"I don't understand feminist language."
This is something I'm starting to see, more and more, as I move through feminist spheres. And I don't like it. Now, I get that there are a lot of things to talk about a learn, especially if you're going to do feminism correctly, where you support trans women and women of color and asexual women and disabled women and neurodivergent women and sex workers and teenagers and homosexual women and polyamorous women and any combination of the above and more.
Y'know, actual feminism, where you support ALL women?
There's a lot of lingo, cis, dfab, dmab, biromantic, alltistic, I could go on for pages, I really, really could. And I understand that learning it takes time and effort, but I should point out that it takes time. And effort. I learned the vast majority of what I know from Tumblr over the course of a year or more, and though I'm still learning, because there is always something new to know, I was able to learn it. It involved reading a lot, and a lot of time, which I had when I was getting into Tumblr, as well as an internet connection.
I understand that not everyone has internet access or a lot of time to read everything, or even the ability to read at all. That is not what's grinding my gears at ALL, like what kind of asshole would I be to get upset about that? A huge one, that's what kind. I have a lot of privilege, I know that.
What gets me is people, on the internet, talking about articles they read. On the internet. Google exists, friend. Hell, use Bing or AskJeeves or even the virus Groovario if you like, there are search engines out there. If you have the ability to read articles online, you have the ability to search for words you don't understand, and you know what you do if your search turns up contradictory results? You search more, and you read more. That's how it works.
I can understand, if you're new to things, that you might not be able to understand why Men's Rights Activists, or MRAs, are so reviled, because it would seem, on the surface, that they are just men trying to help other men escape the backlash of misogyny, by saying things like "Men can be raped, too" and "Men can wear dresses, if they like." It takes reading and time to see that MRAs are actually men dedicated to forcing discussions about misogyny to focus on how men are hurt by it, rather than on how men can stop using misogyny to stop hurting women. And men.
Now, I'm not saying there isn't a place for discussions of men being raped, but that place is not in the middle of a conversation about how rape culture crushes women. And that is what MRA's always talk about. That, and alimony, which comes about because our society devalues women, even ones working in the same field as men. MRAs don't seem interested in gay rights, transgender issues, or presentation, and they remain remarkably silent on those issues.
And that is the tip of the iceberg on things that can be confusing and misunderstood, such as dfab, or "designated female at birth," versus afab and "assigned female at birth." People make mistakes, there's always something new to learn, which can be both frustrating and exciting, depending on your personality type and mood.
But something I've also noticed is that the people most commonly complaining about not understanding feminist jargon are white, cishet people. For anyone who might want to complain about not understanding any of those terms, I don't care. This entire article is about my frustration with people who don't take the time to search for themselves.
I even understand that some people need examples to understand something, rather than straight-forward definitions, need to comprehend it in practice, rather than pure theory, but I really don't think that's the problem here. It seems to me that the problem here is that white cishet people don't want to think about their privilege, but they also know that not "being a feminist" is also something that will get them slammed, so they say, "I'm totally a feminist, I just don't get all that jargon, make it easier for me," putting the onus of their education on the oppressed, rather than taking up the mantle themselves.
Now, I won't deny that it's not just white cishet people doing this, people of all manner of privilege, able-bodied, alltistic, neurotypical, college educated, people who don't live with food insecurity, there are people in all of these groups of privilege, and more, who will put the onus of their education on those oppressed by their privilege, but you know who I hear the most? White cishet folks. Because they are at a crucial intersection of powerful privilege, and feel entitled to speak the most, speak the loudest, and argue the longest.
Of course, if you're reading this, chances are that you already know this, you already understand that this is a truism of our world, but I'm saying something about it because I am frustrated by it, and because I'm hoping to give words to someone who doesn't know why it's so frustrating when someone on the internet, or even offline, says "I'm totally this thing, I just don't understand the language used," when it's blatantly obvious they are not what they claim to be.
Having words to describe my experiences and frustrations has always helped me, so when someone says "I don't understand the language used here," it always sounds to me like, "I don't need to care enough about this language to learn what it means," and when I hear that, I just want that person to stop claiming to be standing with me. You don't even care enough to learn how to talk about what is important to me. How can you possibly be on my side?
Monday, September 29, 2014
Friday, September 26, 2014
How They Do It
In Summer Shelton's opinion, the effects of sugar water on Martian bacteria, after only three days, were astonishing. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she marked her observations in the system log book, as well as measurements of how much it had grown, consulting the notes on her handheld data pad, modeled after modern tablet computers, and optimized for use in space, including a rubber case to protect it from bumps, and to make it easier to handle.
The bacterial growth rate was incredible, though Summer wasn't sure if it was the refined sugar or the filtered water encouraging that growth. She tapped open the monitor sidebar with her finger to add a note to harvest more of the bacteria for testing both of those separately, when something caught the corner of her eye, off to the left, where the icon representing her should have been a eight year-old picture of her in an afro, smiling for her ID photo. She'd since gotten her hair twisted into locs, because they were easier for her to maintain, and they didn't shed nearly as much, an important thing when one wanted to be an astronaut.
Instead of the old photo of her in the little box, there was a picture of a fried chicken leg.
The ship had a crew of five, astonishingly large for a trip to Mars, even after the affectionately-nicknamed "impossible" EmDrive engine that got them there in a matter of weeks, rather than months, and without all the fuel usually necessary, but all members of the crew had been deemed necessary for the work being done.
Summer herself was a PH.D-level lab technician who'd been discovered when she'd made a crucial connection in something sent to the head of the lab, Meghashyam Parikh. She'd been managing his inbox while he was away on a presentation tour, when he'd been sent something from NASA.
After taking a look at what was wanted, and remembering that missives from NASA took priority, she'd fulfilled the expectations of the request, sending them back to the team that had requested the information, and copying Meghashyam on what she'd done, so that he would know what she had sent out on his behalf, though the missive had clearly been marked.
She'd received a call at eleven that night, when Meghashyam frantically called to figure out how she had made that connection, because NASA thought it was him, wanting him to accompany a mission to Mars, and he had no idea what she'd done. After months of hounding, he'd convinced her to go along, and convinced NASA they wanted her for the trip. She still wasn't sure she appreciated that.
Besides Summer and Meghashyam, there was Sherwin Valencia, a genius aeronautical engineer who'd been angry to realize his changes to how NASA shuttles used human waste had been revolutionary, Bena Morton, a world-renowned geneticist who could actually make Meghashyam and Sherwin work together, and Erik House, who'd wanted a team put together, but had been unpleasantly surprised when him not putting the team together himself resulted in him being the only white person on it.
Summer knew that Erik was responsible for the change to her icon, just like when Meghashyam got a cow for his icon, Sherwin got a pineapple, or Bena got a dreamcatcher, it was always Erik. He claimed he was joking, that it was in good fun, but it upset Summer. Bena, too, but Meghashyam thought it was funny, and Sherwin tended to extract his revenge by means of shorting Erik's communicator, so it never really got addressed, though Summer was definitely beginning to reach the end of her patience with it.
She changed her icon back, sent Bena a frustrated message of complaint, and finished her notes.
By the time she was done, Bena had finished whatever work she'd been doing and come to join Summer, her long hair pulled back into its usual braided bun as she leaned against the console next to Summer, the sympathetic expression on her lined face going a long way towards soothing Summer's frustration.
She spent the next several minutes listening to Bena talk about her own work, because it was an excellent distraction, but their peace was eventually disturbed by Meghashyam and Erik, hooting about whatever they'd found, and Summer went to go find Sherwin, as he was bound to be seething about whatever had been inflicted on him as a result of the other men's findings.
In the quiet between the trio she'd left behind, and where she was heading, Summer heard the voice. She'd heard voices before, usually the others over the comms, calling her to one place or another on the ship, but this voice was different. Softer. It reminded her of visiting her grandmother when it wasn't a holiday, and the house was empty, a weak voice that used to be strong, that still expected obedience when it commanded, but preferred using gentleness. And it felt like the quiet spot in grandma's house during the holidays.
Naturally, Summer scrambled away from that foreign voice, futilely clutching her head and willing it away, as it assured her it meant no harm, and it was endangered, please help. Voices should not have been in her head, she didn't want them, no. Then the ship's alarms went off, collision alert, and for a bit, everything went crazy as everyone tried to figure out where the collision was coming from,how to get away with it, where was mission control, and more.
By the time the metaphorical dust cleared, the five humans, ship and all, were aboard another, larger ship the size of a state, surrounding by multicolored alien horses with sharp hooves and sharper teeth, trying their best to handle their new circumstances, and failing pretty spectacularly. There were aliens, they could read minds, and the didn't like what they were learning about their galactic neighbors.
