By Ririsoony

Growing up, I was never one to play with rules. Where other kids saw a house built for a family, a “playing-just-for-fun” sport, or a game of tag, I saw ideas of play that required too much thinking. Never was I up for an activity that entailed rules; I just wanted to be introduced to the concept and carry it out. 

Infection is a game we played on the playground. Sometimes my whole grade level played. The infector, the “It” has to tag other people, rendering them another “It.” But the “It” is not allowed to corner victims. The “It” cannot use bait, the “It” cannot climb the monkey bars, and the victims cannot touch the slides. No, the “It” has to run, has to chase down its victims like a predator to prey. The “It” has to chew them whole, grind their flesh between their claws, drown them in their poison… that was how satisfaction came about.

At least that’s how I remember us third graders playing it. 

But eventually, my small group of friends and I formed a different game. A game without violence. It wasn’t an original idea, but four-square with the same three friends who, luckily, shared identical ideals was an experience. Within the square, we tossed the handball to each other without regard for technique, trick, or tip; it was just a game to play. There were no rules — our stutters and my lisp never delivered the message. Our desire to just keep our hands busy remained. But we played. 

Nowadays, I listen to my little brother, a fourth-grader, recall the same games I used to play. 

Four-square was a game with his three friends who shared the same ideals as he did. A game was a meticulously constructed plaything, and when they played this game, they delivered. “Butt touches” are when you pass the ball using your butt, and the receiver cannot take it with their hands. They pass it on with their butt, and that is when the game shifts. “Elbows” and “foreheads” and “knees” and “elbow-knee” combinations dripped from his mind like a quiet, leaky faucet into my ear. And out poured a flood. 

And that’s not to say he doesn’t have fun; I know full well that four-square is a game he thoroughly enjoys. I will regret forever that he grew up surrounded by rules. “Don’t open that drawer” and “Stop making a mess” and “Stop talking” were daily messages shot at him. I will regret forever handing him an iPad and watching him succumb to the chronic online dilemma. I will regret forever not showing him my world, the freedom and joy I found in games, the soft, solemn moments in time. Where I took a game and cultivated freedom, he took a game and cultivated competition. 

He lived with rules in his everyday life. Rules exist in mine, too, but I can’t help but realize that he didn’t grow up with the same freedom, the same joy of just playing, as I did. 

Then, on a random weekday, I listened to the 99% Invisible podcast episode about Isamu Noguchi. Specifically, his “Play Mountain”, an architectural children’s playground structure that dismissed all rules, and all sensible ways of play. It was a dangerous concept. It was a thrilling endeavor. 

Children would discover new ways to traverse this design through this unconventional means of play and grow into open-minded, creative, problem-solving individuals. I believed it to be promising. I glanced at the stone replication, and I thought it would fix me. I thought it would replicate my childhood of non-structured play. I thought that if I were to show my little brother my nostalgia, he might feel a sense of freedom. 

Then I realized that the “Play Mountain” was located in Los Angeles, and unfortunately, I do not have a license. Going to a whole new city just for a playground wasn’t a good enough reason for me. 

I can worry about my little brother later. I need to heal myself. 

The other day, I went to Mile Square Park in Fountain Valley with a friend. We bought boba tea and walked around the perimeter of the park, talking about every little thing that came to mind. Sports and plans and college… I would think that we’ve talked about everything. But a topic that came up was stress. Stress caused by sports, plans, and college. 

Stress, that all seemed to drown away when we came across a playground. 

I thought it to be silly; two teenagers exploring a playground meant for three-foot-tall kids. But my friend saw the structure and experienced her childhood. She relived moments in time when she and her sister would climb the monkey bars and sit on the rooves of the slides and hide underneath the canopies. 

And I hate to say that I envy her spirit. But truthfully, I’ve never felt happier swinging on the swings or climbing the rock formations. I’ve never felt happier to experience play after years of built-up stress and exhaustion. I’ve never felt happier to feel like a kid. 

Weekly, my friends and I walk down to Mile Square Park after school. Whether we choose to walk down the block or cut through the grass, the freedom ignites a gentle hope in me. That one day, I’ll survive, my little brother will live, and all will be well.