I turned 18 over spring break. While it was a big day, one thing stressed me out: I am now responsible for my crimes. Now, I’m not going to sit here and say I have committed anything godawful, but I do know that it’s better to be honest than to sweep a criminal act under the rug, so i’ve heard. Therefore, I am here to admit to a sin because I am pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out on dabbling in identity theft.
If you are a prosecutor, please avert your eyes. I’m a changed woman.
When I was approximately 7 years old, I used to go to my local playground after school. This playground was my second home. I knew it like the back of my hand. In fact, I knew it so well, that I began to take advantage of what this playground had to offer me — I used it as a place to launch a new business. I struck gold, and while I didn’t enter my prime hoping to be rich or famous, I sadly succeeded at the latter.
There is some important context you need to know prior to reading the story. Firstly, I am tall, and my height has plagued me since the early ages of my youth. At 7 years old, I easily could have passed for at least 12. Secondly, I am an only child. At 7 years old, I had absolutely no experience caring for younger children. All of my cousins are older than me. I am the baby of my family. Not only was I not prepared to watch children, but it was extremely unethical for me to even assume that it was possible. Thirdly, for some reason, a lot of the art I was consuming at age 7 contained british paraphernalia. Lola and Charlie, Hermoine Granger, Robin Hood, Thomas the Train, were fan favorites of mine. Naturally, it’s not hugely surprising that I wanted to join this flock of brits. Here’s where the quasi-crime comes into play. I decided the playground was the perfect place for me to practice my hand at being british. But how on earth was I supposed to practice british without having actual conversations? It’s a good thing I was not the only one roaming this park.
Picture this: 7 year old Knee strutting up to strangers, specifically ones with young children, and acknowledging them in the british tongue. Every conversation I had made my character morph more with my real identity. I was a true brit!
But this unorganized story is not a heroic one. Instead of just pretending to be british to strangers, I also would invite myself into their homes. I pretended I was older and looking for babysitting jobs. By unofficially offering up my services as an underaged babysitter, strangers would have full blown conversations with me. They would tell me their children’s names, how old they were, how many children they had, how far there houses were from the park. They would even tell me about the United States as if it were foreign land. To them, I was simply a lost british child. I was Hugo Cabret squandering for children to watch. I had a blast. I would make up scenarios about the families I was a part of. I would create fake names and even make up new names for family members I did not have. It was exceptional.
However, as a business woman, you have to think ahead. Being a business owner is like constantly playing a game of chess. Little did my 7-year-old brain know that all of my dabbling in identity theft would catch up to me in the end. I got too used to meeting families once and never seeing them again.
The climax of this story is that on my final day of being british, I did, in fact, meet one of these families again. Except this time, I didn’t remember which identity I had given them. So when they asked me about my “siblings” and my “uncles” and my “trip to Paris” I was dumbfounded. How did I handle my world crumbling right in front of me? I screamed stranger danger and ran as fast as I could away from the innocent family I had scammed.
All in all, I was a con-artist in my early days, and while I would like to apologize to the families I conned, I am also not sorry in the slightest. Little me built an empire for gods sake. If that’s not feminism, I don’t know what is.
Sincerely,
The Wolf of Wallstreet
If you are a prosecutor, please avert your eyes. I’m a changed woman.
When I was approximately 7 years old, I used to go to my local playground after school. This playground was my second home. I knew it like the back of my hand. In fact, I knew it so well, that I began to take advantage of what this playground had to offer me — I used it as a place to launch a new business. I struck gold, and while I didn’t enter my prime hoping to be rich or famous, I sadly succeeded at the latter.
There is some important context you need to know prior to reading the story. Firstly, I am tall, and my height has plagued me since the early ages of my youth. At 7 years old, I easily could have passed for at least 12. Secondly, I am an only child. At 7 years old, I had absolutely no experience caring for younger children. All of my cousins are older than me. I am the baby of my family. Not only was I not prepared to watch children, but it was extremely unethical for me to even assume that it was possible. Thirdly, for some reason, a lot of the art I was consuming at age 7 contained british paraphernalia. Lola and Charlie, Hermoine Granger, Robin Hood, Thomas the Train, were fan favorites of mine. Naturally, it’s not hugely surprising that I wanted to join this flock of brits. Here’s where the quasi-crime comes into play. I decided the playground was the perfect place for me to practice my hand at being british. But how on earth was I supposed to practice british without having actual conversations? It’s a good thing I was not the only one roaming this park.
Picture this: 7 year old Knee strutting up to strangers, specifically ones with young children, and acknowledging them in the british tongue. Every conversation I had made my character morph more with my real identity. I was a true brit!
But this unorganized story is not a heroic one. Instead of just pretending to be british to strangers, I also would invite myself into their homes. I pretended I was older and looking for babysitting jobs. By unofficially offering up my services as an underaged babysitter, strangers would have full blown conversations with me. They would tell me their children’s names, how old they were, how many children they had, how far there houses were from the park. They would even tell me about the United States as if it were foreign land. To them, I was simply a lost british child. I was Hugo Cabret squandering for children to watch. I had a blast. I would make up scenarios about the families I was a part of. I would create fake names and even make up new names for family members I did not have. It was exceptional.
However, as a business woman, you have to think ahead. Being a business owner is like constantly playing a game of chess. Little did my 7-year-old brain know that all of my dabbling in identity theft would catch up to me in the end. I got too used to meeting families once and never seeing them again.
The climax of this story is that on my final day of being british, I did, in fact, meet one of these families again. Except this time, I didn’t remember which identity I had given them. So when they asked me about my “siblings” and my “uncles” and my “trip to Paris” I was dumbfounded. How did I handle my world crumbling right in front of me? I screamed stranger danger and ran as fast as I could away from the innocent family I had scammed.
All in all, I was a con-artist in my early days, and while I would like to apologize to the families I conned, I am also not sorry in the slightest. Little me built an empire for gods sake. If that’s not feminism, I don’t know what is.
Sincerely,
The Wolf of Wallstreet