In 2012, I participated in Memoir Journal’s (In)Visible Memoirs Project, exploring the "invisible stories" of California's Central Valley. I wanted to write about my boarding school experience in the Himalayas of Pakistan, but instead, was encouraged to focus on my direct connection to the Central Valley for inclusion in their anthology, "(In)Visible Memoirs."

The washhouse sat on the east side of Happy Acres, in the middle of a grassy median. The old, whitewashed building always felt gloomy, dark, and humid, with the smells of bleach and moldy wood, and a window painted shut.

“You've outdone yourself his time!” Mom snapped. She yanked a wad of khaki from her ironing pile and slapped it across a field of faded daisies. Matching inseams and creases, she spray-starched and burnished with her palms until Dad's work pants were flatter than tin foil. 

My family didn’t go to church on Sundays. Instead, we went on Sunday drives.

Penny wasn't home. Elvis said she went grocery shopping with her mom and didn't know when they'd be back. Then he told me to quit asking every fifteen minutes because it wouldn't make them come home any sooner.

Brother had three tits. Two were on his skinny, white chest where they were supposed to be, but in the summertime, when he took off his t-shirt and turned sideways, he had a third, a witch’s tit, right smack below his armpit. 

The Recreation Center was a bike ride away from Happy Acres. Located next to the Kern River, the center’s massive, drab exterior looked more like a prison than a place for fun. But every kid I knew wanted to be there on a hot day for Summer Sessions.

Saturday matinees at the Fox Theater were better than Rollerama on a hot summer afternoon. 

There was no one my age to play with in Happy Acres. I'd outgrown Penny, and Billy and Mom didn't like me pestering the neighbors. Most of my neighbors were old. They got hummingbirds drunk on sugar water, pruned rose bushes in their pajamas, and hung laundry out to dry. On Halloween, they pretended they didn't recognize me, but I know they did because they winked and put an extra popcorn ball in my pumpkin. I was the only kid who visited them, and they liked me. Too bad you can't play with old people.

Dad brought home a live crab from the Sea Breeze fish market. I’d never seen a crab up close before, its ginormous claws bound tightly by thick rubber bands. Huddled in the bottom of the bucket, it looked less like a sea monster and more like a sad armored spider, its eyes squinting against the sunlight.

“I got a new record at the TG&Y," said Marilyn. Grown-up, that's what she was. She wore a bra.

On my ninth birthday, a package arrived in the mail. I was in the middle of Spirograph design, changing out a red pen for a green one when Mom opened the sliding glass door.

I wasn't allowed to go to Anita’s house after school. I couldn't tell her why, because I didn't understand myself. What was wrong with Anita's house?

Mom was in the kitchen, crying over an onion. Brother was perched on the trailer steps outside, dropping cap bombs on pill bugs. And I was stuck in the living room, eating dinner.

Every year, the PTA put together the Beardsley Elementary Fall Carnival. On the morning of the big day, kids gathered around the basketball courts, excited to see everything coming together. Instead of playing tetherball or hopscotch at recess, they watched as parents set up tables with bright butcher paper skirts and painted banners with tempera paint. Later, a truck arrived with a food trailer, a popcorn machine, and a dunk tank. 

I can’t remember exactly when I got Bunny. He’d been around longer than my baby doll Becky or my six-foot-long, fuzzy purple boa constrictor. I’m pretty sure I got him for Easter.

I saw the Boogeyman. His enormous shadow loomed in my doorway like a thunderhead, yet he never stepped into my bedroom. Each time I encountered him, it was always in the middle of the night when something startled me awake. I'd slowly pull the covers over my head, frozen in my cocoon, hoping that he couldn't see me when I couldn't see him.

Happy Acres Trailer Park was situated behind Robert’s Lane, on a quiet residential street called McCord. My school, Beardsley Elementary, was less than a mile from Happy Acres, so I often rode my bike there. I had a yellow Schwinn girl's bike with a white basket, which made it easier to ride while wearing a dress. On those days, I'd ride the sidewalk along Robert’s Lane, passing the Laundromat, Jolly Cone Drive-In, 7-Eleven, and the rich mobile home community that was protected by a wall.

On Saturday afternoons, if we weren’t at a matinee watching a double feature, Brother and I went rollerskating at Rollerama. Mom dropped us off with enough money for admission and skate rental, but anything else we wanted, we had to buy ourselves.

Happy Acres Trailer Park had two managers. Ed and Marsha were a retired couple who lived in a yellow double-wide right smack between Happy Acres’s entrance and exit. 

Nothing got past them.