Playing Tag on the Roof

Sometimes, kids do the dumbest things. The parts of the brain that give us good judgment aren’t fully developed until our late teens and twenties, which is why as kids, we often go with what feels right in the moment. This reminds me of a story from my childhood that could easily be a book excerpt from my healing journey. It might just be one of my dumbest moves. 

As the eldest of four brothers, all born within a span of four and a half years, I was the big kid in our family. After my parents divorced and my mom left, we started getting used to being in the house without an adult around. My father worked full-time and often reminded me of my special role as the 'banks of the river,' tasked with ensuring my brothers' safety and good behavior. Balancing this responsibility was tough; at thirteen, I still wanted to play as much as anyone else. We loved to roughhouse, and most disagreements or competitions for toys would escalate into wrestling matches until someone cried from an injury. I often found myself watching over the chaos, moving furniture out of the way, or shouting warnings like, 'Move away from the bureau!' Even today, I tend to be the voice of reason and safety when I see kids roughhousing. 

As we searched for new games after the usual roughhousing and tag lost their appeal, I discovered that we could climb out of a dormer window from our third-floor bedroom onto the steep roof. By inching carefully around, we could reach a flat platform in the middle of the gabled roofing. I usually went up there alone, being cautious since a slip would mean a three-story fall onto the yard or concrete. But eventually, my brothers found out, and we began our dangerous excursions together, sitting on the roof to enjoy the view of the trees and the park across the street. 

You might wonder where my 'banks-of-the-river' self was during these risky adventures. There we were, four boys aged nine to thirteen, on the roof in broad daylight, believing we were pretty cool for braving such danger without supervision. When even this activity lost its thrill, we decided it was a brilliant idea to play tag on the roof. 

As I write this, I shudder with fear, shame, and embarrassment. The game would start with one person being 'it,' while the others scattered to the edges of the platform, trying to maintain their balance on the slippery surface. Believe it or not, we played tag on the roof often, and somehow, no one saw us. 

One afternoon, my uncle Al visited when my dad wasn't around. He took us out for pizza and played board games with us at home. After he left, we headed back to the roof for a game of tag. Suddenly, we heard a furious voice from the street: 'Hey you kids, get off that fucking roof—right now!' It was my uncle, a Catholic priest, wearing his Roman collar in broad daylight. Sensing trouble, he had circled back about fifteen minutes after leaving. He was justifiably angry, especially with me, and launched into the 'banks-of-the-river' speech, listing all the risks and calamities that could come from such stupid, irresponsible behavior. 

Looking back on this story now, I reflect on the lingering shock that it even happened. I search for logic to make sense of it, a method to the madness. Perhaps it was an inefficient call for help that ultimately brought a responsible adult back into our lives. I climbed onto the roof not just for fun, but to escape the empty-feeling house and connect with strong emotions: excitement, fear, and the thrill of breaking the rules.