Cue the scene: Oakland, California. Early 90’s. Streaks of afternoon sun.
A preschool-aged me lies staring at the ceiling, back flush against a blue gym mat, in a quiet classroom. Around me, classmates do the same, some of them fidgeting nervously with their hands.
I’m still awake, as usual, but instead of spending the next half hour mentally cataloguing everything in the room, I decide to inquire further about this elusive nap thing. I turn to my friend, who is spooning a stuffed Tasmanian Devil on the mat across from mine.
“How do you go to sleep? Can you show me how?” I ask. She nods, slowly. “It’s easy.” Lip smack. Yawn. Lip smack. “You just go like this.” Her single open eye falls back closed, and in seconds, she is snoring.
Until recently, I still didn’t really ‘get it.’ I have always spent at least an hour, usually two, in bed, waiting for sleep. On nights when I have to be up early, I’ll worry so much about needing to get enough sleep that I get none. I was always ashamed of my inability to do something so hardwired into all of us.
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