When You Grow Up a Feral Child Among the Corn
Inspired by “A Primer” by Bob Hicok
Ohio was all corn, corn, corn, corn, Ridgeview Road,
corn, corn, white people, corn, and more corn.
Listen closely and you hear nothing, only the whispering of
the wind through the corn fields. Leaves brush up against
leaves; We’re all just trapped clay figurines in a perfect
snow globe of the rural Midwest. Noise travels through
this state as sound is heard through human ears underwater,
only vague imitations of reality.
I used to beat up the boys in kindergarten, and they would
fall below me like flies crushed between my six-year-old
fingertips. Then the recess aides would sit me by the blood
red brick wall for the rest of play time, and I would watch the
sun glisten off my victims’ corn-colored hair the way
I imagined light reflects off heard-of but never before
seen ocean waves. Corn is more than just pale yellow, it is
the green of dying soccer fields and the burnt
sienna of the brick wall I was trapped in front of.
I joined the neighborhood bike gang. You knew it was a real
gang because the members would vote right in front of you to let
you in, and you knew exactly who liked you and who did not. We
chewed on thin blades of grass on our bicycles like vicious
cows and their cud, pretending it was tobacco. The longer we
chewed our greens the more it intensified and worst it taste. The
bitterness in our mouths accompanied unique acts of
cruelty only children are capable of committing: deriving pleasure
from making the other neighborhood children cry.
I befriended two Tanners in my school. Hardy would
walk me home from blueberry park, while Frost and I once
accidentally collided and knocked knees and teeth and
scraped elbows so that we were no longer children but
more bruised Ohio peaches from the northeast. Later he
gently placed his lips on my ear and whispered,
“I think I accidentally kissed you.”
When I reminisce of Ohio it’s only beautiful imagery resulting
in inexplicable emotions that make me want to cry. Did you know
a memory is renewed each time you think of it again?
Details are erased and written over. Ohio was a dream and
my memories are sienna-colored old film strips left
to die in city thrift stores. The only reason I even know
that Ohio is famous for corn is because other people have
told me so. There is no actual imprint of corn in my own memories.