The bacterial growth rate was incredible, though Summer wasn't sure if it was the refined sugar or the filtered water encouraging that growth. She tapped open the monitor sidebar with her finger to add a note to harvest more of the bacteria for testing both of those separately, when something caught the corner of her eye, off to the left, where the icon representing her should have been a eight year-old picture of her in an afro, smiling for her ID photo. She'd since gotten her hair twisted into locs, because they were easier for her to maintain, and they didn't shed nearly as much, an important thing when one wanted to be an astronaut.
Instead of the old photo of her in the little box, there was a picture of a fried chicken leg.
The ship had a crew of five, astonishingly large for a trip to Mars, even after the affectionately-nicknamed "impossible" EmDrive engine that got them there in a matter of weeks, rather than months, and without all the fuel usually necessary, but all members of the crew had been deemed necessary for the work being done.
Summer herself was a PH.D-level lab technician who'd been discovered when she'd made a crucial connection in something sent to the head of the lab, Meghashyam Parikh. She'd been managing his inbox while he was away on a presentation tour, when he'd been sent something from NASA.
After taking a look at what was wanted, and remembering that missives from NASA took priority, she'd fulfilled the expectations of the request, sending them back to the team that had requested the information, and copying Meghashyam on what she'd done, so that he would know what she had sent out on his behalf, though the missive had clearly been marked.
She'd received a call at eleven that night, when Meghashyam frantically called to figure out how she had made that connection, because NASA thought it was him, wanting him to accompany a mission to Mars, and he had no idea what she'd done. After months of hounding, he'd convinced her to go along, and convinced NASA they wanted her for the trip. She still wasn't sure she appreciated that.
Besides Summer and Meghashyam, there was Sherwin Valencia, a genius aeronautical engineer who'd been angry to realize his changes to how NASA shuttles used human waste had been revolutionary, Bena Morton, a world-renowned geneticist who could actually make Meghashyam and Sherwin work together, and Erik House, who'd wanted a team put together, but had been unpleasantly surprised when him not putting the team together himself resulted in him being the only white person on it.
Summer knew that Erik was responsible for the change to her icon, just like when Meghashyam got a cow for his icon, Sherwin got a pineapple, or Bena got a dreamcatcher, it was always Erik. He claimed he was joking, that it was in good fun, but it upset Summer. Bena, too, but Meghashyam thought it was funny, and Sherwin tended to extract his revenge by means of shorting Erik's communicator, so it never really got addressed, though Summer was definitely beginning to reach the end of her patience with it.
She changed her icon back, sent Bena a frustrated message of complaint, and finished her notes.
By the time she was done, Bena had finished whatever work she'd been doing and come to join Summer, her long hair pulled back into its usual braided bun as she leaned against the console next to Summer, the sympathetic expression on her lined face going a long way towards soothing Summer's frustration.
She spent the next several minutes listening to Bena talk about her own work, because it was an excellent distraction, but their peace was eventually disturbed by Meghashyam and Erik, hooting about whatever they'd found, and Summer went to go find Sherwin, as he was bound to be seething about whatever had been inflicted on him as a result of the other men's findings.
In the quiet between the trio she'd left behind, and where she was heading, Summer heard the voice. She'd heard voices before, usually the others over the comms, calling her to one place or another on the ship, but this voice was different. Softer. It reminded her of visiting her grandmother when it wasn't a holiday, and the house was empty, a weak voice that used to be strong, that still expected obedience when it commanded, but preferred using gentleness. And it felt like the quiet spot in grandma's house during the holidays.
Naturally, Summer scrambled away from that foreign voice, futilely clutching her head and willing it away, as it assured her it meant no harm, and it was endangered, please help. Voices should not have been in her head, she didn't want them, no. Then the ship's alarms went off, collision alert, and for a bit, everything went crazy as everyone tried to figure out where the collision was coming from,how to get away with it, where was mission control, and more.
By the time the metaphorical dust cleared, the five humans, ship and all, were aboard another, larger ship the size of a state, surrounding by multicolored alien horses with sharp hooves and sharper teeth, trying their best to handle their new circumstances, and failing pretty spectacularly. There were aliens, they could read minds, and the didn't like what they were learning about their galactic neighbors.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Made Of
I am made of muscle
Of lost dreams and sinew
Of empty spaces
And shouting to the beams.
I am made of all that you never wanted me to be,
And all that I never was.
I am made of woman,
Raw and unclaimed.
I am made of man,
Soft and gently tamed.
I am made of all the little spots you never saw,
And the giant walls you refuse to claim at all.
I am made of all that is precious and lovely;
And all the hate that is in you
Is nothing
Of me.
Monday, September 22, 2014
To Live
Retail work is hard.
Let's just put that on the table, where everyone can see it. Take a good long look at that for me, ok? Think about that really hard. Now think about any worker at every grocery store, corner store, supercenter, clothing boutique, or other place where you can buy shit.
Depending on the size of the store, these people spend all day on their feet, moving things, lifting things, shifting things, bending, crouching, sweeping, mopping, walking, putting things on racks, inviting people to buy this thing or that thing, but mostly doing the annoying, monotonous work of making the store not look like shit.
And they do it all for minimum wage.
That could just be Meijer, where I work, that people are putting in that much effort, but I suspect it's pretty ubiquitous.
And it's HARD.
This is backbreaking, agonizing work, and even if you nearly kill yourself working, you still bring home a check that's barely worth looking at. I'm not even including fast food and restaurant workers, because they have their OWN unique pile of shit to deal with that I can't even begin to address, because I've never done that work.
It saps the life out of you, though. I feel disposable, used, and utterly interchangeable. Because I am. They don't need ME. They just need someone, a body in the uniform to do the work and take the tests and move the thing and lift the thing.
I'm so tired of feeling like shit. I ache, in a bone deep way.
I realized, the other day, that all of my fiction, as well as most of my poetry, it has the common theme of escaping, running away, and that's all I really want to do. I want to get out, go away. I always feel like I'm asking too much because I want consistent food, consistent ability to pay my bills, consistent shelter, but I know I'm really not.
And it's not like this shit gets better as you get older, it just gets harder and more frustrating, and that's so disheartening. I even know that my depression's flaring up right now because I'm hungry, and that hunger and slight malnutrition contribute to the way my body is aching right now, but I know that's not the fullness of it, that is not the long and short of it all.
Why do we have to make it so hard to just fucking live?
Let's just put that on the table, where everyone can see it. Take a good long look at that for me, ok? Think about that really hard. Now think about any worker at every grocery store, corner store, supercenter, clothing boutique, or other place where you can buy shit.
Depending on the size of the store, these people spend all day on their feet, moving things, lifting things, shifting things, bending, crouching, sweeping, mopping, walking, putting things on racks, inviting people to buy this thing or that thing, but mostly doing the annoying, monotonous work of making the store not look like shit.
And they do it all for minimum wage.
That could just be Meijer, where I work, that people are putting in that much effort, but I suspect it's pretty ubiquitous.
And it's HARD.
This is backbreaking, agonizing work, and even if you nearly kill yourself working, you still bring home a check that's barely worth looking at. I'm not even including fast food and restaurant workers, because they have their OWN unique pile of shit to deal with that I can't even begin to address, because I've never done that work.
It saps the life out of you, though. I feel disposable, used, and utterly interchangeable. Because I am. They don't need ME. They just need someone, a body in the uniform to do the work and take the tests and move the thing and lift the thing.
I'm so tired of feeling like shit. I ache, in a bone deep way.
I realized, the other day, that all of my fiction, as well as most of my poetry, it has the common theme of escaping, running away, and that's all I really want to do. I want to get out, go away. I always feel like I'm asking too much because I want consistent food, consistent ability to pay my bills, consistent shelter, but I know I'm really not.
And it's not like this shit gets better as you get older, it just gets harder and more frustrating, and that's so disheartening. I even know that my depression's flaring up right now because I'm hungry, and that hunger and slight malnutrition contribute to the way my body is aching right now, but I know that's not the fullness of it, that is not the long and short of it all.
Why do we have to make it so hard to just fucking live?
Friday, September 19, 2014
Colour
This story is a product of Tumblr and, based on the story idea that people only see color when they meet their soulmate, someone wanted a story in that universe wherein aromantics could always see color. If this story is in any way offensive or problematic, please let me know how I can change it to not be offensive, or if I should remove it entirely.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Lane Bryant had a wonderful plethora of attractive clothing styles, cut for bodies of myriad shapes and sizes. If only they stuck to black and white, rather than taking in clothing from designers who used colors So Badly, either because they were new to color, or could not see it at all.
Melissa sighed, inspecting a shirt with a garish mixture of dull orange and neon yellow, attempting to decide if she could forgive herself for buying it. It wasn’t like the vast majority of her friends would be able to tell the difference, as most hadn’t found their soulmates, yet.
Melissa had been born with the ability to see colors from birth, all colors, all shades, from blues and purples, browns and oranges, yellows and reds, all the colors, and she’d been confused for a long time, because other people couldn’t, wouldn't until they found their soulmates, not even her parents.
