The Kite and the Birthday: Memories of Los Angeles

My earliest memory of Los Angeles isn't of the sprawling city or the warm California sunshine - it's of a gusty day, a wayward kite, and a hospital visit that happened right around my third birthday. It's funny how trauma can crystallize a moment in time, preserving it with remarkable clarity even decades later.

I was playing outside with two boys who lived next door. The wind was teasing us that day - strong enough to toss our kite around but not quite enough to give it proper flight. We were persistent though, as children often are, continuing our attempts despite the uncooperative weather. The wind would come in bursts, lifting our kite momentarily before letting it drop again. During one of these gusts, the kite shot upward, and I tracked its movement with the focused attention only a three-year-old could muster. As I stood there, head tilted back, the kite plummeted downward, and the stick struck my eye.

The moments that followed exist in my memory like snapshots rather than a continuous film. I remember being loaded into the back seat of our car, though I can't recall feeling particularly frightened. Looking back now, I realize I was probably in shock. My parents, on the other hand, must have been terrified, though they managed to keep their composure as they rushed me to the hospital.

The injury required a minor procedure, and I had to spend the night in the hospital. While the accident itself is somewhat hazy, what happened during that hospital stay remains one of my most vivid childhood memories. I woke up in the middle of the night, and instead of being scared or lonely, I found myself on an unexpected adventure. A kind nurse took me on a wheelchair tour of the quiet, nighttime hospital corridors.

During our nocturnal expedition, I mentioned to her that it had been my birthday, and she naturally responded with a cheerful "Happy Birthday!" What followed was perhaps the most three-year-old moment imaginable - I felt compelled to correct her, insisting that it hadn't actually been my birthday that day, but the day before. The concept that birthday wishes could extend beyond the actual date was completely foreign to my literal young mind. I was absolutely determined that she understand this crucial distinction.

Fortunately, the accident didn't affect my vision long-term, though it did mark the beginning of a period of transition for our family. Within a year, we had left Los Angeles behind, spending several months in Santa Maria while my parents figured out their next steps. I was somewhere between three and four years old during our time there, living in what I now understand was a kind of liminal space between our Los Angeles life and what would become our permanent home in San Luis Obispo, where we moved when I was about four and a half.

Looking back at this early chapter of my life, I'm struck by how this incident seems to represent a pivotal moment - not just because of the accident itself, but because it marks the last clear memory I have of our life in Los Angeles. Everything before that is lost to the hazy realm of early childhood, while everything after begins the story of our family's journey to find our new home.