5-Year-Old Me Thinks I’m Famous
If I had the chance to sit down with my5-year-old self, I think he’d be wearing light-up Lighting Mcqueen shoes (that he swears made him run faster), a faded Spider-Man T-shirt with an apple juice stain, and oversized jorts that didn’t quite fit without the use of a belt. His hair would be spiked from all the Moco De Gorila or Gorilla Snot hair gel by his dad, and he'd be sipping chocolate milk with both hands like it was a fancy latte.
He’d be bold, asking a million questions all at once like, “Why are we in Washington, D.C.? Is this where the president lives? Did you drive here by yourself? Do we have a dog now?” He’d probably look at my iced coffee and say “Eww, that looks nasty” and giggle when I told him it actually tastes good once you’re older.
I’d smile and say, “Dude, you are not going to believe what we’ve done. We went from that little Migrant and Seasonal Head Start classroom to becoming a high school graduate, college student, an intern, and someone who gets to help fight for farmworker families like ours. You made it to the nation’s capital, not just to visit, but to speak up, to represent.”
I’d remind him of how he used to sing loudly in the car with the windows down and believe how he could grow up to be anything. I’d tell him to hold onto that voice and that courage, because one day, he’d use them in rooms full of lawmakers. I’d share many memories of his future friends, standing on Capitol Hill, talking to decision-makers and knowing deep down that even if they tried to ignore us, our presence is there.
I know he’d beam with pride, but still ask, “Do we get to have snacks after this?” and I’d laugh and say, “Always.”
Even though so much has changed, I know that 5-year-old Jean had the same spark I carry today: a heart full of hope, a voice that refuses to be quiet, and a belief that even the smallest boy from Moultrie, Georgia grew up to make some serious noise.