Turning another year older. Crazy, right? It feels like just yesterday I was that kid, you know, the one who lived for Saturday morning cartoons. 1984. Nine years old, just getting into comics and trying to draw all my favorite superheroes. And man, I’d trudge a mile to Channing Elementary, all bundled up in the same jacket for three winters straight. Didn’t bother me. A refugee at heart.
I wasn’t exactly the class chatterbox. More like the quiet type, sketching in the back of the room, or daydreaming about being Bruce Lee. Those movies… they were like magic to me. The way he used nunchucks, that focus… made me feel like I could do anything. Sometimes I’d ditch class to catch him on that beat-up TV in the living room. On top of the dresser with a table cloth that had a man wearing a poncho on it. Probably wasn’t the smartest move to skip school on a non-emergency winter day, but hey, who skips out on Bruce Lee?
Getting close to turning ten was a big deal back then. You know, double digits. We didn’t have a lot growing up, but we had family everywhere. Cousins, aunts, uncles…always a crowd at someone’s house. Simpler times. Less stuff in your hands, more people at the table.
Every now and then, I’ll hear “When Doves Cry” on the radio and it takes me right back. Forty years feels wild, but you know what? I’m grateful for it all. That snow, those drawings, and even those Bruce Lee movie afternoons – they made me who I am. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Thanks for reading.
