This fall break, my friends and I visited the City Museum in St. Louis, Missouri. I expected lessons in the city’s history, but instead, the museum was more akin to a giant playground. It largely consists of architectural objects repurposed for recreation.
Among the three of us, I was the only one who had never been to the museum, or even heard of it. My friends told me I’d love it, but I was confused since I’m not a history buff. Upon entry, I was astonished by the abundance of Halloween decorations: giant spiders, werewolf heads and glowing jack-o'-lanterns. Combined with the museum’s maximalist architecture, the decorations made me slightly overstimulated.
As a kid, I hesitated before stepping with my whole bare foot on a patch of grass, or so my parents told me. This month, I realized I acted similarly when we climbed up spiral staircases and walked inside of an old prop plane on the museum’s roof. The sheer height of the staircases was the most impressive part of the museum. Once we entered one of the main areas, my friends told me to look up, and I was amazed. The red and blue lights shining on the stairs only accentuated their enormity and made me feel like I was inside of a movie set.
I also failed to swing from one side of a skateboard ramp to the other while holding on to a rope. I was too cautious. As we grow up, we learn to be more cautious, almost as if we’re building off our initial childhood instincts to avoid situations that seem dangerous. Sure, a patch of grass usually poses no harm, but the same instincts that made me hesitate before stepping on it as a child are the same ones that guide me now when I’m making more complex decisions as a college student.
Children are naturally curious and clumsy. In the museum, I tried to enter every crawlspace I thought I would fit into; I hit my head on the roof when crawling in small spaces and scraped my back on a fake stalactite in the museum’s Spider Cave. My friends also left the museum slightly banged up from all the exploration we did.
I was intrigued when one of my friends, the St. Louis native, said he could fit into each and every crawl space in his “prime” as a kid. It’s funny how he views his childhood as his peak now, when in 10 years or so he'll probably see his time in high school or college as his prime. What’s even funnier is how much fun three college sophomores had in an area that was dominated by kids around 6 to 12 years old.
All three of us were aware we were probably among the oldest people playing around in the museum. None of us really cared.
In college, we get our first taste of adulthood. We may often get caught up in acting “grown up,” especially after freshman year, but I believe we should allow ourselves to be kids sometimes.
This doesn’t mean being immature. Rather, it’s about allowing yourself to engage in fun activities that may seem childish. It’s about breaking the stigma that comes with doing so when you’re older.
I believe it’s important to challenge this stigma, because it’s natural for people to yearn for the feeling of childhood. It can also be healing to reconnect with your childhood self.
Visiting the City Museum allowed me to do just that. As much as I stood out among visitors younger than me, there wasn’t much that set me apart from the children I bumped into while exploring the museum. I imagine we felt the same level of excitement and awe as we made our way through everything the museum had to offer.
I loved feeling like a kid again. It allowed me to clear my mind. For a moment, I stopped worrying about my upcoming midterms, or if I had enough groceries to make it through the week.
I only thought about what part of the museum we would explore next, or what crevice we would all bravely try to fit into so we could see where it led. I remembered I am still a kid at heart, unabashedly.
Joaquin Baerga (he/him) is a sophomore studying journalism.
