I saw that the alumni office of the school where I work was putting on an Easter egg hunt, so I signed up my two baby nieces. I started to worry, realizing that the only egg hunt I had ever attended was my first–and last–hunt in the early 1970s, when I was two or three years old.
I clicked on the information link but it as broken, so I emailed down to the alumni office and let them know, so they could fix it. As I was typing the email, wondering what the agenda was, what to wear, what was going to happen, I started to recall being too small, too slow, arriving too late to the Easter egg hunt 50 years ago. I started remembering not getting any eggs, wanting to cry, thinking the other kids were mean. I remember falling on my butt into thick black mud.
This resurfacing trauma started taking over my chest, and the email I was writing started to become a desperate overshare. I hit “send” on that email half feeling re-traumatized, and half laughing at myself for exposing my emotional state to the alumni director.
To his credit, the alumni director ran up the stairs and told me the agenda and answered all my questions, like Superman rescued that boy from falling into Niagara Falls. He explained everything until I knew the program; I felt safe.
Back at home, Li’l K and I took turns hiding eggs from each other. I had to teach her that eggs should be in plain sight, rather than hidden. I tried to incorporate counting to twelve, as she had a dozen plastic egg shells, and we always try to keep things educational. We left the plastic egg shells empty, just to practice the hunt. This was important to me, so I made sure that Li’l M was occupied so that Li’l K and I could get a few good runs in without baby sister interference.
The morning of the egg hunt, I went to work early to get work done; grading and planning; planning and grading. About an hour before the hunt started, the rain started to pour. My sister and brother in law showed up with the girls, and to my surprise a whole bunch of people I knew showed up, having been tipped off by my sister. There was little V and his parents, Ninang L and her two boys, plus her brother and his family. It was raining on all of us, and even though there was face painting, crafts, bubbles, coffee and doughnuts, it felt kind of rainy and miserable. It was going to be one of those PNW days when our shoes were soaked through.
The football field was covered with plastic eggs, and there was a 20 yard square reserved for 3 and under. I noticed some bins marked “return empty eggshells here,” so I explained to Li’l K that after she filled her basket, we’d open the eggs and leave the empties for them to reuse later. She wasn’t seeming to grasp the concept but I thought she’d figure it out in the moment.
The kids lined up on the sidelines, and the alumni director counted 3-2-1, and the kids flooded the field, gathering eggs. I saw Li’l K bust out of the 3-and-under section and run into the wider field; the adults were chasing after the kids. I stayed on the sidelines looking for my friend L, who had texted me saying that he had just arrived with his three kids.
It seemed to be over within seconds. Everyone was at the far end of the field, we were all getting rained on, and L and his family show up. I felt dread for his kids; knowing they had missed the entire event in the blink of an eye. My shoes were soaked through. L stayed positive; he said this kids didn’t really know what was happening and so they weren’t disappointed. The curse is knowing what’s going on.
I felt satisfied, at least, that Li’l K had made it across the field, and I imagined her basket was full of eggs.
I met them about mid field, and that’s where I saw Li’l K burst into tears and sit on the ground in the rain. Her mamá sat down to comfort her. They told me she didn’t understand what to do; that she saw the kids running into the field of eggs and was delighted and ran with them; she didn’t realize that the point was to collect the eggs as fast as possible. Her basket had just a handful of eggs. She sobbed.
Fifty Easters ago, that was me. I don’t remember crying, but I remember looking for eggs and they were gone; other kids walked away with full baskets. I believe at the time they were actual hard boiled chicken eggs, dipped in various in bright colors of paint. I remember thinking that I was brand new, and that my parents had just arrived in this country, and we didn’t know how anything worked. I remembered a picture of me in bright blue pajamas coveralls; my butt covered with thick black mud where I fell.
Li’l K cried until she was out of sobs; her sweet Kuya O gave her a few of his eggs to make her feel better. I was soaked through my shoes, and it was raining so hard that was hard to introduce people. Li’l K wasn’t in any mood to meet L’s kids, and they all got shy anyway. Everybody went their separate ways and I went back in my classroom and worked barefoot at my computer as my shoes and socks dried on the classroom heater.
Back home, we all laughed at my re-traumatization process. My sister asked my parents over facetime what went down 50 years ago, and they reported apparently we were not late to arrive at all. I was at the starting line for the 3-2-1 countdown, and apparently I didn’t understand that it was my job to collect eggs. I was delighted that all the kids were running. I thought it was funny. I realized too late that I missed out on all the eggs. My mama also said that the photo of me with mud on my butt was a totally separate occasion; my dad was playing pick-up basketball in the park, and I went after an out of bounds ball. And fell butt-first into some thick black mud. It had nothing to do with the Easter egg hunt; that was just me conflating early memories of Capital Lake Park.
Next year, I’ll prepare Li’l K better; I’ll brief her on what to do and make her say it back to me. Li’l M will be two, but she’s watch her sister and learn. This cycle of trauma has to end.
The day after the egg hunt, my brother in law K stayed up late and set the house up for an exclusive egg hunt; only Li’l K was invited. He taped a trail of Easter bunny paw prints outside of Li’l K’s room, down the stairs to the living room. The paw prints lead to Li’l K’s basket, and then all around the living room there were paw prints marking hidden eggs. This was a Bluey episode, actually.
I had a lot of work that morning, but I stayed home to see the exclusive egg hunt. Li’l K woke up groggily and was excited to see the paw prints, but had to be encouraged to follow them. She was glad to see the basket, but had to be encouraged to find the hidden dozen. It was a nice, wholesome moment as she took her time to find the eggs. Sunlight streamed into the living room. When it was over, she told me she needed candy so she could fill the eggs and surprise her dad. I told her we didn’t have candies in the house, but she could probably write small messages with her paper and crayons and stuff them into those eggs. Later I went into work, knowing that Li’l K’s trauma was healing.
When I got home for lunch, my sister told me I couldn’t come home, as Li’l K was setting up a surprise for me. So I went out, got some lunch, and came back afterward. However Li’l K had left the house and with her mamá to go dress shopping. I got to my room, and could see that Li’l K had set up a healing egg hunt for me as well. Her papá told me that she had also done one for him earlier, and that when she gets home, I had to pretend to be surprised.
She got home with her mamá a little later, and I acted surprised, and she was delighted. She made sure I found all the eggs, and I found all kinds of messages inside them; easter eggs images she had colored, a note that says “Te amo, Tío” and another note with a stamped bunny where she wrote her name. She even hid some of my sugar-free peanut butter cups in a couple of the eggs. They kind of taste like dirt but she was so excited to gift me some sugar free candy that I was also excited. My feet were warm and dry.
Later that week the alumni director told me it was a record crowd; they didn’t know exactly how many since it was raining to hard for anyone to check in with the QR codes. He asked if it went well, and I said no; Li’l K was traumatized and I was re-traumatized, but it was as good as could be expected in that kind of weather, and that my family had gone through an elaborate day of healing that involved three exclusive egg hunts, and that the mud-butt memory was conflated. And that my 50 year trauma had come full circle and that the kids are ok.
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