My Room (A Memory of Red)

When I was little my parents allowed me to choose wallpaper, carpet and a light fixture for my room. To this day I still wonder what the results of that decorating venture say about me on a deep, scary, psychological level. I must admit that my opinion of my parents' judgment is also forever conflicted. On one hand, it was an impressive display of generosity and hippiness to allow a young child to conduct an interior decorating experiment with a room of the house. And it was a small house. On the other hand, I wonder if they realized the hazard a room of such motif could potentially create on their child's mental health. The department of child welfare never did get involved, so...

A window into my room.

It was that thick plastic-y wallpaper with a rough crater-y texture. Popular in the 70's??? It was crowded with loud, wide flowers, the size of an adult hand, with gold stubby stems. Some were royal blue, but most were the color of bright, happy Radio flyer wagons...verging on cherry sports cars. There was a nook in my room which cozied the head of my bed. We hung a coordinating paper in there . And it really kills me to write the word coordinating. It was white with inch-wide verticle stripes. Candy Cane Jail Cell, I think it was called. I wasn't going for serenity. I never did value sleep. I was immersed in all the grand, audacious colors of our American flag. Every day. My room screamed PRIMARY COLORED FLOWERS AND STRIPES to all who dared to open the door - which, by the way, was covered in Wacky Packages stickers.

Next, the carpet. I actually have a memory of seeing the carpet for the first time. I came home from school and my mother told me to go up to my room. I opened the door and dramatically fell to the floor, pushing my hands deep through the royal blue shag carpet. I think it actually had two colors, maybe a slight powdery blue mixed in for good taste. I even remember thinking, "You're being a bit theatrical, aren't you?" But it wasn't often that I got a whole new room, so I consciously decided to go for it. No one was watching.

But perhaps, perhaps, the worst crime committed in the room (it's really hard to tell) was the hideous hanging ball that swung from a thick gold chain in the center. My light was the size of a basketball, made of some white molded plastic with three loud, cartoonish images. A clown face complete with pointy party hat, a group of three balloons and something else just as disturbing that I have blocked. Every night my father came into my room, leaned over the bed, gave me a kiss, turned around to leave, banged his head on it, and uttered something like, "Oop!" I don't know how anything but headaches could come from my room. I'm not sure if I actually liked it, or if I just thought of it as something I did: An expression of Jennie.