Memento Mickey

Becoming Through Wear

June 29, 2026

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I have a hematite necklace, on which there is a silver charm of a Mickey’s wizard hat.

The hat is inlaid with clear crystal for a moon and three blue crystal stars, and is scratched as if destined to a death from a thousand cuts. The hematite is likewise scratched, its original dark grey revealing something closer to silver with a calm golden tint. Two gentle arcs smile; one where the lobster clasp connects the charm, and another where the bottom edge of the charm slides against it. The lobster clasp was once silver, now tarnished yellow. The spinning bail is still silver, as is the snake chain. The juxtaposition intrigues me: age that shows here and not there. It reminds me of me, of my past, of a future shaped like clay; age that shows and age that does not.

I don’t wear this necklace. I haven’t in well over a decade.

It was December 21^st and my best friend Allyson picked me up in her parents GMC, one that had a camper shell on its back. It was early, 5am or so, and we had a plan. After a quick detour to pick up another friend, Bri, we began our mission. It took 20 minutes to drive to my other best friend’s house; she lived way out where properties were multiple acres and chainlink fences with large dogs protected property lines. I watched as a pitbull ran the length of his property to follow beside us. We stopped at the beginning of Jenny’s street and Bri and I climbed into the back of the truck, hiding ourselves behind the seats. Allyson drove the rest of the way.

The three of us giggled to each other with anticipation. It died after 15 minutes of waiting for Jenny; Bri and I were uncomfortable, Bri especially at her six foot height. Giggling turned to bitching. Then Allyson hushed us, “Here she comes!”

The door hinges whined in protest as Jenny hopped in shotgun. Bri and I looked at each other with Cheshire grins and Allyson put the GMC in drive. At the end of the street, where worn 4-way stop signs sat alone in the flat expanse of sand and creosote, Allyson pulled over.

Jenny demanded to know what Allyson fucked up this time. “We’re going to be late!”

“Oh, we’ll be fine.” Allyson responded. Then she hinted. What if they weren’t going, just the two of them? Wouldn’t it be more fun if there were others? Bri and I withheld our giggles as best we could.

Then Allyson said it. “I have a present for you. It’s in the back.”

There was a thunk as Jenny hit Allyson in the tit with the back of her hand. Allyson yelped in pain, and then there was a short back and forth of smacking each other. Bri and I were exceptionally uncomfortable at this point: there was no air conditioning in the GMC and even by 6am it was warm enough to sweat.

“Jesus fuck Jenny, just go get your present!”

Jenny climbed backwards. Looking at Bri, I held up three fingers and mouthed “three,” put a finger down, “two”, another, “one.”

“Happy birthday!!” we shouted as we popped up.

Jenny fell backwards with an “AAAH!” and Allyson, Bri, and I laughed our asses off. Jenny was pissed, and when Bri and I finally wormed our way out of the GMC she smacked us multiple times, too. Then she pulled me into a tight hug, lifting me off my feet. “Buddy!” She released me and then gripped Bri. “Babe!”

The drive down the hill was smooth, traffic moving well until we hit Diamond Bar. Then, like every Southern Californian, we melted into angry, slow moving puddles, complaining about the 57 as if we had been driving for decades, reminiscing on childhoods from which we left behind. ‘You used to be able to get here in just over an hour!’ As if we weren’t barely old enough to drive. Finally we found ourselves driving down Ball Road, hitting Disneyland Drive and squealing in excitement. The drive there took over two hours. Finding parking took 30 minutes. Man was that parking lot a mess.

Yet not as messy as trying to get into the park. There were so many people in the Esplanade. The entrance gates promising with their ornamental light green fascia and columns, with a short red brick shingled roof. When we arrived with our tickets, we were told that the park was full. For a moment we all felt despair. However, our excitement tripled when the attendant told us this meant we got free admission to the California Adventure park and we’d be allowed into Disneyland later. ‘fuck yeah.’

It was in this park that I found my charm. At the Emporium, one of the spinning souvenir stands was filled with them. Every Disney character and more dangled from their brown backings, flashing. I have never had a big interest in Disney (The Lion King VHS was an exception) and so only looked to admire the trinkets. Then I came across the Mickey wizard hat charm. I have, to this day, never watched Fantasia, yet this charm called to me. It was beautiful and magical (doubly so, since the hat is magic itself).

