the mythical Barbie character, my dolls were spoiled. They didn't have a dreamhouse, but they did have order and luxury. They had an impeccably clean pink RV with a kitchen and a pink limousine with a pool. Their tiny accessories were stored in pink bubble gum containers stripped of their sticker labels. Any accessories too big for the containers were always stored near them. I was constantly brushing their hair and making sure they didn’t share brushes. Their shoes were always on their feet—never the floor.
And though they were sisters, they never shared clothes either. It was too much of a hassle to change them, and why would the teacher wear the clothes that belonged to the dentist? Barbara’s outfit was Barbara’s and Tiffany’s outfit was Tiffany’s. End of story.
One day, I was forced to watch a girl I had just met change their clothes while we were playing in my room. Her pitch was high and her tone sing-song as she stole them from my imaginary world and played with them in hers. I stared at her, my brows fighting their muscular limits, my face as pink as the bubble gum containers. When she left, I indignantly put things in order and all was right again.
Today, these Barbie dolls and two Ken dolls live in a refugee camp: a plastic green box with a top that can never close completely. Their hair is matted and most of them are only half dressed. Almost all of them are barefoot. Their limousine is gone and their RV is dirty. Worst, their possessions are hopelessly lost, scattered in their camp and some landfills.
The family's world has been destroyed a second time; but, in the recesses of my seven-year-old imagination, I know their consolation is that they are together this time. Perhaps that’s why they still smile.
How they ended up in their camp is the most common story in toy history: I gave my Barbies to my little sister, who I never imagined wouldn't share my proclivities for organization and neatness. In the years after her birth, the family was separated, leaving behind random accessories, hairbrushes, and shoes—lots and lots of shoes. Once in a while, I’ll find a tiny toy and remember exactly which Barbie it belonged to and then put it in a box with other Barbie knickknacks, unwilling to throw them away while knowing the pieces will never come together and not really caring if they ever do.
My old toys are displayed on my bookshelves, and I’ve kept my stuffed animals. But when I stare at my Barbie dolls’ unnaturally starlit eyes, I am void of nostalgia. I now have one thought about the only imaginary world I have completely grown out of: “Too bad I can’t sell those dolls on eBay.”
Ironically, besides not being able to throw the Barbie box away, Barbie still has two holds on my life.
First, I surprised myself by falling in love with the film Barbie as the Princess and the Pauper, which, to others, could be deemed one of the least adult things I've ever done (but, thankfully, I firmly believe being an adult means liking and doing what you want, so there).
Second, I've become a fan of the web series "Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse," which is self-aware, smart and funny. It's a contrast to my sweet and cushy imaginary Barbie world, but it's so much more appealing than my faded memories. (And having watched a few Barbie movies thanks to my little sister, I can say the series is much less cheesy and awkward than other Barbie films.)
So the enchantment is this: something you thought you grew out of can surprise you.
