I only have one memory of my childhood. A memory that would not make sense without a little bit of background information. I grew up in the Dominican Republic in an area where the living conditions were hard and the surroundings were dangerous not because of robberies or anything like that but more because it was in the middle of the forest and you only had your neighbor to help you survive. It was about a 15-minute walk up and down hills to the bus stop and an hour-and-a-half bus ride to the city. It was by definition the middle of nowhere. It rained all the time and we were surrounded by forest on one side and sand on the other. 

       Growing up there was the highlight of my life. When I was about 5 or 6, my grandmother and I were home alone like most days and it was raining. I still remember the sound of the rain hitting the metal roof of our house and the rhythmic sound of the water falling sounding almost like a small waterfall. The smell of the wet grown and the lemon tree out back. It was like paradise to me. My grandmother and I were sitting by the door in our backyard which looked out into the forest. We sat eating mangoes and singing songs to the rain. I could swear that I saw the trees dancing to our song. I wanted to dance with the trees and I told my mother, she got up and started dancing in the rain. She screamed at me to never be afraid to dance with the trees in the rain. She told me that the trees were my friends because I belong to them as much as they belong to me. I danced with her that day in the rain. I sang to the rain and asked her to turn the water into blessings. I danced with the trees and made them my friends. To this day I do not use an umbrella when it rains. I just let the rain wash over me, just like it did that day.

The two teams were decided. Seven on both sides. The best of the best were posted at the frontlines. Hands on their knees, each of them set in a crouch start position. All eyes were on the three cherry red dodgeballs perfectly centered for the taking. Ready? Set. Go! My trembling heart was begging to run in the opposite direction. But, my devilish grin said otherwise. As a stranny and short elementary schooler, playing a game of dodgeball was a concussion or a broken rib waiting to happen. It was too late. Squeaking sneakers and an inaudible loud chatter had already started. My mission was to stay hidden so my chances of getting cracked in the nose by a speeding ball of rubber were low. Of course, that plan could not last forever since eventually everyone will be out of the game and I would be forced to scrounge up the little athleticism I had. Using your teammates as human shields also becomes increasingly difficult when their sweat-stained shirts and the aroma of wet mops kick in. “Bing!” “Dong!” The sound of the dodgeballs crashing into walls and limbs makes the game more worrisome, yet all the more exciting. The poker-face expressions on faces as they cock their arms back to beam the ball in a direction nobody saw coming is testament to how dodgeball brings out the sadism in pre-teens.

I still remember the rules of the game. If you catch the opponent’s ball, they are out. If you get hit by the ball without catching it, you are out. You can, for some reason, punch or kick the ball out of the way. My best bet was to catch the ball of someone with a weak throw so I could sustain the tingling sensation of getting hit as my abdomen takes a second to absorb the impact. Then, I will pass it to one of the heavy hitters on my team and we can form our own Batman and Robin duo. The problem with that strategy is I would no longer be hidden and I’d become public enemy #1. “Thoomp!” I caught one! The rough and scratchy texture of the ball stung in the palm of my hands as the smell of burning plastic lingered. I finally got someone out. I passed the ball to the tallest kid on our team and he windmilled his arm before the ball cut through the air and bounced off of an exposed forehead. We were gaining momentum. My feet were jittery. My blood was pumping. The taste of salty sweat was reaching my lips.

Like all good things, that momentum came to an end. With adrenaline comes bravery, and I wandered too closely to the boundary. It was just three kids on both sides now. Two of the balls were in the hands of the enemy. My attention was split in half. Whose ball could I dodge? Whose throws hurt more? It was a matter of relying on my reflexes or my pain tolerance at this point. That was when I threw my torso to the right and felt the breeze of the ball fly past me. “Bing!” Everything went dark. The smell of burning plastic returned. My right ear was reduced to an endless ringing. My face felt doused in boiling grease. I opened my eyes to find myself sitting on the cold gym floor and rubbing the heat on my face. The abrupt laughter of mean kids could not drown out the thought of “I’m never doing this again.”