Bubbles By Martha Michelle Soto Fernández My hometown is full of small, yet beautiful parks. When I was a little girl, I was lucky enough to grow up in a house that was only a few feet apart from one of the most popular parks in La Paz, Bolivia: Plaza Abaroa. It was always full of people, but Sundays offered a unique scenery: On its banks near the trees, the elderly elegantly sat beneath the shadows of the trees while they peacefully read the local newspapers. In its gardens by the water fountain, the adults walked as they chatted and had some ice cream, while the teenagers gathered in teams to play soccer. And by the humble, yet treasured playground, the kids colored the floor drawing Hopscotches with chalk, played Hideand-Seek while they yelled and laughed out loud, and made new friends as they shared the toys that their parents bought them from la casera. In Bolivia, caseras are ladies that sit in allowed spots of public places to sell their goods. In popular parks like Plaza Abaroa, caseras mostly sell orange juice, candy, ice cream, and small toys and books for children, all for an exceptionally cheap price. There was a casera I was truly fond of when I was a little girl, and my mom and I bought something from her each Sunday with no exception. What I and what most children bought from her were the small bottles that she placed in front of all the other toys, as if she intended to tempt us to buy them. Sky blue bottles, at 14 cents of a dollar each that, once opened, offered a long afternoon of having fun and making new friends: Bubbles. Colorful, innocent, cheerful, but also extremely delicate and short-lived, bubbles were just like childhood.
2 Plaza Abaroa was also the arena of one of my first competitions in life: Who could blow the biggest and longest-lasting bubble? My new friends at the park and I prepared ourselves to challenge gravity, to compete smartly, to win without neglecting humility, or to lose without neglecting mutual respect; we were importantly shaping our future personalities without even realizing it. By the time we finally ran out of bubbles, we were already close enough to keep playing together. We could start jumping ropes, or my second favorite after blowing bubbles jumping through the largest Hopscotch we could draw. When the sun announced its departure and the air started to get colder and just when my friends and I were living the climax of our fun afternoon our parents came to tell us that it was time to leave. With the promise to meet next Sunday, we kissed each other goodbye, and left Plaza Abaroa with a smile on our faces. But when it was time to leave, Plaza Abaroa seemed to change its environment, its people, and its whole essence. The elderly and the kids left while many young adults arrived, in couples, holding hands, watching the sky as if waiting for some kind of magic to happen when the stars and moon finally came out. Then I eventually started to notice that on other days of the week, Plaza Abaroa was very different from the park I knew. Especially on Saturday nights, since all the places nearby that closed on business days finally opened their doors, well-groomed young adults arrived in fancy cars, listening to loud music, and some holding some drinks I had never seen before. Mom soon told me to not worry, that those activities were adults stuff only, but that I would have my usual Plaza Abaroa next Sunday afternoon. Assured, I did not care much for this realization. Not until many Sundays after.
3 When school started, I did not have time to go to Plaza Abaroa every Sunday, and it became more difficult each year. Still, I managed to go every Sunday that I could, to play with my friends and to keep blowing those colorful bubbles that represented a special part of my ongoing childhood. At 11 years old, I was already a skilled bubble-blower. I had empirically learned to blow the biggest and longest-lasting bubbles, and my friends stood in awe when I blew them. When one of those bubbles formed, we all followed its journey through the air, hypnotized by its rainbow colors, admiring its beauty and transparency. Nobody dared to breathe too heavily because that could make bubbles pop too soon. We all knew that bubbles had a short life, but we believed that each had its own proper time to pop, so no one should interfere with it. But there were the mean kids, kids who came and touched our bubbles to make them pop before their proper time. When a bubble popped by itself, it was something beautiful, but when forced to pop too soon, it felt like murder; it was a sin to be so harsh with something so delicate. My friends and I used to stand firm to defend these bubbles from the mean kids. But one day, it all changed, after one of my friends made a horrifying statement. We are too old to keep playing with bubbles! he said. When I asked him what he meant, he said that we should engage in other adults stuff because we were no longer little kids. Then he said: Nowadays, even the ten-year-old kids do not play with bubbles anymore. It is time for you to grow up too. I felt as if an invisible and precious bubble inside me had to pop before its time. What are these other adults stuff I still do not know about? I remember feeling like one of my favorite characters at that time: Little Women s Jo March. Someone tried to pop Jo March s bubble before its own time too: You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair,
