FINAL PROJECT SUBMISSION FOR THE SCHOOL OF THE NEW YORK TIMES SUMMER ACADEMY
HIDE-AND-SEEK
Picture one of those little girls you see screaming in the mall—throwing a tantrum on the floor, crying and yelling at her mom. Her mom is holding her by the arm, dragging her along the ground and telling her to get up because she’s making a scene, all while giving her that thousand-yard stare that promises a worse scolding once they get home. Yes, that girl was usually me: willful, annoying, and ready to cause a scene wherever I went.
My family and I frequently traveled to Miami during sales seasons to go shopping. Sometimes all four of us went; other times, it was just my parents, or one parent and one child. Naturally, I was the least favorite person to bring along because I would always throw a tantrum at every mall we visited. I remember one of the ways I’d push my mother’s patience to the limit was by constantly hiding among the clothes in the stores or playing a little game where I’d pretend to be lost. Such a sweet child, right?
Looking back, I don’t think I hid because I disliked shopping. I actually loved those trips to Miami. I hid because I was five, hopelessly impatient, and completely convinced that the world should revolve around me. If my parents were focused on checking prices, making sure the sizes were right or anything else, I would simply find a way to make myself the center of attention again, just for the fun of it.
Usually, my mom would quickly spot where I was and find my game amusing; I always made sure to hide somewhere where I could still see her. But for a mom exhausted from a day of shopping, having a five-year-old playing hide-and-seek everywhere started to seem less and less fun.
At the next store, I quickly spotted rows of clothing racks— the ideal hiding ground for a professional hider like me. After about 15 minutes in the store, I noticed my mom was focused on picking out an outfit for my brother and dad. I took advantage of her distraction to hide again, slipping in among some long hanging dresses with heavy fabrics and vibrant prints. Once I had been through the hiding barrier, with a mischievous grin, I felt I had succeeded in finding the perfect hiding spot— one where she’d never find me. Once settled in, I quickly scanned the area for my mom. At first, the first few minutes went by without seeing her- the usual amount of time it took for her to find me.
Normally, after some minutes, I’d hear her calling my name in a panic, but after more time than usual, there was absolutely no sign or trace of her. I scrambled out of my hiding spot and started calling out, “Mommm!” “Where are you??” I searched the whole store for her, behind the clothing racks, on top of the racks, dressing rooms, but there were no signs. My English was terrible at that age, and with tears streaming down my face, I approached one of the sales assistants who was checking the tags on some t-shirts on the top rack, as I desperately took my hair off my face as a little girl usually does: “Ha-ha-ha-haaaave you seen my mo-mo-moooom?” I was sobbing loudly. The woman looked down while having her arms still up while grabbing the tags, she said she hadn’t seen anyone matching the description I gave of my mom: “She has hair, white skin, and clothes.” After probably what had been 10 entire minutes of crying like a distraught lunatic, a voice appeared behind me. “It’s not so fun when someone hides from you, is it?”
My mom.
I turned around to see her standing a few meters away from me with her arms crossed. Some part of me felt relieved and amused, she had been there the entire time. In that moment I felt like I could breathe again, I felt safe. But then the realisation came to me, She was the cruelest person on earth, I thought. I remember crying even harder, partly because I was terrified that I had lost her and also because I was furious and embarrassed that she had beaten me at my own game. I know I probably didn’t apologize, I just simply held her hand as we walked out the store with my eyes locked in the floor, pretending that the whole scene I did there had never happened.
When I was 5 years old, that day I had been taught not to hide. But when I look backwards in the last couple years, I know that that was not the lesson at all.
I wish I could say that I became the perfect daughter after that afternoon in Miami. But it wouldn’t have made sense to say that, knowing that the pre-teen and teenage years hadn’t arrived yet—and oh God, those little games of hide-and-seek seem like a joke now.
Years later, I would still roll my eyes when she scolded me for not cleaning my room; we would fight because she simply didn’t understand me and I didn’t understand her; we would argue because she wouldn’t let me live my teenage years to the fullest the way my friends’ moms did; and occasionally, I would tell her she was the cause of all my suffering. Little by little, childhood would transform into adolescence, and “hiding” would take on a different form.
There came a point in my adolescence when I stopped hiding behind the clothing racks, but I would hide behind the door—slamming it shut whenever we argued. I hid behind the certainty that I was the only one who was right. And every time we argued, I placed myself at the center of the story; I knew what had made me angry, I knew what had been said, and I was fully aware of my own words, my way of thinking, my reasons for acting, and everything else hidden behind the door that witnessed me crying after every fight—wondering why things always had to be this way, asking God why He had given me a mother like that, and believing there was no escape from the relationship we had, because if she was never going to admit I was right, then that moment of peace would never come.
The little game we played in the store worked because, even when I hid, I always knew where my mom was. I used to laugh while she got scared, because I was never the one who felt lost—until she disappeared long enough for me to panic. That long time made me feel what she had likely felt several times before turning the tables on me in my own game.
As I grew up, I began to notice that life has a way of eventually placing us on the other side of the same story. We spend most of our childhood—and many even carry this mindset into adulthood, thinking that our own point of view is the only one that matters in a story, forgetting that there are others living through the exact same experiences, only seen through a different pair of eyes.
With every step forward, I find myself back in the situation I experienced that day in Miami with my mom. And I don’t mean being lost among the clothing racks; rather, I catch myself judging people before asking why they acted the way they did. I get frustrated by others’ mindsets, forgetting that not everyone has lived through the same circumstances as I have or possesses the same knowledge.
I get annoyed with people I love without even considering whether they might be going through something themselves. It isn’t that personal circumstances justify everyone’s actions, nor that we are all right simply because we each experience life differently. It is about understanding that there is so much more beyond what your eyes see and what you are personally experiencing.
Even though my mom might have just been trying to play a prank on me that day, it turned into a lesson I wouldn’t fully grasp until years later about seeing things from other people’s perspectives.
That is what my life has been about: not just learning something and carrying it with you forever, but understanding that life changes. We have to keep trying to learn every day, learning things that make it easier to understand our own lives and the lives of others. It is about rediscovering that the lessons we once learned keep evolving at every step of the journey, through different people, various arguments, and every version of ourselves.
I still argue with my mom sometimes, because those teenage hormones are still stirring inside me. But now, whenever I slam the door after a fight, I try to pause and reflect. I realize that the Valeria hiding behind that door is seeing only one side of it, and that, on the other side, there is another person experiencing it, too. I wish I could say I have become an expert at seeing other people’s perspectives, but I am not. There are days after a fight that I convince myself I am the victim of every situation. Sometimes I still slam that door way too hard without looking past it. But usually some hours later I try to recall those clothes racks
I have made mistakes many times —and sometimes I still do—but I never truly began to grow until I stopped believing that my perspective was the only one that existed.
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