My First Word

My first word was the word exit. I may have said mama or dada or some amalgamation of the sort beforehand, but as far as everyone tells it, EXIT was my first word. I have always found that a bit omniscient. As if, from the word go, I was ready to leave. As soon as I could communicate, I made my will known. No one in my family has ever seen the odd humor in the fact that EXIT was my first word. To hear them tell it, it was as if I had done something stupendous in the scheme of child development. "You just looked up, and there was an EXIT sign over the door. You looked up, saw it, and said, EXIT." But when I think of it, I think of it as an early warning sign. I am a contemplative person. Perhaps I had the ability to speak months before, but yet had nothing prescient to say. Perhaps I finally saw my "out" and was indicating to my captors that I wanted to leave.

One of my other early childhood "memories" is similar. I put "memories" in quotes because I was about one and have no direct memory of this. It has been implanted in my head by the repeated telling of the story. Apparently, my uncle Allan was over at the house and for some reason I was standing in my crib screaming, "Get Me Out Of Here!". Again, my family thinks this is hilarious, whereas I think of this as my early cry for help. Imploring to my uncle to take me away. No dice.