Our family talked all the time about the end of the world. Our father would say, During the Three Days of Darkness, if you hear your mother outside, don’t open the door, okay? It isn’t your mother, okay? It’s the devil. You and I always agreed, we wouldn’t
open the door. He kept candles that were blessed by a priest under the bathroom sink, so many candles. That way, we’d still have some light during those final days. But it was summertime, and ah, the Michigan sun! We made our own music videos outside
with a camcorder and the Filipino kids of Biddle City dancing in Bermuda shorts. Sometimes while at sleepovers with the Filipino kids, I’d have night tremors about the end of the the world. Mom called them “panic attacks.” Even if I crossed myself, I couldn’t end
the bad dream. Oftentimes, I wouldn’t remember them at all. I’d simply wake up in a different place from where I’d fallen asleep. Once I’d stood up in the middle of the night, ran around the house, screaming, Hello? Hello? You said you thought I was possessed
with one of the poor souls in purgatory, asking to be released. I couldn’t sleep in my own bedroom for weeks after; I slept in the den next to Mom and Dad’s room and had MTV playing all night long, a video safety blanket. I’d wake up in the early morning
with Madonna line dancing to “Don’t Tell Me.” You know, we never said: Don’t tell me. Our parents told us everything they thought would prepare us for the end of the world. And before the official end
of summer, I went into the school office for a Band-Aid and saw a plane crash into a New York City building, then another plane, and then an announcement, school canceled. Was this it? The end? I wasn’t afraid, I knew
we were prepared. We had all the candles we needed under the bathroom sink. I wasn’t sure if I should tell anyone at school not to answer the door if they heard their mother, I guess I didn’t care much about them. I went home, we turned on the TV, waited for dark.
