Tadpoles and Frogs: A Short Memoir

When I was a child, I treasured the my bicycle rides I took to visit the river two blocks away from our townhouse in a small community located North of Downtown Miami, Florida. My parents never knew how far I rode, but Grandpa was aware that I daily returned home from school and quickly prepared to go on an adventure with my great friend Michael. Since the girls in my neighborhood were always concerned with lady-like tea parties and dressing up Barbie dolls, Michael became my very best friend for two years.

He was thirteen-years-old, two years my elder. We loved our excursions to the river that neighbored our community because we escaped the lunacy of what the world offered us. Michael’s parents didn’t care to have him around much, and I didn’t care to be near my parents. Michael and I humorously discussed at times that we should trade places, but I joked that I didn’t have the heart to send him off to live with my crazy, racist, and stubborn parents.

I was up early one Spring Sunday morning eating a bowl of cereal as I watched “The Smurfs.” Suddenly, I heard a tap coming from the sliding door that led to my opened back yard.   I was a bit annoyed that someone interrupted the episode when Gargamel captured Smurfette. I looked around the corner and saw Michael grinning as he waved hello. “He never comes on Sundays,” I thought to myself. He stepped back as he saw me make my way to the sliding door.
“Hey, what’s up,” I said.
Michael was tall with short black hair. He was somewhat of a gentle giant but he was childishly handsome. He tended to walk with a purpose as if his destination depended on his presence. Other kids in the neighborhood respected him, and he had very few enemies. Although he wasn’t a great student at school due to a minor learning disability, his teachers liked him.
“You wanna go riding?” He asked. His bike parked right outside.
“Hum, yea, sure, okay,” I responded.

I ran upstairs to my parents’ room, and as Mama stretched her body on her bed, I asked her for permission. I was surprised when she allowed me to go riding on a Sunday—on Sundays we always attended church. South Americans, especially in our Chilean culture, are devoted Catholics who never miss a Sunday mass. Even with her short black hair and small stature, Mother was a strikingly good-looking woman who was worn out from scrubbing sinks and toilets. Her hands and feet constantly caused her discomfort, and her twelve-hour workday nearly wore her out. She, like my father, worked the same excruciating hours since our arrival to The United States on September of 1980.

I excitedly ran to my room, opened the closet door, found my soccer shorts, and slipped them on. When I took off my shirt, terror overcame me as I noticed that my chest had grown two slightly visible bumps. I’d seen the bumps gradually appearing over time, but now they were even more noticeable. “Oh my God!” I screamed. I looked up towards the mirror, looked down, toward the mirror, looked down. “Ah!” My grandfather, who’s bedroom was next to mine, ran into my room and asked, “Are you okay?”
“No, look at me!” I pointed to my chest.

My grandfather smiled and asked me to please quickly cover up. I shockingly did so, but the terror did not escape my body. I was innocently trembling as if I just stepped out of warm water and out into a cold breeze. As I stood in front of the door sized mirror, I began to ask myself why I had caught “this” disease. Surely I washed my hands often, I made sure I took a bath everyday, and I mot certainly devotedly prayed to God every night. For a long time as a child, I only wore a pair of shorts at the beach. My parents felt extremely uncomfortable with my choice, but they never prevented me from doing so. Granddaddy never made a fuss about it, but now, he was. “Why?” I asked him.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “you are growing up now. See…when girls grow up they-“ He kept gently chatting about how girls grew up to be women, and how men did certain things, and babies came out…and so on. His voice, although I allowed him to conclude his speech, sounded like an old radio trying to avoid static noise. As I began to put on my sneakers, I noticed that Grandpa had a saddened look upon his face. The gaze in his eyes and his demeanor portrayed a sense of painful loss, and I couldn’t contain the urge to give him a big kiss on the cheek. “Well, I have to go now,” I said. And I never looked back to check on him as I exited the room.

When I reached Michael, he was feeding chunks of our bread to the neighborhood ducks. He looked at me, gave me a weird penetrating smile, bit his lower lip, and cleaned the crumbs off his hands against his shorts. He nervously said, “I hope you don’t get angry, but I got some of your bread to feed them. I was bored.”

“It’s okay. Let’s go now.” As we began to jump on our bikes, I tried to analyze why Michael looked at me that way? His eyes peeped at me in a most uncomfortable way and it nearly gave me the sensation to slap him across the face. I also realized that for the very first time in my short life, I had something physical to hide—something forbidden, as my grandfather advised me.

The day was exceptional for a ride. The air was crisp, the sun was welcoming, and the breeze cooled us. As the smell of fresh oak and pine permeated my brain, I quickly returned to a happy state and suggested a race towards the river. Michael declined the race and said that he would rather just take a slow ride there. “What? He never said no to a race,” I thought to myself. We always raced, because we were always so competitive.

