Hello. I am Christina. There isn't much to say about myself except that I have six siblings and I grew up in a small town in one of the few rural parts of Maryland about a 45 minute drive from DC. I'm a double major in Math and English--yeah, I'm considering fixing that, even I'm not that crazy. Hopefully soon I will be an English major with a rather odd passion for Math. But I digress. I have a long, abiding passion for theatre and have a not so secret desire to be a director and perhaps and author too, if I can manage it. Perhaps I'll also look into editing--the math books are in desperate need of someone who can actually speak and write English.
Okay, I guess my first memory happened before I was in Kindergarden. I don't really remember how old I was, but I do remember being home all day, so that means before I was five. I remember sitting at the top of the front stairs in the house I grew up in, my feet on the top stair while my butt was firmly planted on the landing. My younger (by about two years) sister was sitting beside me. Now, I can't recall why she made her request, but I do distinctly remember her telling me to push her down the stairs. I, being the wonderful older sister, was unwilling to do this at first. However, when my sister logically explained that I wouldn't get in trouble because she asked me to do this, I readily assented and down the stairs she went. I got in trouble, but only because Mom didn't believe me when I told her that Rachel told me to do it. Rachel didn't back me up either. Sometimes I wonder what good little sisters are good for.
To this day, whenever I relate that story, Rachel declares that she never asked me to do any such thing, and that I'm just making it up. To which I always reply, "Then why do I remember you telling me to push you down the stairs?" Then she rolls her eyes and says something akin to, "I dunno, I guess you're just weird. Or warped. Or weirdly warped. Or something." Memory is such an odd thing, it's more than half built up from imagination and our own rationalization. As Josh Billings says, "There are lots of people who mistake their imagination for their memroy." (http://www.quotegarden.com/memory.html) Perhaps when I was very young, I pushed my little sister down the stairs for no other reason than to find out how far she would slide, and if she would make it into the front door or not. Of course, my older self would deplore such reasoning for the abuse of a younger sibling--any idiot could figure out that anything with the momentum produced from tumbling down the stairs would hit the front door easily. So, to save face, I subconsciously came up with a different reason to push my younger sister down the stairs. She asked me to. And who am I to deny the whims of a younger sister? Especially when they coincide with so many of my own.