"Lissy~!"
She was pulled out of her thoughts by someone calling her name. It turned out to be Joanne, her scalp showing pale in the parts between her braids. She must have gotten her hair done recently. Joanne was trailed by an amused Denton, whose diamond-shaped parts were also nice and neat, his long ropes of hair pulled back into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck. They both looked so nice today. Were they out on a date?
Joanne and Denton were Melissa’s exes from college. She’d broken up with them, because after a year, they’d wanted more emotional commitment from her than she was willing to give. She'd felt bad, wanting to give them what they asked for, but they were not her soulmates, and she was not theirs. It had taken time for all of them to recover, and discovering the term "aromantic" had helped Melissa understand why she'd been born with the ability to see all colors, rather than the monochrome world it seemed everyone else experienced, as well as why romance Just Didn't Work for her, but the trio had a strong relationship that had translated into a deep, continuing friendship, and it was always nice to see them.
Melissa brightened at the sight of the pair, who had been terribly occupied in, gasp, real lives, things like jobs and bills and all of that, happy to meet them again after months without seeing them, and she waved in greeting as they came through the racks of clothing, then winced as the clothing in Joanne’s hands became visible. The top was a deep, vivid green, while the skirt was a riotous orange and pink extravaganza.
Separately, they’d have been interesting pieces, if a bit inappropriate for the warm undertones to Joanne's brown skin, but Melissa had no doubt that Joanne wanted to wear them together, because they were nicely-cut and would do marvelous things for Joanne’s body.
Joanne laughed at the look on Melissa’s face, uninsulted by the silent criticism, “Shit, I was afraid these would look terrible together. Denton says the skirt looks fabulous, and /I/ think the shirt looks great, but you know us.”
When Joanne and Denton hooked up, Joanne gained the ability to see blues, purples, and greens, while Denton gained red, pinks, and oranges. Neither of them could see shades of brown, so while they could somewhat monochromatically dress themselves, and each other, neither could appreciate the cool brown of Denton’s skin against Joanne’s darker skin the way Melissa could.
Melissa laughed, “Yeah, I know you two, and I promise that you don’t want to be wearing that when you meet your other soulmate. What would they think of you?”
"That we’re better dressed than them, because we can see some colors, and they can't see any?"
Joanne swatted at Denton with her shirt for his commentary, laughing as he playfully whacked her back with his hair. These losers were so cute, Melissa really didn’t know what to do with them.
"Uh…excuse me?"
The man had a short fade, a sheepish look on his face, heinously mismatched clothes, and a pair of necklaces in his hands, as he spoke to the trio, “Have you found your soulmate?”
People always asked Melissa that when she talked about seeing colors. She didn’t bother to say no anymore, or to explain that she’d been born with the ability to see colors, it just wasn’t worth the effort. Similarly, Joanne and Denton had gotten sick of explaining that they'd met one of their soulmates, and could only see a portion of the full color spectrum.
"Yeah," sighed Melissa, ready to be terribly annoyed by this guy, "What’s up?"
"Well, I wanted to get my mother a necklace. She just found her soulmate, and she likes pink, but I’m not sure what it looks like."
That would explain why he was holding a pair of orange necklaces: he couldn’t tell the difference.
"Neither of those are pink," Denton spoke up, leaning in to peer at them, "I think they’re orange. That’s orange, right Mel?"
"Yeah, that’s orange."
"….is that what orange looks like?”
Three heads swiveled for a look at Joanne, who was staring at the necklaces, her eyes intently focused, her mouth hanging open in shock for just a moment before she licked her lips and swallowed, “I…I can see that color. That’s what orange looks like?”
Denton’s gaze lingered on Joanne, while Melissa watched the man with the fade. She could see the way his eyes darted over Joanne’s clothing and skin, Melissa’s, Denton’s, even his own, as he began to see colors he had never experienced for the first time, and he finally, slowly offered, “My name’s Arthur.”
Joanne recovered first, offering Arthur a little smile, “Hi, Arthur. I'm Joanne, this is Denton, and I…guess we can have Denton teach us both what pink looks like?” She shot a hopeful look at Denton, and he nervously pushed his hair back, “Uh, yeah. I could…totally do that.”
Melissa was out. The last thing she needed was to watch these yahoos flirt over learning colors like they were in a cheesy romcom, so she took the shirt and skirt from Joanne, “I’m gonna go put these back for you, ok?”
Joanne looked at clothes and laughed, grimacing at her options, “Uh, yeah, thanks Lissy.”
"Bye Denton."
"Later, Mel."
"Nice meeting you, Arthur." He gave Melissa a sheepish wave as she escaped. She was happy for her friends, but no thanks.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Lane Bryant had a wonderful plethora of attractive clothing styles, cut for bodies of myriad shapes and sizes. If only they stuck to black and white, rather than taking in clothing from designers who used colors So Badly, either because they were new to color, or could not see it at all.
Melissa sighed, inspecting a shirt with a garish mixture of dull orange and neon yellow, attempting to decide if she could forgive herself for buying it. It wasn’t like the vast majority of her friends would be able to tell the difference, as most hadn’t found their soulmates, yet.
Melissa had been born with the ability to see colors from birth, all colors, all shades, from blues and purples, browns and oranges, yellows and reds, all the colors, and she’d been confused for a long time, because other people couldn’t, wouldn't until they found their soulmates, not even her parents.
"Lissy~!"
She was pulled out of her thoughts by someone calling her name. It turned out to be Joanne, her scalp showing pale in the parts between her braids. She must have gotten her hair done recently. Joanne was trailed by an amused Denton, whose diamond-shaped parts were also nice and neat, his long ropes of hair pulled back into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck. They both looked so nice today. Were they out on a date?
Joanne and Denton were Melissa’s exes from college. She’d broken up with them, because after a year, they’d wanted more emotional commitment from her than she was willing to give. She'd felt bad, wanting to give them what they asked for, but they were not her soulmates, and she was not theirs. It had taken time for all of them to recover, and discovering the term "aromantic" had helped Melissa understand why she'd been born with the ability to see all colors, rather than the monochrome world it seemed everyone else experienced, as well as why romance Just Didn't Work for her, but the trio had a strong relationship that had translated into a deep, continuing friendship, and it was always nice to see them.
Melissa brightened at the sight of the pair, who had been terribly occupied in, gasp, real lives, things like jobs and bills and all of that, happy to meet them again after months without seeing them, and she waved in greeting as they came through the racks of clothing, then winced as the clothing in Joanne’s hands became visible. The top was a deep, vivid green, while the skirt was a riotous orange and pink extravaganza.
Separately, they’d have been interesting pieces, if a bit inappropriate for the warm undertones to Joanne's brown skin, but Melissa had no doubt that Joanne wanted to wear them together, because they were nicely-cut and would do marvelous things for Joanne’s body.
Joanne laughed at the look on Melissa’s face, uninsulted by the silent criticism, “Shit, I was afraid these would look terrible together. Denton says the skirt looks fabulous, and /I/ think the shirt looks great, but you know us.”
When Joanne and Denton hooked up, Joanne gained the ability to see blues, purples, and greens, while Denton gained red, pinks, and oranges. Neither of them could see shades of brown, so while they could somewhat monochromatically dress themselves, and each other, neither could appreciate the cool brown of Denton’s skin against Joanne’s darker skin the way Melissa could.
Melissa laughed, “Yeah, I know you two, and I promise that you don’t want to be wearing that when you meet your other soulmate. What would they think of you?”
"That we’re better dressed than them, because we can see some colors, and they can't see any?"
Joanne swatted at Denton with her shirt for his commentary, laughing as he playfully whacked her back with his hair. These losers were so cute, Melissa really didn’t know what to do with them.
"Uh…excuse me?"
The man had a short fade, a sheepish look on his face, heinously mismatched clothes, and a pair of necklaces in his hands, as he spoke to the trio, “Have you found your soulmate?”
People always asked Melissa that when she talked about seeing colors. She didn’t bother to say no anymore, or to explain that she’d been born with the ability to see colors, it just wasn’t worth the effort. Similarly, Joanne and Denton had gotten sick of explaining that they'd met one of their soulmates, and could only see a portion of the full color spectrum.
"Yeah," sighed Melissa, ready to be terribly annoyed by this guy, "What’s up?"
"Well, I wanted to get my mother a necklace. She just found her soulmate, and she likes pink, but I’m not sure what it looks like."
That would explain why he was holding a pair of orange necklaces: he couldn’t tell the difference.
"Neither of those are pink," Denton spoke up, leaning in to peer at them, "I think they’re orange. That’s orange, right Mel?"
"Yeah, that’s orange."
"….is that what orange looks like?”
