Through the Looking Glass
From where I sat, the drop to the ground looked deadly. One misplaced hand or slip of the foot could have dire consequences. Shaking the thoughts out of my head, I continued my path upwards. Search for a handhold, then a foothold, hand then foot, hand then foot. I was scaling the silver monument and in minutes I was going to reach the top.
As I grasped the next handhold I could feel my fingers slipping. I had reached a part of the metal that was directly exposed to sunlight and reaching up once more I burned my hand on the hot surface. Losing my grip I tumbled through the air, plummeting to the ground.
I hit the playground mat with a soft thud. Winded I stared back up at the statue I had been determined to scale. Calculating as quickly as my 4-year-old brain could compute I determined which route I’d take up the Alice in Wonderland statue before my parents decided it was time to leave Central Park.
That first trip to the Alice statue began as one of the spontaneous trips my parents had arranged to the city. Growing up they’d take me to landmarks they loved and little-known local shops they adored. That weekend they decided to show me around Central Park which was hosting a model sailboat competition. We spent the summer day exploring the park, finding shade between the trees when we could to escape the heat. My parents tried their best to entertain my energetic, scrappy self but not even their neatly packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches could distract me, the rocks jutting from the ground, begging to be climbed. And I was a climber.
When we finally reached the lake a bronze glimmer in the distance caught my eye. My parents were astounded by the aquamarine lake with hundreds of pristine white model sailboats bobbing up and down in the water; I couldn’t be bothered. Instead, I wandered towards the monument rising from the ground. It was a giant bronze statue looming over me. Alice and her friends the Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit, the Cheshire Cat, the March Hare, and the dormouse were having a tea party. From atop her mushroom Alice smiled down at me and I felt as if I had been invited to attend the Unbirthday festivities. Children dangled from her arms, their summer clothes painting the monochromatic statue in dazzling colors. Each was racing for a spot at the top and I spent the rest of the day trying to beat them to it. I never reached the top, though I never let any of my many falls deter me. Eventually, my father scooped me up from the ground and carried my exhausted self to the car. As I began dozing off in his arms, I watched the sun set behind the statue a few stragglers still holding on trying to reach the summit. My last thought before my eyes drifted shut was that I would come back, I’d reach the peak I had so desperately chased all day.
I didn’t return for 14 years.
It wasn’t that I had given up on my goal or that I didn’t believe in myself. It was simply a goal that had slipped my mind; by the time I had woken up from that childhood nap, I had completely forgotten about the statue, the treacherous climb, and was more focused on what was for dinner. Over the next few years, I’d think back to the statue every now and then. Whenever I’d watch Disney’s Alice in Wonderland or whenever I explored other parts of the park with my friends. But I never made a conscious effort to return to the statue.
The first day of classes my freshman year of college was a whirlwind. I had to navigate the New York City subway system, Hunter College, and collegiate life alone. It was overwhelming but it was wonderful. By the time I finished the first seminar I was hopped up on adrenaline and caffeine, too excited to go back to the dorm. I decided to take a walk to Central Park, to spend some time with my thoughts and to process my new life in the city. Leaving the 68th Street campus I made the 5-minute walk to the park, the August heat beating down on my back. Once I reached the park I began aimlessly walking, admiring the city-dwellers still on vacation picnicking in the park and strolling the winding paths. I began following the melodic sounds of a jazz band playing deep within the park. The further I got the more familiar the path became. Once the lake was finally beside me I knew where I was in the park and what laid ahead of me.
Alice sat, as she had for 58 years, sipping her tea. Staring up at her, the statue was smaller than I had remembered. As I ran my hands along the mushroom it still felt warm, but not as scalding hot as I had remembered. A few children that were visiting with their nannies eyeing me warily as they tried their hand at scaling the statue. After they left I hoisted myself up to sit alongside Alice on her perch. I spent the next hour or so sitting and thinking about the four years that lay ahead of me. I never could have anticipated our current scenario.
Once quarantine is over I’ll return to the statue and I know Alice will greet me once again as a friend, ready for some tea.
