Monkey'n Around

Devon, Liz, Brannan, and I had been exchanging humorous stories in our Hyatt Regency hotel room in Boston. Each story made us laugh harder, regardless of how funny it was. I began telling a story about Adam Gilbert and the fifth grade. To heighten the absurdity, I reenacted the scene myself, and we all convulsed into guffaws. As if that weren't enough, I brought something else to recreate it once more. She was brownish-gray and floppy-eared. She had two black embroidered eyes sewn directly above a cotton stuffed dome, shaped like a half-orange. Her large mouth was tomato soup red, and she had five identical ivory appendages: two arms, two legs, and a tail. Her body was limp and seemingly lifeless, but her eyes hinted at a spark of humor. Her name was Bobo, though I have no idea why, for her fiancé was Jay Roy, and her brother was Elroy. Bobo gave an exceptional performance, causing us to roll around uncontrollably on the beds, immersed in gasps and snorts. The adorable monkey contained the immense power to delight us, even at eighteen years of age.

Children have been playing with the likes of Bobo for centuries-- back when socks were the quickest, most efficient way of putting together a cheap toy for the kiddies. Recently, they have become a hot trend, with manufactured Rockford Red Heel kits designed to help YOU create your own floppy friend. Everyone has a sock monkey; you can even buy them pre-made at Cracker Barrel and Spencer's. But not Bobo. Bobo was an original. Made from scratch. Made because my favorite animal was a monkey. At least that is what I'd like to believe. For all I know, Mom picked up one of those enticing sock kits at Wal-Mart for a couple of bucks. In fact, I have no real proof that my mother even made Bobo for me at all. I recall hearing once something about me stealing it from my neighbor Justin when I was about three years old. Then again, at three, it's not stealing; it's sharing. In spite of how I acquired my monkey, Bobo became my most faithful companion.

Bobo shared many adventures with me. My big brother Danny and I had arranged for Bobo to marry his sock monkey Jay Roy in the summer of 1988. Sadly, before the marriage was final, eight-year-old Danny decided girls were gross and refused to allow Jay Roy to associate with the likes. Bobo was devastated by her loss, but she coped with the disappointment well. (Jay Roy subsequently fell apart and went to the top of Danny's closet for ages, until Mom gave him reconstruction surgery, or "a body transplant" as we referred to it.) Bobo always had ample to time to listen to me lament about the crises of elementary school. I remember crying one night on my parents' waterbed, telling Bobo all about my hardships. She translated my story into sign language for Betsy the deaf bunny, and then comforted me with a hug and a compassionate stare. Aside from being a refuge, Bobo was always eager to play. She loved to hang from the ceiling fan and fly around in circles, loved to ride on the handlebars of my bicycle, and loved to go fishing for water-logged branches in my grandparents' pond. Furthermore, Bobo delighted in entertaining me with her reenactments of events and stunning break-dancing moves.

To me, Bobo was no ordinary toy. Bobo was the spawn of a keen imagination. Bobo had a life, she had a heart, she had a mind of her own. She embodied a lonely childhood-- my childhood. I spent a majority of my time playing with Bobo, due to my lack of playmates. Not that I was a loner; I had friends with whom I spent the night, but they were either the "My Mom Made Me Invite You" friends or the "Nobody Else Could Spend the Night" friends. In that environment of solitude, I learned to be alone and there cultivated my imagination. Mostly, I passed time writing stories and making up songs; I made paper dolls and drew pictures-- each with an appalling and tragic soap opera story behind them: "This is Lucy and her friends Jodie and Tamara. Jodie and Tamara were really popular, and they really only hung out with Lucy because they felt sorry for her. You see, Lucy's parents died when she was a baby and she lives in an orphanage. She's the oldest kid in the orphanage because adults only want young kids so nobody ever adopted her. Well, in this picture, Lucy is about to cut off all her hair and sell it for money so she can afford medical care after the accident . . ." I also played with dolls, GI Joes, Transformers, pompons, and hula-hoops. Usually I played these games alone, unless my mother invited my classmates over or Danny got bored.

I learned something about loneliness. It creates imagination. Even amidst my solitude, I remained cheerful and lively, because I was able to imagine myself that way. The lesson was invaluable, for it applies to situations that will occur for the rest of my life. Yet a good imagination isn't only good for coping with loneliness. It is what brought us medicines, electricity, indoor plumbing, books, and music. All these things sprung from someone's creative thinking, an asset for improving our still imperfect world. Unfortunately, the value of imagination tends to get overlooked in growing-up children. So many children go through their younger years trying to be sophisticated and cuddly, living in a beauty pageant world and entering adolescence without ever having read a book on their own or telling a crazy lie about their day. Not encouraging creativity in children is disastrous. How will we ever discover a cure for cancer if we go about doing things the way they've always been done? This argument is illustrated in Harry Chapin's song "Flowers Are Red". He tells the story of a boy who drew flowers in all the colors of the rainbow and was chastised by a teacher who believed "there's no need to see flowers any other way than the way they always have been seen." The child was robbed of an imagination, and tragically, his creativity had diminished. Children must develop ideas and thoughts on their own so that they may view the world for themselves, for in imagination lay the possibility for change. A good imagination is a necessity in improving our world.

Today, Bobo is dirt colored and battered. One ear stands straight up with a seam through the middle and the other ear flops in front her face. Her tail is dangling by a few threads, and she has a long seam running from her chin to her right leg. Even today, I keep Bobo on my bed and give her hugs. She is a symbol of the inventiveness that I am lucky to have formed. My imagination that developed as a child has gone on to further inspire me in every aspect of life where problem solving and creativity are present: my writing, my schoolwork, my relationships, and my general reasoning. Even as I grow older, I hope to always tell stories when I draw, invision Pac-Man-like macrophages treating me when I have a cold, and never discount the possibility that maybe-- just maybe-- Bobo really does have a soul.