Three heads swiveled for a look at Joanne, who was staring at the necklaces, her eyes intently focused, her mouth hanging open in shock for just a moment before she licked her lips and swallowed, “I…I can see that color. That’s what orange looks like?”
Denton’s gaze lingered on Joanne, while Melissa watched the man with the fade. She could see the way his eyes darted over Joanne’s clothing and skin, Melissa’s, Denton’s, even his own, as he began to see colors he had never experienced for the first time, and he finally, slowly offered, “My name’s Arthur.”
Joanne recovered first, offering Arthur a little smile, “Hi, Arthur. I'm Joanne, this is Denton, and I…guess we can have Denton teach us both what pink looks like?” She shot a hopeful look at Denton, and he nervously pushed his hair back, “Uh, yeah. I could…totally do that.”
Melissa was out. The last thing she needed was to watch these yahoos flirt over learning colors like they were in a cheesy romcom, so she took the shirt and skirt from Joanne, “I’m gonna go put these back for you, ok?”
Joanne looked at clothes and laughed, grimacing at her options, “Uh, yeah, thanks Lissy.”
"Bye Denton."
"Later, Mel."
"Nice meeting you, Arthur." He gave Melissa a sheepish wave as she escaped. She was happy for her friends, but no thanks.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Promises
A promise is a promise
No matter how it goes
A promise is a promise
No matter how it grows
I write for love
I write for life
I write for hate
I write for spite
I write because
What I want
What I love
Can't be found
In what I read
Like a sparrow to dove
Women who save the world
Women who are knights
Women who fight for themselves
Women who fight for right
Black heroines who are loved
Cherished and admired
Black heroines who are princesses
Trapped in spires
Though my heart lay in fantasy
In worlds yet unseen
I never see myself
In the pages between
Am I not worthy?
Am I not strong?
Am I not beautiful?
Am I so wrong?
I want the unthinkable
I want it more and more
A lesbian knight saving her black princess
Perhaps by a seashore
There is no moral to this tale
No happy after all
Just pain and hurt and want
Bruises of the fall
I want to say so much
Fight with all my might
You will not reduce me so
I won't suffer this plight!
But I am tired now
And disappointed in myself besides
I should have avoided the woes
That nightly, my soul rides
I should have been stronger
I should have been better
I should have known more
I should have fought together
With whom, I can't say
Just someone that's not here
Because in their absence
I can blame myself for my fear
Fear of home
Fear of roam
Fear of health
Fear of wealth
I don't fear these things
I just can't get them
The glass overhead
Covered in men
Who clear their throats at me
"Ahem"
White asses overhead
All the livelong day
Forgive me if once in a while
I dare to look away
Monday, September 15, 2014
Deserving
You know how sometimes you see everything you want, just right there, in front of your face, and find yourself too terrified to reach out and grab it, too scared to go for the brass ring, because what if it wasn't what you expected, what if it wasn't what you wanted after all, or, more terrifyingly, what if you aren't good enough?
That happened to me, like, five seconds before I began writing this post.
One of my favorite blogs on tumblr posted a link to a new blog by the same creators, Mob Material, and it said they were looking for poc writers, artists, punks, trans poc, and more. I'm a writer, so I saw that, and I said to myself, "I want to do that. I want to submit to that, I want to be a part of that."
I took a look at the blog, and it was full of pictures of gorgeous and fierce people. I have to admit that I got a bit intimidated. I definitely consider myself to be a writer, but I just started this blog. It doesn't even have twenty posts, and it won't for a bit, because I am intentionally pacing myself, trying to avoid burnout by changing up what I do, and trying to make sure I have enough content that things don't get boring or stale, enough content so that people have something of interest to read.
But I don't know if I'm good enough, if I deserve exposure. In my mind, the people who are good enough and who deserve exposure are the ones with more posts, more work, a bigger audience. But how am I supposed to get a bigger audience if I don't advertise myself? There is some small voice inside me that says that work that is good enough will advertise itself, but I've seen, over and over again, that such a thing just isn't true. Work that is big enough will certainly advertise itself, but I have to do a little, I have to work a little harder to make my dreams come true, that's how this goes.
But that's the thing that always happens, isn't it? We doubt ourselves. Am I good enough, do I deserve this? Women, black people, fat folks, poor ones. We're so trained, have the lesson so instilled that we have to DESERVE it, have to wait for someone else to come along and help us up, rather than reaching out and saying, "Hey! You can help me! Please do."
Who cares if I deserve it? Even saying that, like I didn't work damned hard to write everything on this blog, like it didn't take all my courage and strength to check and see if I could contribute, is a misnomer. I do deserve it. I have been writing for years, dedicating myself to my craft, to my love, and at the very least, I deserve to try and let THEM tell me no, no more, it's not working.
Because it's not gonna mean anything if I'm not good enough for them right now, you know why? If I'm not good enough right now, it means there is room for improvement, more work to be done, work that I can do. I have control over this, over myself, and I can find more people to help me make my work better, stronger, sleeker, more what I want it to be. And I will try and try, and try again, because eventually, I will find my place. That's what you do.
Now, I can't deny that this is basically a pep talk for myself. Since I've gone back to work, such as it is, I haven't been dedicating much energy to my writing, to this writing. Additionally, I was going to work with a feminist online zine, and it really seems to have just petered out, but I think I'm ok with that. I got what I needed from it, which was a reflection on my work from outside myself, to make my writing stronger, to help me improve. Would more time have yielded more gains? Perhaps. But that's something we're never really going to know, are we.
More than the fact that I haven't been giving this the necessary energy is the fact that I haven't been giving this the necessary quality. You may not have even noticed, I scheduled some things to post, which I think was a wise decision on my part, because they were prepared, and I didn't have to worry about it while I worked. I did a lot of work, and I hurt myself, so I won't do that to myself again, but I think the fact that I can make this, do this now, is really my proof to myself that I'm still dedicated to this, I still want this.
I just have to make time for it, give up some things to do it. I can still do those things, I just need a few hours to dedicate to this every week.
So, on that note, I apologize to you for slacking off, and I promise to throw myself back in with all the passion I had at the start, because you deserve that, and more importantly, my dreams deserve that.
That happened to me, like, five seconds before I began writing this post.
One of my favorite blogs on tumblr posted a link to a new blog by the same creators, Mob Material, and it said they were looking for poc writers, artists, punks, trans poc, and more. I'm a writer, so I saw that, and I said to myself, "I want to do that. I want to submit to that, I want to be a part of that."
I took a look at the blog, and it was full of pictures of gorgeous and fierce people. I have to admit that I got a bit intimidated. I definitely consider myself to be a writer, but I just started this blog. It doesn't even have twenty posts, and it won't for a bit, because I am intentionally pacing myself, trying to avoid burnout by changing up what I do, and trying to make sure I have enough content that things don't get boring or stale, enough content so that people have something of interest to read.
But I don't know if I'm good enough, if I deserve exposure. In my mind, the people who are good enough and who deserve exposure are the ones with more posts, more work, a bigger audience. But how am I supposed to get a bigger audience if I don't advertise myself? There is some small voice inside me that says that work that is good enough will advertise itself, but I've seen, over and over again, that such a thing just isn't true. Work that is big enough will certainly advertise itself, but I have to do a little, I have to work a little harder to make my dreams come true, that's how this goes.
But that's the thing that always happens, isn't it? We doubt ourselves. Am I good enough, do I deserve this? Women, black people, fat folks, poor ones. We're so trained, have the lesson so instilled that we have to DESERVE it, have to wait for someone else to come along and help us up, rather than reaching out and saying, "Hey! You can help me! Please do."
Who cares if I deserve it? Even saying that, like I didn't work damned hard to write everything on this blog, like it didn't take all my courage and strength to check and see if I could contribute, is a misnomer. I do deserve it. I have been writing for years, dedicating myself to my craft, to my love, and at the very least, I deserve to try and let THEM tell me no, no more, it's not working.
Because it's not gonna mean anything if I'm not good enough for them right now, you know why? If I'm not good enough right now, it means there is room for improvement, more work to be done, work that I can do. I have control over this, over myself, and I can find more people to help me make my work better, stronger, sleeker, more what I want it to be. And I will try and try, and try again, because eventually, I will find my place. That's what you do.
Now, I can't deny that this is basically a pep talk for myself. Since I've gone back to work, such as it is, I haven't been dedicating much energy to my writing, to this writing. Additionally, I was going to work with a feminist online zine, and it really seems to have just petered out, but I think I'm ok with that. I got what I needed from it, which was a reflection on my work from outside myself, to make my writing stronger, to help me improve. Would more time have yielded more gains? Perhaps. But that's something we're never really going to know, are we.
More than the fact that I haven't been giving this the necessary energy is the fact that I haven't been giving this the necessary quality. You may not have even noticed, I scheduled some things to post, which I think was a wise decision on my part, because they were prepared, and I didn't have to worry about it while I worked. I did a lot of work, and I hurt myself, so I won't do that to myself again, but I think the fact that I can make this, do this now, is really my proof to myself that I'm still dedicated to this, I still want this.