The Mickey charm was monstrously expensive. I knew going in that I could afford one souvenir and lunch, and hadn’t yet looked at everything else or eaten. But I didn’t feel the need to. My stomach would go empty, but I had a pretty thing. My pretty thing. Perhaps I am part dragon in that regard.

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It was a hot day outside, the swamp-cooler working overtime and leaving a faint fishy smell that made me queasy. I sat at the white-tiled counter, butt on a three-legged wooden stool that had no cushion, poorly drawing a compound leaf of a Honey Locust tree I had started at school.

My father came in and I tensed, trying to continue as if everything was alright.

“Did you finish your homework?” he asked.

I looked up, directly into his eyes. “Yes, all of it.”

“Good.” He stood in the kitchen opposite the counter of me, and I remembered the chip in the tile by the sink, from where he had smashed one of my mother’s wine bottles. I don’t remember what the fight was about. I don’t remember most fights, just that they happened with little rhyme or reason.

I anticipated such a fight coming, dark storm clouds and flashing cloud-to-ground lightning running towards me. And I knew it couldn’t be changed, I knew I couldn’t rescue myself. So I braced for impact.

“I have something for you,” he said reaching into his pocket. Fear froze me. Then he revealed it – the hematite necklace. “I want you to have it.”

I reached out and took the necklace in silence, looked at it held in my hands. “Thank you,” I respond quietly.

“You’re mumbling.”

Immediately I looked him in the eyes and braced again, repeating myself in a louder, projected voice. He didn’t say ‘you’re welcome’ or otherwise acknowledge that the interaction had taken place. He left the room and then garage door closed heavily behind him, leaving me alone.

I breathed again, concentrating on controlling it. The necklace spun on its bail, enchanting me. And then I was overwhelmed so greatly I don’t remember what exactly happened. But I know why.

Ever since I was small (but large enough to resist trying to eat it) my father gave me little stones of hematite. He called them ‘energy stones’ and I kept one in my pocket at all times. It was a portal into a better life, something I couldn’t find anywhere else.

Yet here I sat with a new necklace. There had been no yelling, no fight, not even real recognition. Simply a gift given. He never did say where it came from or why he gave it to me.

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I attached the Mickey charm – it complemented the rectangular stone – and I wore the necklace daily for years. It was a token of love from friends and family, a glimpse into a happier life. It was the window into magic I thought I would never experience.

It wasn’t until I dropped out of university in the middle of my second year to take care of my mother that I ceased wearing it. My father had kicked my mother out of the house. He and I had gotten in a fairly brutal physical fight when I was home on break, fracturing his arm. He told the police my mother did in order to get a restraining order against her. They would not listen when I told them it was me who did it. No one believed a tiny thing like me could do any damage. But I had been fighting him for years.

Friends came to help get my mother’s things. My old neighbor showed up too, asking if we needed him. My father’s highly racist remarks mixed with threats of violence echoed under the portico; my neighbor disappeared. The policemen only watched carefully as we went through the house I grew up in to gather my mother’s things. And of course, most of the things that truly mattered to my mother, like photo albums, were no where to be found.

That’s when I gave the necklace up. It did not bring energy, it was not a view into a better world, it was not a symbol of care. It was a curse, one that made me easy to manipulate. Even as I stood, glaring him down under the portico, he knew he still had some kind of puppet string attached to me. I knew it, too, and I hated it, hated him. Hated myself for not being strong enough to cut it and be free.

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I’m not entirely sure why I kept the necklace through that period. But now I keep it dangling from a standing lamp’s turn knob. Maybe it is a reminder that I can always rebuild myself. It represents joy, fear, loss, friendship, survival. It reminds me that I am stronger than the person who first wore it. It shows me that progress is not linear. Some days I feel reduced to what I was then, someone scared and angry and small. Some days I actively try and resist that. Some days that works. Some days it doesn’t, and I find myself in a war of rationality and emotion. Emotion always wins the battles. I don’t yet know who has won the war.

But mostly it’s a reminder that I can build myself. I can learn the trenches that capture me and begin to dance around them. Just like walking through the minefield of my father’s actions, I am learning to walk through and dodge my triggers. The necklace is a reminder that I persist. It is a reminder of where I came from and what I went through, that I lived through what I thought would kill me. It’s a simple object, one that shouts ‘memento vivere.’ And live I will.