From the novel ‘I’m An Echo Burnt By The Sun’
“I was born in noise.” That’s how my mother always begins the story. “Somewhere at the turning of seasons,” she’d say, with a mix of nostalgia and exasperation. “A storm raged outside, but you? You were calm. Until you weren’t.”
I wish I had been born to the sound of jazz—dreamy and soulful. But no, I arrived amidst chaos, laughter, and tears of joy. I was wanted, deeply wanted. The only child.
A Childhood Without a Childhood
“Her childhood?” my grandmother would say with a sigh, shaking her head.
“She didn’t have one. She was small, yes, but never a child. She rushed into adolescence, swallowing the butterfly whole. She grew up too fast.”
I adored my first teacher, though. She adored me too. By the time I was four, I could read, so first grade felt like a waste of time. The only thing I truly learned was how to use a dialogue dash. Funny, isn’t it? My first real lesson in storytelling.
Freedom in Torn Shorts
I hated skirts. Despised them. “She always wanted to be a boy,” my mother would say, laughing as she flipped through old photo albums.
But I didn’t want to be a boy. I wanted their freedom. I wore torn shorts, oversized pants, sneakers, and strange T-shirts. “You can’t pass as a boy,” my friend would tease. “You’re too delicate. Too careful with yourself.” But I loved my scars. They told stories. Even now, I look at my knees and see my childhood etched in them.
My Grandmother’s Pride
“She had the strangest haircut,” my grandmother would add, her voice tinged with pride.
A French bob. Bangs straight across, short at the back, just above the ears. I hated it, of course. But Grandma insisted.
Still, I loved being at my grandparents’ house. They didn’t live in the countryside like most, but just ten minutes from my apartment. I spent more time there than at home, like so many kids do. Grandma spoiled me with sweets and toys. She’d take me out into the city and buy me whatever I wanted. My room was full of plush toys, musical gadgets, and anything that could sing or talk.
But my favorite gift? A little music box for jewelry. I didn’t have jewelry, so I filled it with candy wrappers, buttons, and tiny treasures I found on the ground. That music box held my world.
When I was ten, we moved to the capital. I was heartbroken to leave my grandparents but thrilled to explore a new world. “She was always like that,” my mom says, smiling. “Torn between what she loved and what she dreamed of.”
Family Conspiracies
“Our family is full of conspiracies,” Grandma would say with a mischievous grin. She always slipped me money behind Grandpa’s back. Later, she became my harshest critic. “Out of love,” she’d insist. I understand now. I was their only grandchild, their only child’s child—their dream wrapped in flesh. How could I ever live up to that?
My mother, though, was different. She was my ally, always by my side. “She’s my destiny,” Mom would tell anyone who’d listen. “She’s meant for something big.” She gave me freedom, more than I think I’ll ever give my own children. She let me experiment, live, and fly.
Dad? He’s a big kid at heart. Stubborn, yes, but there’s something endearing about the way he softens after a big fight, like he’s silently asking for forgiveness. “Your father is the most loyal man I know,” my mom says. “The most honest, the kindest.” And he is.
I miss my childhood. It feels like a beautiful suitcase I carry with me, filled with memories. A photo album I can flip through, pulling out a perfect picture whenever I need it.
A Revolution at Five
Five years after I was born, revolution erupted. Gunshots echoed in the streets while I screamed unknowingly. I don’t remember those moments of terror—my memories only begin after the calm returned.
Democracy swept in like a lifeline, but it wasn’t what people had hoped for. “They indulged themselves,” my father once said, “as if punishing the old regime with excess.” It was a false freedom. But I didn’t notice. I was too busy building my own world.
I lived in the pages of the Brothers Grimm, Peter Pan, The Little Mermaid, Cinderella, and Mary Poppins. My dollhouse wasn’t just a toy; it was my universe. My little fingers—my gegetele, as I called them—brought everything to life. My fingers were golden. They created.
The Aspiring Marie Curie
“When she was little, she wanted to be Marie Curie,” my mom loves to tell people.
It’s true. I had a whole lab hidden in my wardrobe. I read encyclopedias by flashlight, perched under blankets. Once, I hit my head on a nail above the closet while experimenting. I thought it was just a bump until I saw the blood soaking my pillow.
I walked to my parents, holding my bloodied pillow with a quiet courage I didn’t know I had. “Daddy,” I said, showing him the streaks of red. He didn’t panic. He fetched some cotton, dabbed it with alcohol, and bandaged me up. “There,” he said, smiling at my lopsided grin.
“I’ll be good from now on,” I promised.
I wasn’t.
I became an actress instead.