I just have to make time for it, give up some things to do it. I can still do those things, I just need a few hours to dedicate to this every week.
So, on that note, I apologize to you for slacking off, and I promise to throw myself back in with all the passion I had at the start, because you deserve that, and more importantly, my dreams deserve that.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Performance
Sorry this is so late, I forgot I hadn't done it until 11:56 last night, and I knew I wouldn't be able to write anything until I slept, so I did that.
Fair warning, this is less a story and more a ritual to touch base with my patron deities, Hermes and Hestia, to receive reassurance and advice from them. If you read this, you will be taking the role of an audience member, beyond the lights. It's a role, like being in a real audience, that demands only your attention, but if you are not okay with being in this role, please do not read further.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I stand on the stage, the bright lights shining hot into my face, a vast hush over the theater. There could be a hundred people out there, or only one, I have no way of knowing, no way of asking, but I turn away from the lights, because this isn't about the crowd.
Hestia sits at the table, putting whole ears of corn, husk and all, into the big pot, the water sloshing soothingly as she moves, her dress, an old style worn by black grandmothers from a time gone by, is spattered with water, but her expression is gentle.
Across the table, Hermes lounges, looking slick in his flashy suit, the heavy lights glinting off the smooth brown baldness of his head as his body broadcasts amusement with every motion. As always, I feel inadequate next to him, mostly because I am, but also because I'll never get on his level with my skirts and blouses that are alternatively too big and just right.
"You doubted us," begins Hestia, still putting corn into the water, one ear at a time, slowly and methodically, mesmerizingly. I should be doing something, should be helping, but I am transfixed by the simple act, and I am so tired, my legs feel like heavy weights, every motion like moving through deep water.
"I did. I'm sorry. I know I have to act sometimes, but I don't always know when to act, and when to have faith." It has the virtue of being true. I don't know when to have faith, because I'm always afraid things aren't going to work, and then come the spiraling thoughts of just how bad things could get if I don't act, so I do.
"We're trying to help you," drawls Hermes, almost sounding like he's yawning at me, his fingers nervously tapping on the table, lightly enough to not make sound, because he's not stupid enough to be a disturbance to Hestia, but I can see his fingers, moving fast, frantically, arhythmically, and that hold me as effectively as the soothing motion of Hestia putting corn in the pot. He's usually on his cellphone, throwing me a smile, laughing into his phone, or growling into it, but now he's actually talking to me, not phoning in a quick response, and he can't be on his phone. At least I warrant full attention right now. I'm never certain if I warrant that much attention, but apparently, I do. "But we can't if you don't let us, if you don't talk to us. Ask for what you want."
"But sometimes the answer is just no." I'm not stupid. I know that if they gave me every stupid thing I wanted...well, I wouldn't be so tired, that's for certain, because I'd have money and the ability to transport myself places, and no need for the foot-destroying, dehumanizing work I do. And I feel bad for wanting this for myself and not for others, but only a small peripheral amount of bad, because it will never happen, and because I am unashamedly more interested in my own well-being than anyone else's. "And I'm never sure what no looks like, as opposed to wait."
"That's where faith comes in." Hestia again, slowly standing, her chair creaking as she removes her weight from it, scraping as she moves it aside with her hip to grab the pot, lug it over to the stove on the far left of the stage. A stove is always necessary, because cooking is how I communicate with her, but I watch the shift of her clothes as she puts the pot onto the eye with a clank, listen to the clicking of the pilot light and the woosh of the flames coming on.
A hand grabs mine, my right one, and I look at Hermes, standing at my side. I didn't hear him get up, and his hand is warm holding mine, his smile surprisingly gentle as he adds, "Faith and hope." I feel something in me die a small, stuttered, painful death. Hope? Hope is that terrible thing with bladed wings that lingers in my soul, destroying it, piece by painful piece.
I snatch my hand away, frustrated, miserable and unhappy. Usually, I would let that thing inside me be dead when an authority figure kills it with their words. I would nod, a fixed expression on my face, blank and hopefully emotionless, but I can't let him kill this piece of me. Not again. Not with his hope, his painful hope that does nothing for me and only prolongs my pain.
"I DON'T WANT YOUR HOPE!!" I shrill into his slightly shocked, faintly amused face, my voice grating out of my throat, and it will hurt if I keep screaming like this, but there are tears welling up in my eyes and threatening to bubble over, I can't hear Hestia moving, and I'm not looking at her, "I'm so tired of hope," I sob at Hermes, torn between burying my face in his chest, letting him comfort me, and pounding against his chest, forcing him to either endure, or make me stop.
I do neither, simply stand there, swaying on my feet, my hands coming up to my face to wipe away the tears before they fall, "I can't take anymore hope. I just can't. I'm so tired. I know I have a purpose, in the good moments between all of this, after I've had meat and enough sleep to nourish my body the way it should be, the way it can't be, because my aunt and uncle have such vastly different eating habits, and I have to rely on them for food."
"Is that what you want? Meat and sleep?" Hestia is salting the water the corn is in, and if I strain my ears, I can hear the shh-shh of the salt escaping its confines. "I want to be nourished according to what my body needs. I don't want to work this hard for so little return. Yes, I want meat and sleep. And vegetables and dairy and choices that are not terrible and miserable to make."
"What would be good choices?" Hermes' shoes clunk against the floor, ever so slightly, nice shiny shoes, as he turns and makes his way back to the table. I follow, taking Hestia's seat across the table from him, slumping on the table, "Choices that don't put me between being yelled at by my aunt and being homeless, because if I quit this, they really will kick me out, I just need my driver's license. I want to go to Lansing, so badly,just because I'll get to eat there."
Hestia opens the oven, and the smell of cooking meat wafts out around her, tantalizing my nose, "Are you sure you'll get to eat there?"
"I won't be anxious about it there, at least. And they eat meat."
"Why don't you ask your aunt and uncle to provide more meat?"
"They don't eat it like I do, and they can't afford the way I eat meat--"
"But the folks in Lansing can?"
"There's more of them. And I don't care if I inconvenience them."
I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and don't have to look to know that the long, thin fingers belong to Hermes, "So why do you care if you inconvenience your aunt and uncle? They aren't blood, and they took you in knowing there'd be expense."
"Because I feel like I owe them a debt from before college, and if I don't care about their stuff, they'll be upset and yell at me."
"Your aunt yells at you anyway, because of her bipolar," Hestia points out. She's right, of course. My aunt uses me as a confidante, and she's made of loud noises, with a tendency to yell, especially when she's upset. Because of the debt I feel I owe her, and the fact I need her, I don't feel like I can contest her, and because of my anxiety, even when my aunt's not yelling AT me, I feel like she is.
"Are you saying I should detach from them emotionally?"
"Yes."
"Yes!"
It comes in chorus from both Hestia and Hermes, and I can feel the rightness of their words, the truth, feel myself coming to terms with it. I have to allow my aunt's feelings to skate over me, rather than burrowing into me. I have to let her shit be hers, even if I contribute to it, because I'm doing the best I can with what I've got. I just haven't got much.
"I want to be a trucker," I tell Hestia and Hermes, having worked through my feelings to come out at what I want, what I need to say.
"You also wanted to be a tech support agent," Hermes points out.
I growl at him, sitting up, "No, ok, I want to be a writer! I want to write for a living! Fiction, nonfiction, motivational speaking, these are the things I want to do! But there's no money in the writing I enjoy doing, and I need money, or rather, I need food, shelter, internet, phone service, social interaction beyond just being on my computer all the time, like physical people with physical contact! I NEED these things, and I need at least marginal reassurance they won't be taken away from me, which money and the folks in Lansing offer."
"Your aunt and uncle don't?"
"I'm constantly afraid they're going to kick me out. My aunt keeps joking about it. It hurts and it's frightening, because I'm afraid they'll just suddenly say that I have two weeks to find a new place. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, and they offer no reassurance ever."
"What would you do if they did say that?"
"Call the folks in Lansing."
"And if they said no?"
"I have a friend in Ohio who might take me in, and friends in Massachusetts."
"So you have options."
"That I'm afraid will turn me down."
"You know that in desperate times, you'd find SOMEONE who could help you, right?"
"Yeah, I guess I do, I just..."
"Wish you didn't have to wait until things got dire to find out?"
"Exactly."
Hermes taps my head, causing me to look up into his big smile, "Aren't you glad things are not so dire you have to find out? Aren't you glad they've never been that dire?"
I can't help but laugh, "Yeah, I guess I am." I look out into the lights, try to see if I can see the audience through them. I cannot, but I suppose it is alright. It will be painful and difficult, breaking old habits and creating new ones, but I must if I wish to be happy.
