The Rules of Hide and Seek
Carolyn Jiang
You can never be too good at hide and seek. Well, you can be, but you should never be, because it ruins the whole game. When I was a kid, I used to play a game of hide and seek in the dark called Manhunt. It went like this: one kid would be picked to be the seeker, who would count up to a certain number while the other kids hid. The seeker would then go and find the others, and once they were found, the hiders would also become seekers and try to find their brethren. There were often people who would hide with each other, only to be revealed all at once when their friends were found. I was not one of those. I always confided in no one but myself, knowing that betrayal was common; secrets were secret no longer once hiders became seekers. Once everyone was found except one, the last person would be victorious, and a new round would begin. Or at least that was how it was supposed to go.
In reality, although I’d won several times, nobody ever noticed. Somewhere along the way, they would lose count of how many people were playing, forget all about me, and start a new round. This was depressing–to be forgotten by your friends was the most devastating blow a middle schooler could experience.
I longed for someone to find me, yet I had spent so much effort finding the perfect hiding spot, of controlling my breathing and becoming a master of the dark, that I accidentally became undetectable. People would often pass right by me, close enough for me to touch, and I would have to resist the urge to jump out and scare them. I was creative–once, I blended in with a pile of laundry in someone’s room, so camouflaged that even when the seeker patted me, they weren’t aware of my presence. I didn’t exist. I was merely a ghost in clothes, my essence lost in the dark, even my heartbeat a secret.
Perhaps I was so good at this that I became invisible in their very minds. It was a lonely power to have. If you were good at seeking, you would have someone to brag to, their very existence proof of your skill. But if you were hiding, your best spots were your magician’s secrets, tricks of the trade you could never reveal lest it lessen your skill. I was competitive, yet what I really wanted wasn’t to win, but to be praised. What I couldn’t realize myself only took a few rounds of invisibility to teach me: The point of hide and seek isn’t to hide, it’s to be found.
Carolyn Jiang is a senior majoring in cognitive science and minoring in psychology, which offers lots of juicy opportunities to confuse unfortunate people and professors. Her first hobby is learning about other people’s hobbies, and her second hobby is confusing people. If she’s not writing grand and dramatic conclusions about humanity, you’ll find her writing bean poems with her friends.
Carolyn wrote this piece in a course taught by Paul Blaney, who selected it for inclusion in WHR.