My dad lived in the same house for the majority of his childhood. The unchanging, parallel suburbs of the one and only New Jersey—a pocket stuck in the 70s. Boring and forgotten, like the stuffed doll I left in the corner of my old apartment, now living a new life filled with another child’s play things. 

Oradell, the title of this American movie set I had to search for the correct spelling—I can tell that it is retro (perhaps this is a push to be “new” and “contemporary,” but it only invites infamy). The brightly colored gnomes staring blatantly in the yard, the ceramic frogs having a tea party, the attempt at a flower garden—only filled with dried up shrubs. Despite all this, a certain familiarity arrives everytime we cross the bridge, into the yellow lit tile tunnel, and once I’m out, deja vu. 

I haven’t been here since last Christmas—the awkward reunion with cousins, aunts and uncles warmly hugging—but pass by the little building for karate class my dad might have mentioned before; remember the rhythm of the roads, smoother than the ones back home, falling off the grid of a map: squiggly lines that are fun to draw. As soon as the house comes into view, a sense of awe and reluctance washes over me. 

Am I ready to enter? To discover old moments and buried memories that travel back before my existence? 

It feels like a movie, the camera panning into the driveway, peeking into the window to see the lights mysteriously off. Hop out of the car, reluctant and excited at the same time. Feel the familiarity, remember that little blue insurance sign, rooted into the dirt of the yard. Climb up the steps, and my Lola opens the door. Further in, my sister and I rediscover the nooks and crannies of the house. Pass by the various rooms, rooms that my dad and his brothers once occupied. Look quickly into Lola's room, filled with her religion, wooden crosses scattered across her wall. We’ve scanned the whole house, familiarizing ourselves with each painting again, the location of each pillow on the couch, the loose floorboards, and drawers filled to the brim. 

Leaving the best for last, we finally head downstairs, into the dungeon, the hideout—the basement. Steep, creaky stairs, like the excitement and fear I get when I enter a haunted house. Make sure to pull the thin string floating above your head, or you will be submerged into nothingness. Once the first string is pulled, I find my way to the other strings and switches, and slowly the place begins to light up like the city does when the sun sets. The mess of cardboard and plastic universes; take a pick, discover a new world. 

Like a time machine, speeding through the past, I find relics dating back to my dad’s years. The full on drum kit, retro bikes, the worn out skateboards, and suddenly the urge to learn something new. “Teach me how to skateboard!” we both say everytime we come to visit the hideout. In the beginning we really believed he could mentor us, but little do we know he has totally forgotten—or maybe he was traumatized from the time he fell down the steep hill, slicing into his knee. How could we forget the story? The scar has never left his body since. 

Explore more, we’ve only hiked through the trees, we must get to the top. Suddenly, the orange and red tricycle makes an appearance, was it always that small? Race around the pillars, take your pick: drag my hands on the floor as the skateboard slowly pushes its way through, or perhaps the three legged bike will do, though I don’t remember pushing the pedals to be so difficult. More and more, mom has finally come downstairs to seek the ruckus, and she spots the fancy little lacy dresses she used to dress me in, cooing over this piece of cloth I don’t have any recollection of. I do remember the little wooden figures though, governing a little town as a three year old.

I remember the previous Christmases again, rushing downstairs with the cousins I used to be closer with, to escape adult life and talk (but make sure to grab a lumpia before they all disappear). Being the youngest, all I did was listen, looking up to my elders, only a few years older. With a whiteboard they found tucked in a closet, they started talking about “algebra,” what could that be? They talk and tease, “that’s all you’ve learned?” while I make sure to keep silent. 

A drip of water will bring me back to reality, along with the moldiness and wetness making their return as well. Forgetting the whole reason why we’re here in the first place, for the common question when parting with something special, “should we put this at lola’s?” had been answered with a “yes, definitely.” 

Dad has finally brought the box of clothes that mom had said were too nostalgic to part with, though I will most definitely forget about it in a day or two. The next time we come to the hideout, maybe it will be to collect the sheets and blankets for sleepaway camp, maybe to actually learn how to skateboard this time, or perhaps just to go explore the time machine again. Either way, as I return to the present-day, I know it will be awhile before I remember this experience again.

Inspired by Judith Ortiz Cofer’s More Room