Editor’s Epilogue:  A cascade of childhood memories triggered by trading cards

A few months ago, the creator of “Yu-Gi-Oh!” (a trading card game, animated series and video game series —think Pokèmon) Kazuki Takahashi died trying to save a couple of swimmers caught in a riptide. When I read the headlines, my first thought was, “holy shit the creator of ‘Yu-Gi-Oh!’ just died.” But after letting the news sink deeper into my consciousness, I realized I was mourning not for the death of Takahashi, nor my lack of engagement with the series in recent years, but for the early era of my life that defined my childhood. For me, “Yu-Gi-Oh!” was Saturday mornings lounging on the sofa watching teenagers save the world by believing in friendship and colorful cards. It was waking up early on Christmas, racing to the tree and opening boxes to add to my collection of cards. It was hours of sitting cross-legged on a reddish-orange rug in my room with my brother arguing about the rules of the game. It was late nights spent staring at the screen of my light-blue Nintendo DSi. It was my childhood.

Years had gone by since I had last even thought about the series, but somehow I found myself depressed and teary-eyed. My mind began to collect the nostalgic memories that I had long buried in the corner of the fish tank that is my brain. 

Of the melancholic collections I racked up, my memories with my family in China were what turned my moist eyes into a steady stream of salty liquid. I used to travel to Shanghai nearly every year to visit my extended family when I was younger, but visits slowly became less and less frequent as my parents and I got busier. For some reason, I always thought everything would be fine — that I would be able to go back and visit and everything would be just as it was. However, I learned the hard way that time is unforgiving.

Last semester, amidst the busy few weeks before finals, I found out over a call that my great-grandmother had died. My parents assumed I would be too busy and didn’t tell me until almost a week after so as not to interrupt my studies. I had no idea how to react. Without even realizing it, my mind kicked into the first step of grief: denial. I felt numb and it wasn’t until a week later that the sadness hit me. There would be no more visits to my great-grandmother, no games of mahjong played over an old, square table covered in white linen, no more catching up over banana and red bean paste spring rolls. I was depressed but also anxious about time passing — anxious about losing others I love in my life.

How do I not let these thoughts cripple me and subject me to retreating to the false security that is solely composed of a mattress, some pillows and blankets?

I couldn’t let this dread rule over me forever. Pushing these thoughts to the back of my mind and attempting to just forget was not an option either. My fear and stress were genuine, but I didn’t want to wallow in sadness and pity.

It was at the epitome of my contemplation and depression that I thought of “Yu-Gi-Oh!” Well, my mind wasn’t exactly on the cartoon-y trading card game, but rather on other memories I had watching the shows and playing the games with my brother. Thinking about the game made me remember the token quote of Yugi Mutou, protagonist of “Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters.” Whenever he and his friends were backed into a corner, he would always say, “always believe in the heart of the cards.” In other words, never give up. The cheesy quote made me laugh and broke me out of my cycle of moping. I realized that life was too short to be sad all the time, and I knew my great-grandmother would have never wanted me to waste away in bed.

I had to live my life proudly, knowing I was loved and cared for by such amazing people and that they still watch over me. It sounds simplistic and even cliche, but I had to realize that I was only that scared and sad because I had the fortune to have such great experiences.

When I read the news of Takahashi’s death a few months later, I was reminded of my great-grandmother again. My initial reaction was thinking that another piece of my childhood was gone, but then I remembered all over again how fortunate I am. Time goes on and things change, but loved ones and good memories will always be with me. My mindset had already changed from wanting to curl up into a ball and cry every time I see something that reminds me of my lost childhood to knowing how loved I am and of all the people that have helped me get to where I am and become who I am.

So now you know that if you ever see me smiling to myself, slightly teary-eyed, there’s a good chance I’m staring at a cardboard rectangle with a colorful dragon on it. If I’m not smiling, I’m probably staring at Blackboard.

“Editors’ Epilogue” is a rotating column featuring a new Daily Trojan editor in each installment and their personal experiences of living in what seems to be an irrepressible dumpster fire of a world.