4 you should remember that you are a young lady. I ain t! and if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two tails till I'm twenty, cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. (May Alcott 12) I was reading Little Women when my childhood was in the beginning of its end, so I learned a lot from Jo March. She was not as little as I was, but just like me, she felt forced to follow society s correct time to grow up. But Jo March did not allow others to push her. She was just still not ready. Thanks to the influence of Jo March, I kept being a little girl even though I did not jump through Hopscotches with my friends anymore. I must confess that I had to start to change my childish way of playing with them; not doing so would have meant to stop seeing each other, but I loved my friends, and I wanted to be with them despite our activities. We began to go to Plaza Abaroa with less frequency until one day we completely stopped going. At twelve years old, my friends and I had learned to hang out. We went out to the movies and to other more glamourous places, all by ourselves, because it was considered reproachable if kids appeared with their parents. We were already adults, after all. But I still did not feel like an adult at all. In secret, I still went some Sundays to Plaza Abaroa to buy a bottle of bubbles from la casera, though I did not have anyone to play with anymore. My friend was right, even the tenyear-old kids did not play with bubbles anymore. Each year that passed, I noticed that less kids played with bubbles, as if each year, the too-old-for-bubbles age lowered. Suddenly, even the nine-year-old kids were too old to blow bubbles. Kids did not want to be kids anymore. A caterpillar gives itself enough time to be a caterpillar and does not rush its timing to become a butterfly. Everybody understands that this is the proper and natural way it should be.
5 Then why does it appear glamorous to rush these life stages in humans? Why the satisfaction of leaving behind those childish bubbles at a younger age than the previous generation? I wondered. Unable to understand the shame of being a little girl, I kept blowing bubbles alone. I saw how they innocently formed, then gracefully danced in the air, and finally surprised their audience with an unexpected pop. I cherished their innocence, so I refused to stop enjoying their show, even if I had to do it alone. At 13 years old (now officially an adult ), I could now understand more about bubbles. Science explained to me that: Like a balloon, a bubble is a thin layer of stretchy film around a pocket of air. Unlike a balloon, the bubble is made of liquid. Gravity pulls the bubble s molecules downwards, becoming thicker at the bottom than at the top. When the top gets too thin, the water layer can evaporate, creating a tear that causes the air inside to rush out and the film to explode into a shower of water and soap specks. This takes place so fast that it looks like the bubble simply ceases to exist. (Hackett) Before I became an adult, I realized that such thin layer of stretchy film was delicate so delicate, that I considered my job to take care of it, so no external force would interfere with the bubble s own timing to pop but what I did not know as a kid is that it is gravity that pulls the bubble down. And we cannot fight nature. Gravity will always win. All bubbles will eventually pop. But we can let nature decide the bubble s perfect time to pop. I partnered with nature, so she allowed me to appreciate the beauty of long-lasting bubbles. In the competition of biggest and longest-lasting bubble, I would always win. At 15 years old, my childhood finally approached its end. I did not feel afraid, as I remembered that my favorite Little Women s character had successfully transitioned from one life stage to another. Once Jo March became ready, just like a beautiful flower, she magnificently
6 and gracefully bloomed into a remarkable woman. If she had the courage to mature so elegantly, perhaps I could do it as well. At 15, finally ready, I welcomed my teenage years with lots of excitement, but also maturity and wisdom. After many years had passed, I returned to Plaza Abaroa on a Sunday afternoon. I saw la casera that I was fond of, gray-haired and hunchbacked; she sold only a few bottles of bubbles because of the low demand. She sat alone by the playground, with her eyes on what was left of a Hopscotch that the few kids that were still little enough to play had drawn with chalk. I approached to buy something from her. She did not recognize me, and I did not have the courage to bring up memories from her golden years. Without telling her who I was, I handed her my 2 bolivianos, and then sat in a far bench with the bottle of bubbles I had just bought. Nostalgic, I blew a bubble. Even after all these years, its cheerful colors and mystifying delicacy still made me smile. Just as I used to do when I was a little girl, I let my bubble rise in the air and did not rush its development. I knew it would eventually pop, but while my bubble was still there, it had to be cherished and enjoyed. My big, soapy bubble rose even higher in the air, and when it was finally and truly ready, it just popped. Works Cited May Alcott, Louisa. Little Women. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2004. Print. Hackett, Jennifer. "The Life of a Bubble." Scienceline. Science, Health and Environmental Reporting Program (SHERP), Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute, New York University, 9 Mar. 2015. Web. 02 Apr. 2017.