I slowly stand, walk over to the edge of the stage, then execute a low bow with a flourish, the heavy cloth of the richly blue dress I am suddenly wearing making a thick, heavy sound as it fwooshes into existence.
I straighten to grasp my skirt and offer another, better bow, "Thank you, audience, for bearing witness."
The curtains close, plunging me into darkness.
The performance is over.
Fair warning, this is less a story and more a ritual to touch base with my patron deities, Hermes and Hestia, to receive reassurance and advice from them. If you read this, you will be taking the role of an audience member, beyond the lights. It's a role, like being in a real audience, that demands only your attention, but if you are not okay with being in this role, please do not read further.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I stand on the stage, the bright lights shining hot into my face, a vast hush over the theater. There could be a hundred people out there, or only one, I have no way of knowing, no way of asking, but I turn away from the lights, because this isn't about the crowd.
Hestia sits at the table, putting whole ears of corn, husk and all, into the big pot, the water sloshing soothingly as she moves, her dress, an old style worn by black grandmothers from a time gone by, is spattered with water, but her expression is gentle.
Across the table, Hermes lounges, looking slick in his flashy suit, the heavy lights glinting off the smooth brown baldness of his head as his body broadcasts amusement with every motion. As always, I feel inadequate next to him, mostly because I am, but also because I'll never get on his level with my skirts and blouses that are alternatively too big and just right.
"You doubted us," begins Hestia, still putting corn into the water, one ear at a time, slowly and methodically, mesmerizingly. I should be doing something, should be helping, but I am transfixed by the simple act, and I am so tired, my legs feel like heavy weights, every motion like moving through deep water.
"I did. I'm sorry. I know I have to act sometimes, but I don't always know when to act, and when to have faith." It has the virtue of being true. I don't know when to have faith, because I'm always afraid things aren't going to work, and then come the spiraling thoughts of just how bad things could get if I don't act, so I do.
"We're trying to help you," drawls Hermes, almost sounding like he's yawning at me, his fingers nervously tapping on the table, lightly enough to not make sound, because he's not stupid enough to be a disturbance to Hestia, but I can see his fingers, moving fast, frantically, arhythmically, and that hold me as effectively as the soothing motion of Hestia putting corn in the pot. He's usually on his cellphone, throwing me a smile, laughing into his phone, or growling into it, but now he's actually talking to me, not phoning in a quick response, and he can't be on his phone. At least I warrant full attention right now. I'm never certain if I warrant that much attention, but apparently, I do. "But we can't if you don't let us, if you don't talk to us. Ask for what you want."
"But sometimes the answer is just no." I'm not stupid. I know that if they gave me every stupid thing I wanted...well, I wouldn't be so tired, that's for certain, because I'd have money and the ability to transport myself places, and no need for the foot-destroying, dehumanizing work I do. And I feel bad for wanting this for myself and not for others, but only a small peripheral amount of bad, because it will never happen, and because I am unashamedly more interested in my own well-being than anyone else's. "And I'm never sure what no looks like, as opposed to wait."
"That's where faith comes in." Hestia again, slowly standing, her chair creaking as she removes her weight from it, scraping as she moves it aside with her hip to grab the pot, lug it over to the stove on the far left of the stage. A stove is always necessary, because cooking is how I communicate with her, but I watch the shift of her clothes as she puts the pot onto the eye with a clank, listen to the clicking of the pilot light and the woosh of the flames coming on.
A hand grabs mine, my right one, and I look at Hermes, standing at my side. I didn't hear him get up, and his hand is warm holding mine, his smile surprisingly gentle as he adds, "Faith and hope." I feel something in me die a small, stuttered, painful death. Hope? Hope is that terrible thing with bladed wings that lingers in my soul, destroying it, piece by painful piece.
I snatch my hand away, frustrated, miserable and unhappy. Usually, I would let that thing inside me be dead when an authority figure kills it with their words. I would nod, a fixed expression on my face, blank and hopefully emotionless, but I can't let him kill this piece of me. Not again. Not with his hope, his painful hope that does nothing for me and only prolongs my pain.
"I DON'T WANT YOUR HOPE!!" I shrill into his slightly shocked, faintly amused face, my voice grating out of my throat, and it will hurt if I keep screaming like this, but there are tears welling up in my eyes and threatening to bubble over, I can't hear Hestia moving, and I'm not looking at her, "I'm so tired of hope," I sob at Hermes, torn between burying my face in his chest, letting him comfort me, and pounding against his chest, forcing him to either endure, or make me stop.
I do neither, simply stand there, swaying on my feet, my hands coming up to my face to wipe away the tears before they fall, "I can't take anymore hope. I just can't. I'm so tired. I know I have a purpose, in the good moments between all of this, after I've had meat and enough sleep to nourish my body the way it should be, the way it can't be, because my aunt and uncle have such vastly different eating habits, and I have to rely on them for food."
"Is that what you want? Meat and sleep?" Hestia is salting the water the corn is in, and if I strain my ears, I can hear the shh-shh of the salt escaping its confines. "I want to be nourished according to what my body needs. I don't want to work this hard for so little return. Yes, I want meat and sleep. And vegetables and dairy and choices that are not terrible and miserable to make."
"What would be good choices?" Hermes' shoes clunk against the floor, ever so slightly, nice shiny shoes, as he turns and makes his way back to the table. I follow, taking Hestia's seat across the table from him, slumping on the table, "Choices that don't put me between being yelled at by my aunt and being homeless, because if I quit this, they really will kick me out, I just need my driver's license. I want to go to Lansing, so badly,just because I'll get to eat there."
Hestia opens the oven, and the smell of cooking meat wafts out around her, tantalizing my nose, "Are you sure you'll get to eat there?"
"I won't be anxious about it there, at least. And they eat meat."
"Why don't you ask your aunt and uncle to provide more meat?"
"They don't eat it like I do, and they can't afford the way I eat meat--"
"But the folks in Lansing can?"
"There's more of them. And I don't care if I inconvenience them."
I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and don't have to look to know that the long, thin fingers belong to Hermes, "So why do you care if you inconvenience your aunt and uncle? They aren't blood, and they took you in knowing there'd be expense."
"Because I feel like I owe them a debt from before college, and if I don't care about their stuff, they'll be upset and yell at me."
"Your aunt yells at you anyway, because of her bipolar," Hestia points out. She's right, of course. My aunt uses me as a confidante, and she's made of loud noises, with a tendency to yell, especially when she's upset. Because of the debt I feel I owe her, and the fact I need her, I don't feel like I can contest her, and because of my anxiety, even when my aunt's not yelling AT me, I feel like she is.
"Are you saying I should detach from them emotionally?"
"Yes."
"Yes!"
It comes in chorus from both Hestia and Hermes, and I can feel the rightness of their words, the truth, feel myself coming to terms with it. I have to allow my aunt's feelings to skate over me, rather than burrowing into me. I have to let her shit be hers, even if I contribute to it, because I'm doing the best I can with what I've got. I just haven't got much.
"I want to be a trucker," I tell Hestia and Hermes, having worked through my feelings to come out at what I want, what I need to say.
"You also wanted to be a tech support agent," Hermes points out.
I growl at him, sitting up, "No, ok, I want to be a writer! I want to write for a living! Fiction, nonfiction, motivational speaking, these are the things I want to do! But there's no money in the writing I enjoy doing, and I need money, or rather, I need food, shelter, internet, phone service, social interaction beyond just being on my computer all the time, like physical people with physical contact! I NEED these things, and I need at least marginal reassurance they won't be taken away from me, which money and the folks in Lansing offer."
"Your aunt and uncle don't?"
"I'm constantly afraid they're going to kick me out. My aunt keeps joking about it. It hurts and it's frightening, because I'm afraid they'll just suddenly say that I have two weeks to find a new place. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, and they offer no reassurance ever."
"What would you do if they did say that?"
"Call the folks in Lansing."
"And if they said no?"
"I have a friend in Ohio who might take me in, and friends in Massachusetts."
"So you have options."
"That I'm afraid will turn me down."
"You know that in desperate times, you'd find SOMEONE who could help you, right?"
"Yeah, I guess I do, I just..."
"Wish you didn't have to wait until things got dire to find out?"
"Exactly."
Hermes taps my head, causing me to look up into his big smile, "Aren't you glad things are not so dire you have to find out? Aren't you glad they've never been that dire?"
I can't help but laugh, "Yeah, I guess I am." I look out into the lights, try to see if I can see the audience through them. I cannot, but I suppose it is alright. It will be painful and difficult, breaking old habits and creating new ones, but I must if I wish to be happy.
I slowly stand, walk over to the edge of the stage, then execute a low bow with a flourish, the heavy cloth of the richly blue dress I am suddenly wearing making a thick, heavy sound as it fwooshes into existence.