The short trip to the river was silent, and all I could hear was the noise that our tires made as they rolled through the pavement of the road. When we arrived to our spot, we found the two terror twins from the neighborhood paddling on a canoe. I quickly shot them a piercing stare that immediately sent them paddling away. The twins, Timmy and Chad were blond, had blue eyes with long faces, and both were extremely thin. They were always suspended from school due to poor and deviant behavior, and they spend most of the time causing trouble around the neighborhood. Since I landed a brutal blow to Timmy’s face one summer, however; they were terrified of me, and they always ran the opposite direction when they saw me coming. Michael jumped off his bike and walked towards the bank of the river. He squatted and began to stare at the clear water. The pine trees whistled in the breeze and the smell of dampness blended in with the smell of the Flowers that were nested in between the brushes .

I walked up next to him and said as I pointed towards the water, “Look tadpoles!”
“Let me see.”
“They are so weird,” I said.
“To think that those tiny things will turn into frogs some day,” He responded.
“What?”
“Those little tadpoles,” he said, “Will turn into frogs one day.”

I remember dreadfully thinking that the little tadpoles were going to unwillingly transform into slimy frogs. They would have to hop to get around as frogs, when as tadpoles; they were free to float and swim through the clear waters of the river. Against their will, the tadpoles were going to turn into frogs—ugly bumpy frogs.

Michael quickly changed his mood and asked, “Vivian, do you like me?” Vivian? He never called me by my name! “Viv” That’s what he called me. I walked over to a bush and yanked a dangling branch. I walked towards him, then around and faced his back. “Off course I like you, we have a great time together. You’re my best friend.”

“That’s not what I mean,” He replied as is eyes still focused on the tadpoles. “I mean, you ever would, I mean, would I think, oh….would I be able to, ah, kiss you?” I became annoyed and apathetic to his feelings not because I was shy, but due to the abrupt interruption of my childhood. My palms began to sweat, and I felt the erratic beats of my heart pumping in the center of my throat. Without warning, a frog leaped from one rock to another at the foot of the bank, and in anger; I threw the branch at the toad missing it only by inches. Frightened, the frog hopped off the rock and disappeared among the bushes that encircled the bank.

“I have to go now,” I spoke after a brief silence. Michael didn’t say a word as I jumped on my bicycle and I raced away from the river. I stopped a few yards away and turned back. Amazingly, Michael remained in the same position I left him—squatted down staring at the water. I frantically raced against the wind, and the intensity of sun almost choked me. As I peddled my way home, one single mental picture played in my brain. It was a vivid image of my bicycle wheels running over the frog and the only visible body parts left were its tiny, little, slimy legs.

When I arrived home, I slowly took a warm shower, and I tried to scrub off the bumps with soap, but they were still there when I began to get dressed. I soon heard a knock on my door. I heard grandpa’s voice, “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
“I got something for you,” He said as he took out something from a shopping bag. “It’s a bra.” He nervously placed it on my chest and said, “See, girls use it once their bodies begin to change. Put it on.”
“No! I want to be a tadpole!” I screamed and began to cry.
“What’s this about?” He asked.
“I don’t want to change, I don’t want Michael to kiss me, and I want these bumps to go away!”

My sweet grandfather explained that all girls went through this change and that I should be proud that it was happening to me at such a young age. He said that I was beautiful and special, and that some day, I would love to have all the Michael’s of the world kiss me. He said that even tough I felt strange, that I would always be his little, beautiful, adventurous baby.

He gave me a kiss, stood up, walked out of my room and closed the door behind him. I walked over to the door-sized mirror, and I tried on the bra. I sourly looked in the mirror for minutes. In an almost peculiar manner, I stared at my long shiny black hair, my long lashes and brown eyes; and then back to my chest. “Well,” I spoke to myself, “At least they’ll be covered.” I continued to stare at the new image reflected on my mirror, and I inquisitively thought about how women did those things with men! “I hope Michael doesn’t want to do that to me! I wonder how long it’s gonna take for the tadpoles to turn into frogs? Ugh…poor frogs, they can’t wear a bra.”

Granddaddy passed away two years after I envisioned murdering the frog. His death was a horrific loss in my life—even more painful than the passing of my childhood. He was an angel to me as he continuously guided me through the most challenging moments of my childhood. Even though I needed the presence of my grandfather as I continued to face life’s hurdles; while still living in Miami, I always made room in my busy schedule to visit the tadpoles in the river. And I recalled the magnificent, innocent adventures I experienced as a child.

Tagged: barbie dolls, chilean culture, coming of age, first love, memoir, Miami, puberty, smurfs, symbolism in literature

Posted in: Personal Letters