Maine Heist

Remembering the childlike joy I once experienced in my youth.

If you ask most people who grew up in Maine to reflect on their summers, they'll probably talk about hanging out at their friend's lakehouse or summer camp in the woods. Or, they might hold fond memories of the ocean and the beach as they reminisce about building sandcastles and playing in the waves. But for me, summers represented a respite from the norm, childhood escapades, and sometimes criminal activities.

Between the age of six to ten, I grew up in a housing community called University Park. It was close to the campus where my dad did his PhD. The neighborhood was packed with student families like mine, many of them immigrants in their mid-30s to early 40s with young children. I swear, It was always bustling with kids running around and yelling while they played.  

The layout of the community, with white one-level buildings arranged in L or T-shaped configurations, provided a sense of both community and privacy. The open spaces between the buildings were filled with lush greenery and picnic tables, and giant coniferous trees were neatly scattered across the lawns. The apartment that my parents and I lived in had a window pointed directly towards the playground, which was one of my favorite things about our place. I could always see when other kids were playing, so I could quickly get dressed and join them. To get there, I had to weave my way through our apartment, side-step one of those coniferous trees, slipping past the outdoor shared clothesline.  Unfortunately, my plans were often thwarted at the door by my Mom. She would fold her arms and furrow her brows in a stern tone, and ask in a tone that sent chills down my spine: "Did you finish the Chinese homework I assigned to you?"  I would slowly shake my head in defeat, gingerly make my way back to the bedroom, and continue writing Mandarin characters over and over again. In spite of those moments, our one-bedroom apartment was the first place I considered home.

But during the summer, something changed in the air.  Helicopter parents loosened their grip, and were preoccupied with tending to their plots of land. Every year, the University would allocate each family a small, fertile plot of land, typically measuring 10 feet by 10 feet. The immigrant parents were obsessed with growing their own garden with a level of dedication that you'd think they were actually trying to get their crops into an Ivy League school. They spent countless summer days gathering wooden sticks from the surrounding area, carefully constructing sturdy fortresses to keep out wild animals and pests.  Some of those days were especially hot and still, they toiled under the sun with sweat pouring down their faces as they worked with single-minded determination.   The families eagerly awaited the annual harvest filled with fresh vegetables like tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, and more. Vegetables were their pride and joy - surpassed only by their children. Our parents believed that growing their own food was a way to provide for their families and to save money. It was a way to ensure we were eating healthy, nutritious meals.

By nightfall, while the parents were still distracted with gardening, us kids felt free.  We could do whatever we wanted.  And what did we do? We played what we called "cops and robbers" on bikes. It's a simple game actually. The robbers would fan out around the neighborhood and the designated cops would try to find, chase, and tag them.  Afterwards, the caught robber would join the cops in hunting down the remaining robbers. It was a fun game of cat and mouse really. We were often quite reckless and hurtling down the paths at breakneck speeds, even when it was pitch dark. Luckily, the community was a haven for daredevil kids on bikes with its interconnected walking paths and roads that allowed for us, without the worry of cars, making it a bit safer.

On one of those summer evenings, I was chosen as a robber. It was one of those nights where the temperature cooled down just enough after a hot blistering day.  We all gathered around the playground where we'd always start.  I felt my pulse quicken, filled with excitement. I looked intently at two cops and smirked. The designated cops began their countdown. 10...9.... WHOOSHH! We all started together on a wide concrete road that surrounded the community. Each of us gradually peeled away from the group and took to the narrower paths that branched off the main road. We knew that staying together would make it too easy for our pursuers to find us. The main road was brightly lit by streetlights, while the smaller paths were only dimly illuminated by the occasional window left open or by the lights spilling out from nearby buildings. I was one of the first robbers to break away, my heart pounding as I pedaled down my chosen path, determined to escape.  I'll outrun everyone. I'll outsmart everyone.  I was going to win.  

As the game progressed and I knew the number of robbers were dwindling, I waited until there were no cops around, sped towards my home, and stashed my bike inside. I told myself that I was just using the restroom but...I stayed for a while longer, waiting. Maybe this was my strategy to be the best hider in the group. After some time, I grew impatient and wondered if anyone noticed that I hadn't been caught. I crouched out of the shadows of my front door and peeked around.  The coast was clear. Relief washed over me knowing that I wasn't caught. I was triumphant. 

But that relief was quickly replaced by a sudden sense of loss. I had been so focused on evading capture that I missed out on the pure, unadulterated joy of the chase.  Hiding inside was safe, a sure bet but also tedious and dull. At that moment, a new resolve took hold of me. I mounted my bike and pedaled towards a flicker of bike lights, challenging my pursuers to chase me. I knew that this was the way the game should be played. This was fun. And that's all that mattered.