Back in the day when Kraft’s Macaroni & Cheese was a mighty fine meal & Mr. Roger’s was my homeboy, I discovered an unbelievable province that made me yearn to minimize my already petite body to a more mouse-like size, hop on a tiny toy trolley, and make my way into the Neighborhood of Make-Believe.

I’m pretty sure King Friday was my first love which explains some of my more interesting mate selections. But, of course, at four-years-old I am unaware of this.

Mr. Rogers influenced my life in three ways; 1) My fascination with sweaters, 2) my adoration for penny loafers, and 3) my desire, at the time, to be miniature – Smurfkin size.

As a tiny tot of a boy, it shouldn’t be all that tricky.

Smurfland here I come.

I try it all.

I try taking super hot baths, which only scold my skin but doesn’t shrink me. I sleep in the fetal position; all scrunched up next to mom’s side like a petite bean, hoping to not grow much more than the 3’2 I already am. I would be a beast in the Land of Make-Believe, a giant in Smurfland. I try slithering beneath the bed and, by magic, surface as a totally small, totally smurfkin sized new boy. I even try stacking Encyclopedia’s on my head, walking around like a beauty queen in training, hoping this may do the trick.

Nope. No Shrinking. I shoot up to 3’3. Mom is happy as she measures me against a wall in the small closet in the room we share because we still are living with grandma. I am frustrated.

I step out of the closet as she makes her way to a mirror.

“You are one strange child,” mom rolls her eyes, which are smothered with blue mascara, as I pick up the pile of books and stagger across the room with S-V on my head. “You’ve been hanging out with your grandma too long,” she says, as she begins meticulously lining her eyes with more black eyeliner. 

Mom, with her 19-year-old girl trendsetting ways, is still in her 80’s glam phase. Who could blame her? She is wearing faded jeans and a bra with an open denim jacket that she cut the sleeves off of. She insists on smearing bright red, almost hot pink, blush across her face. Her enormous rose colored eye glasses, the bottom of coke bottle type of eye glasses, can't mask all the blue eyeliner. Not enough for my grandma at least who hates that she insists on wearing this outfit to Sunday dinners with the rest of the Villanueva tribe.

“Why do you wear those stupid outfits?” Grandma asks as we make our grand entrance, mom in her bra and jacket combo, me with my Prince t-shirt and tight black track pants. It always angered me when grandma made fun of our clothes because I love the bright colors. No one can pull off teal and neon green like mom can. Grandma is in her usual after church dress, red with white polka dots, of course she has an apron to cover her boring attire. I never speak up though, she’s grandma and I’m just a wee tot sadly growing by the minute it seems. I make my way to a corner in the kitchen to practice my shrinking. 

I’m squatting, squeezing in my shoulders and closing my eyes tight. That should do it. Then there’s a knock at the front door.

Grandma motions me over to the stove and hands me a bowl of good ole’ Mac and Cheese. “Here,” she says, “eat now before everyone arrives and takes up the seats.”

I sit in the green kitchen that reminds me of avocado innards. For a moment, I try to shrink myself down to the size I imagine would fit into an avocado when I hear mom’s voice coming from the front door.

It isn’t a happy voice.

“James,” grandma says turning away from the stove and taking me from the chair. She grabs my meal and carries the bowl of Mac with her. “Go to the room and watch Mr. Rogers.”

“I’m still eating,” I say, as she guides me by my right arm. Grandma’s heavy hand pulls me roughly. The bowl of Mac and Cheese looks as though it’s glued to her other hand. 

“You can eat in your room,” she says. I stop squirming. TV and Macaroni, I’m sold. 

Mom’s voice continues booming in the background. I hear a man’s voice also, but I’m too caught up in Mr. Rogers and his land of Make-Believe to bother.

That is, however, until mom screams. A door slams. 

I drop my spoon onto the floor. Cheese goo clings to the brown carpets. I run to the window and watch as a man bangs on the door once more before yelling, “He’s my son.” He bangs again. “I have a right to see him,” he yells.

The man, a tall black man with slick black hair, leans his head onto the door one last time before stepping away and driving off in a blue car. Mom and grandma yell for a few minutes. All I can make out is grandma saying, “You’re lucky the rest of the family isn’t here yet. You know what they think of that man.”

The house settles for a moment and Mr. Roger’s voice is louder than usual. My spoon still grips the carpet.

I crawl under the bed I share with mom and try, once again, to shrink.