I straighten to grasp my skirt and offer another, better bow, "Thank you, audience, for bearing witness."
The curtains close, plunging me into darkness.
The performance is over.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Floating On
I hate
Being overstimulated
I hate
My mind flying
Farther and faster
Than my body can keep up
To the point my body
Just gives up
Doesn't try at all
While my mind
Flies off
Into oblivion
Independent of me
My wants
My needs
My any indication
Of caring
Wanting
Anything
Fuck this
I hate
The need
To stare at something
Repetitive and monotonous
So that while my mind
Is busy fucking off
My body
Doesn't suffer for it
I hate
The way the void
Opens up
I don't hate the void
I hate
That I can never access it
When
I
Want
It
When I need it
When I could use
A little fucking inner peace
And quiet
I hate
The
Floating
Balloon
Feeling
Like I'm not really real
Like I'm not really here
Like I really could float away
Be free
But I'm not free
I'm stuck
Trapped
This is
My eternity
My life
I don't want it
But I haven't got
A
N
Y
T
H
I
N
G
Left
Monday, September 8, 2014
Nicki Minaj and Ferguson
Most writers on this site have a few social networking sites they call home, though the amount of time and energy they dedicate to each one varies from person to person, according to their interests. Like most people in my generation, I have a Facebook account, but Facebook is not a social networking site I'd call "home," because I can't really be myself there.
The people on my Facebook, while they are friends or people I otherwise want to keep in contact with, they are not like me in many significant ways, even though we might share interests. What I care about, and what matters to me is not the same as what they care about, and what is important to them. In general, this is fine, and I leave them alone, but I am not really content or myself there.
This would be less important if I had an offline social network to rely on when trying times happened, one I could realistically expect to bolster and support me, to grab me by the metaphorical arm to point out something terrible, or something unexpected and fantastic. Being an introvert with anxiety, and a poor one at that, I don't really have that. So I rely heavily on the internet.
My "home" networking site is Tumblr, because on Tumblr, I've been able to craft a safe space for myself and my numerous identities. I've been able to create an environment where it is always assumed that the issues I care most for are important, and then it moves from there, rather than the discussions on Facebook of "Is this issue even important at all?"
It was absolutely devastating to me when, a year ago, I got locked out of my account by a hacker, and was, for some reason, unable to receive password reset emails. I tried everything I could to restore my social network, even making a new account, and none of it worked. I simply could not get my account back. I couldn't even create a new one. The only thing that really saved me, at the time, was the fact that I was working full time, so even though the social interaction I was getting wasn't enough, it was adequate to sustain me.
Two weeks ago, I made another attempt to get into Tumblr, get my password reset, because I didn't want to go to another site and try to recreate my entire social network, with everything I wanted and needed in it. I was almost brought to tears when I was able to reopen my account. I had my social support network back, as well as my source of news and information.
I got a lot about Ferguson, as I'd filled my circles with people who would care about Ferguson. Because I'd been working on making my Facebook account a bearable place to be, I'd heard about many of the things that I saw, but there was plenty I hadn't, and I sucked that information in like the sponge I am, basked in people who were just as fed up about tone policing and derailing CNN videos as I was.
But, to my shame, I am forced to admit that the thing that I saw, upon my return to Tumblr, that made me angriest was not the very important things happening in Ferguson. To be honest, this article was originally going to be about a disrespectful interview of Nicki Minaj conducted by James Franco, that interview's connection to "pranks in the hood" type videos where white men insult black ones and then yell that it's a prank when those black men get angry, and I will write about that later in this article, but I realized, as I wrote, that I had things to say about Ferguson, and my experiences of it.
There is a revolution happening there that I can only be peripherally a part of, which frustrates me more than I know how to express.
Ferguson will go down in my generation's history along with Occupy Wall Street and 9/11, and it will go down in black history along with Martin Luther King, The March on Washington, the Black Panthers, Jim Crow, and many other events I haven't bothered to mention, or have simply never heard of.
As I mentioned, I'm poor right now, so I can't go down to Ferguson to help those people, to be part of the civil unrest and revolution that makes America look like Greece did some time ago. I can't donate money, because I have none, though I can contribute my time, learn what's happening, and pass that information on.
Due to the shaming of internet activism, I feel like I'm not doing enough with my work, writing articles and reblogging the newest information about what's happening, and more than that, I am ashamed for being grateful that I don't have to go through what the protesters in Ferguson are going through. Noone is macing me in the face or menacing my friends, brothers, or cousins. I am safe in the northern United States, far from the Missouri police, far from where school has been disrupted and lives ruined and people arrested, over and over again.
I want to feel ashamed of myself, because a very rich and successful rapper whom I look up to being disrespected affects me more deeply than unarmed people being shot and tear gassed by police officers, but I know myself and racism well enough to understand that they are connected parts of the same problem, that the events of Ferguson, and this trend I'm noticing of white men insulting and disrespecting black people as a "joke," are symptoms of the same illness that will not, can not be cured until our society is ripped up from the roots and properly replanted.
I also know that there is nothing wrong with how I feel about Ferguson, versus how I feel about Nicki Minaj and "pranks in the hood." There are no words I know to describe how I feel about Ferguson, because even though it matters to me, it is, in some ways, distant, both geographically and event-wise, as I've been fortunate enough that my brother is white-passing, most of the time, and has never been attacked by the police, as far as I know.
I want Ferguson to spark a national revolution, but I feel an attendant sick certainty that, like Occupy Wall Street and 9/11, the fervor will die out, the government, through the media, will find a way to divert our attention, keep progress from being made, and things will get worse, rather than going back to what they were, so I honestly don't want to emotionally overinvest in this, because our inevitable defeat will deal an even more crushing blow to my already-trampled spirit.
I know that such hopelessness contributes to where we are now, but the events of Ferguson are simply not close enough to me to work up the angered fervor that I would need to find out what more I could do, besides what I already am, unlike Nicki Minaj and "pranks in the hood."
I look up to Nicki because she's a well-known black woman performing, and she does femininity the way I do, with brightly-colored hair, beautiful dresses, even wearing one outfit I dreamed of having made for myself in some hypothetical future where I could afford to have outfits made for me. I mean no disrespect to Beyonce, who came up the way she knew how to make it work, or Oprah, Janelle Monae, Lauryn Hill, those women are all incredible bastions of themselves, black womanhood, idols to be looked up to and admired for their own work.
But Nicki Minaj is black and aggressively feminine in the middle of a bunch of rappers. I have no problem with strong black women in the media, Beyonce and Oprah being fierce, Janelle Monae with her androgynous deconstruction of what a black female singer can look like, Lauryn Hill with her eclectic underground look, those are important. But so are feminine black female performers, because they simply don't exist in our media.
There is a struggle, as a black woman, a dicing up of priorities that tries to force us to be black people, who happen to be women, or women, who happen to be black, completely ignoring the fact that there is an experience in this country unique to being black AND a woman that is completely separate from being black OR a woman.
Nicki Minaj is a conscious rejection of that dichotomy, a successful black woman who is, for lack of a better word, girly. She wears cutely-curled, brightly-colored wigs while informing listeners that she is their leader and anyone who isn't a believer can suck a dick. She raps for Willow Smith's Fireball in a dress made of stuffed animals, and she leads pink-haired troops to battle in her own video.
So to watch James Franco ask her if her ass is natural, to watch him hound her about her ass in a mockery of an interview for a prank that was meant to somehow be a movie tie-in? It's unbearable for me, and closer to my heart, because the only girly black woman visible in the media, one who really did work her way up from the bottom on skill and determination, deserves better than to be treated like that, especially keeping in mind the fact that it's not just a white man on TV doing this to her, it's white men all over doing this to black people throughout this country.
The logic that lets someone think that mocking a person for a prank is not only fine, but a great thing to do, is the same kind of dehumanizing logic that lets someone think a black man deserved to be shot and killed by a cop, left to rot in the street for hours to be mocked by his murderers while his family watched, all because he stole $50 worth of cigars, and that sort of logic must be eradicated from our society before we can productively move forward.
The people on my Facebook, while they are friends or people I otherwise want to keep in contact with, they are not like me in many significant ways, even though we might share interests. What I care about, and what matters to me is not the same as what they care about, and what is important to them. In general, this is fine, and I leave them alone, but I am not really content or myself there.
This would be less important if I had an offline social network to rely on when trying times happened, one I could realistically expect to bolster and support me, to grab me by the metaphorical arm to point out something terrible, or something unexpected and fantastic. Being an introvert with anxiety, and a poor one at that, I don't really have that. So I rely heavily on the internet.
My "home" networking site is Tumblr, because on Tumblr, I've been able to craft a safe space for myself and my numerous identities. I've been able to create an environment where it is always assumed that the issues I care most for are important, and then it moves from there, rather than the discussions on Facebook of "Is this issue even important at all?"
