Sand Dollar
by Adam Swanson
Jen Fuller, SWF(light), kilnform glass, steel, digital projection, 14 x 14 x 14 feet, 2020. Courtesy of the artist.
Sand Dollar
ADAM SWANSON / SEPT 2021 / ISSUE 9
He lured me with sand dollars. Or maybe those two words: Sand dollar. Sand dollar. Sand dollar. From a little wicker basket, his teenage fingers would place sand dollars into my small hands. My fingers would carefully explore each delicate piece, their little pores and divots all round and white and dead, while he told me stories about sand dollars and the sea and the sounds of seagulls. I thought sand dollars were real money—money so rare they were never seen in stores because they came from nature. How much is a sand dollar worth—I wondered with big eyes—how many green dollars for a sand dollar? I was the only daycare kid he invited to touch his sand dollars or look at his other sea treasures. One time, he held a big spiraled seashell and told me, If you put this seashell to your ear, you can hear ocean waves from hundreds of miles away, no matter how far you are from the sea. I’d never seen an ocean, but in the middle of flatlands and cornfields, a flood of ocean sounds filled his basement bedroom and my ears. For a while, I became his special sand dollar boy. One day, he took me inside his closet. My mouth went quiet there as he took off his pants, but he found ways to work around my silence. Sand dollar. Sand dollar. Sand dollar. I didn’t want him in my mouth, but somehow, at age five, I knew to try to protect my dignity. I tried to crick my neck to obscure his view. I tried to put enough spit in the palms of my hands to make him think he was in my mouth even when he wasn’t. Then, Daycare Lady slid the closet door open, moving its thin slits of light across our bodies. Her body stood there so still. Before her face changed, she looked at us like she’d seen a ghost. Me down on my knees. Her son sitting up on a cardboard box. Stand up, she commanded a moment later, sounding angry as she grabbed at my shoulder. She pulled me away, away from him and his closet, away from his sand dollars, and past all the other daycare kids and up the stairs. She pushed me onto the blue couch in the living room and went back to her son. Sit here until I come back, she said. Alone, I folded my hands neatly in my lap and waited. Everything became still except the bits of floating dust. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t move. I made myself still. I tried to quiet even the sounds of my blinking. My eyes burned from stillness. What you did today was very, very bad, she said when she returned. You wouldn’t want your mom to know about how bad you were, would you? I only wanted to be good. I didn’t speak. It was hard to breathe so still. She continued, Did you want to play with my son, Adam? I need you to answer me, or I’ll have to tell your mom how bad you were. I refused to look into her eyes as she knelt in front of me. I sat soundless on that blue couch for the rest of the day. And the next day. And the next. For three days, I told no one and said nothing. I sat soundless and listened to the daycare kids play and laugh and cry from the basement like kids do. On the third day, after the others had finished their lunches, I sat alone on a kitchen barstool eating macaroni and cheese mixed with cut up hot dogs. Daycare Lady watched me eat while the other kids swam in the pool. I chewed slowly and tried not to cry each time I glanced toward the shimmering water. If I close my eyes now, I can still see flashes of little boys and little girls and their tiny swimsuits and floaties and the wet concrete and her big son’s hair dripping in the sunlight as his body leaps into the water to make waves for all the screaming children. They’re happy. Are you ready to go outside, she asked. She leaned into her elbows, bringing her face closer to mine. Do you want to go swim with the others, she whispered, as her breath brushed past my skin. Are you ready to admit it? Then, with my eyes forever fixed on a sea of yellow noodles, I gave her her word. Yes.
Adam Swanson’s writing has appeared in O, The Oprah Magazine, Washington Post, Lambda Literary Review, and elsewhere. He has received fellowships from Writing by Writers, Lambda Literary, and the Creative Writing Program at Emerson College. Adam is the Senior Prevention Specialist at the Suicide Prevention Resource Center.
Portland-based installation artist Jen Fuller has been constructing ephemeral glass, steel, and light experiences around the United States for over 10 years. As a self-taught artist, Fuller found her passion rooted in the traditional techniques of kiln-formed glass, industrial welding, and digital lighting. Her art reflects the delicate vulnerability and intrinsic interconnectedness of nature and humanity. Fuller’s work has been commissioned by Metro Regional Government, Ovation TV, Lan Su Chinese Garden, OMSI, Olbrich Botanical Garden and private collectors around the world.