The Day of the Jackhole

The Day of the Jackhole

Celebrating 40 years on this earth

You can scroll the shelf using and keys

1972. Mostly pointless.

November 4, 2011 —

I exist. I’m pointless, as many babies are. About the only good thing you can do with me is prop me up and take a photo. My hair is dumb. Barely there. It’s astro-boy curled. My face is fat and docile. I look exactly like my Kewpie doll. This Kewpie doll. Look at it. For many years, I will play with this doll by pushing my fist into the soft side of its inviting head to cave it in until it’s distorted and grotesque.

And then I will watch.

I will sit and watch as that head slowly, slowly, gently, gently pops back out to a normal shaped Kewpie doll head. I do this deliberately. Over and over again. I do this because it is fun. I do this because it is strangely therapeutic.

But I’m jumping ahead. I don’t do that in 1972. In 1972, all I do is sit here and am good only to be sat up and photographed and probably goo-ed and gaa-ed over. Here is a propping-up example. See me on this white rug, posing with my brother? My Dad’s hand is on my back so I don’t topple over. I am quite pointless with my fat cheeks and Kewpie doll hair.

Dad nicknames me Fatty, because I roll about with my fat arms and legs. He will call me this with great affection up until the age of 13 when I will tell him to stop, in a surly teenage snarl that he won’t deserve. Because in my mind, I am fat, and being called this is not the bond I have with my Dad anymore. Not when I’m a teenager and boys don’t talk to me.

The Kewpie doll (above) is at my parent’s house. She no longer has any clothes (though I remember her having a blue and white gingham dress and white shoes). You can still cave her head in. It still pops out. Eventually.

It makes me insanely happy.

 


Born in 1971?

Share a story about 1972 in the comments.

What do you think?

Please keep your comments polite and on-topic.