It was absolutely devastating to me when, a year ago, I got locked out of my account by a hacker, and was, for some reason, unable to receive password reset emails. I tried everything I could to restore my social network, even making a new account, and none of it worked. I simply could not get my account back. I couldn't even create a new one. The only thing that really saved me, at the time, was the fact that I was working full time, so even though the social interaction I was getting wasn't enough, it was adequate to sustain me.
Two weeks ago, I made another attempt to get into Tumblr, get my password reset, because I didn't want to go to another site and try to recreate my entire social network, with everything I wanted and needed in it. I was almost brought to tears when I was able to reopen my account. I had my social support network back, as well as my source of news and information.
I got a lot about Ferguson, as I'd filled my circles with people who would care about Ferguson. Because I'd been working on making my Facebook account a bearable place to be, I'd heard about many of the things that I saw, but there was plenty I hadn't, and I sucked that information in like the sponge I am, basked in people who were just as fed up about tone policing and derailing CNN videos as I was.
But, to my shame, I am forced to admit that the thing that I saw, upon my return to Tumblr, that made me angriest was not the very important things happening in Ferguson. To be honest, this article was originally going to be about a disrespectful interview of Nicki Minaj conducted by James Franco, that interview's connection to "pranks in the hood" type videos where white men insult black ones and then yell that it's a prank when those black men get angry, and I will write about that later in this article, but I realized, as I wrote, that I had things to say about Ferguson, and my experiences of it.
There is a revolution happening there that I can only be peripherally a part of, which frustrates me more than I know how to express.
Ferguson will go down in my generation's history along with Occupy Wall Street and 9/11, and it will go down in black history along with Martin Luther King, The March on Washington, the Black Panthers, Jim Crow, and many other events I haven't bothered to mention, or have simply never heard of.
As I mentioned, I'm poor right now, so I can't go down to Ferguson to help those people, to be part of the civil unrest and revolution that makes America look like Greece did some time ago. I can't donate money, because I have none, though I can contribute my time, learn what's happening, and pass that information on.
Due to the shaming of internet activism, I feel like I'm not doing enough with my work, writing articles and reblogging the newest information about what's happening, and more than that, I am ashamed for being grateful that I don't have to go through what the protesters in Ferguson are going through. Noone is macing me in the face or menacing my friends, brothers, or cousins. I am safe in the northern United States, far from the Missouri police, far from where school has been disrupted and lives ruined and people arrested, over and over again.
I want to feel ashamed of myself, because a very rich and successful rapper whom I look up to being disrespected affects me more deeply than unarmed people being shot and tear gassed by police officers, but I know myself and racism well enough to understand that they are connected parts of the same problem, that the events of Ferguson, and this trend I'm noticing of white men insulting and disrespecting black people as a "joke," are symptoms of the same illness that will not, can not be cured until our society is ripped up from the roots and properly replanted.
I also know that there is nothing wrong with how I feel about Ferguson, versus how I feel about Nicki Minaj and "pranks in the hood." There are no words I know to describe how I feel about Ferguson, because even though it matters to me, it is, in some ways, distant, both geographically and event-wise, as I've been fortunate enough that my brother is white-passing, most of the time, and has never been attacked by the police, as far as I know.
I want Ferguson to spark a national revolution, but I feel an attendant sick certainty that, like Occupy Wall Street and 9/11, the fervor will die out, the government, through the media, will find a way to divert our attention, keep progress from being made, and things will get worse, rather than going back to what they were, so I honestly don't want to emotionally overinvest in this, because our inevitable defeat will deal an even more crushing blow to my already-trampled spirit.
I know that such hopelessness contributes to where we are now, but the events of Ferguson are simply not close enough to me to work up the angered fervor that I would need to find out what more I could do, besides what I already am, unlike Nicki Minaj and "pranks in the hood."
I look up to Nicki because she's a well-known black woman performing, and she does femininity the way I do, with brightly-colored hair, beautiful dresses, even wearing one outfit I dreamed of having made for myself in some hypothetical future where I could afford to have outfits made for me. I mean no disrespect to Beyonce, who came up the way she knew how to make it work, or Oprah, Janelle Monae, Lauryn Hill, those women are all incredible bastions of themselves, black womanhood, idols to be looked up to and admired for their own work.
But Nicki Minaj is black and aggressively feminine in the middle of a bunch of rappers. I have no problem with strong black women in the media, Beyonce and Oprah being fierce, Janelle Monae with her androgynous deconstruction of what a black female singer can look like, Lauryn Hill with her eclectic underground look, those are important. But so are feminine black female performers, because they simply don't exist in our media.
There is a struggle, as a black woman, a dicing up of priorities that tries to force us to be black people, who happen to be women, or women, who happen to be black, completely ignoring the fact that there is an experience in this country unique to being black AND a woman that is completely separate from being black OR a woman.
Nicki Minaj is a conscious rejection of that dichotomy, a successful black woman who is, for lack of a better word, girly. She wears cutely-curled, brightly-colored wigs while informing listeners that she is their leader and anyone who isn't a believer can suck a dick. She raps for Willow Smith's Fireball in a dress made of stuffed animals, and she leads pink-haired troops to battle in her own video.
So to watch James Franco ask her if her ass is natural, to watch him hound her about her ass in a mockery of an interview for a prank that was meant to somehow be a movie tie-in? It's unbearable for me, and closer to my heart, because the only girly black woman visible in the media, one who really did work her way up from the bottom on skill and determination, deserves better than to be treated like that, especially keeping in mind the fact that it's not just a white man on TV doing this to her, it's white men all over doing this to black people throughout this country.
The logic that lets someone think that mocking a person for a prank is not only fine, but a great thing to do, is the same kind of dehumanizing logic that lets someone think a black man deserved to be shot and killed by a cop, left to rot in the street for hours to be mocked by his murderers while his family watched, all because he stole $50 worth of cigars, and that sort of logic must be eradicated from our society before we can productively move forward.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Lose It All
The last thing Kerry thought was, "Today started so well."
Kerry and Alicia had worked on the same team for about a year, doing a multilingual project with three guys, all white. As the only women on the team, they'd bonded quickly, especially when it became clear that Kerry was the Japanese expert, and Alicia was the German expert. That'd teach the men to make assumptions.
Bonding at work by giggling at the white guys had turned into lunch at the sushi counter and soon, dinner at a nice Japanese steakhouse. Alicia preferred the ones with white servers, because they never assumed she spoke Japanese, which Kerry could appreciate.
Kerry had gotten her letter changed right before the multilingual project, so she had been able to make a fresh start with her new team. It had thrown off people who'd known her before, but the company had stood by Kerry, and that was more than plenty for Kerry to stand by the company, and when Alicia had reflexively accepted Kerry, it forced their other team members to do the same.
Unfortunately, Kerry's landlord hadn't been so accommodating, and Kerry decided to move out before she got pushed out. A careless comment from Alicia, and the two women were soon plotting a plan to move in together, one they soon brought to fruition at a spacious, open-plan place with well-maintained ramps and a wonderful non-discrimination policy.
They hired movers, and spent their first night in their new home eating takeout, watching old movies, and making love.
The next day, they decided to go out, explore their new neighborhood, and just have a good time, making faces at each other in the bathroom mirror as they put their makeup on, and laughing when they accidentally grabbed one another's makeup, because the electric blue eyeshadow that would work on Kerry wasn't doing Alicia any favors, while Alicia's bronzing glitter powder would just wash out Kerry.
Since they were exploring, Kerry went with her cute jeans, fro, and tennies, while Alicia opted for a floral sundress and a flower headband, both women determined to look as beautiful as they felt together. They were cute as hell, and so in love.
And as fantastic as the day began, it only got better.
They found most of the shops downtown were made to accommodate Alicia's chair, in deference to the nearby apartment complex, noone batted an eyelash when Kerry wanted to try on a few things, and when Alicia intimated she wanted to try things on, the workers immediately asked if they needed to let Kerry in to help her.
There was a brief sour spot when some boys made some nasty comments Kerry's way, but a cop drove them off with the reassurance that if he hadn't acted, he couldn't have lived with himself, and he even escorted the pair to the sushi restaurant they'd been heading to for their late lunch.
Eventually, they found themselves happily exhausted near a large, beautiful cemetery, and since it was still light out, they decided that the quiet, serene beauty of the place would be rejuvenating, and it was. The cemetery was full of beautiful statues and placards, planted with lush, vibrant flowers and bushes that attracted lilting birds and a variety of small animals that scurried out of sight with a rustle at the whir of Alicia's approaching chair.
It was an idyllic place to be, and they explored there for the rest of the afternoon, peering at graves, sheepishly giggling when they were able to mark their progress over damp soil by twinned lines and footsteps left in their wake. Both women commented to each other that they wished they'd brought a picnic, or at least takeout, so they could share a meal with the dead, to honor them and keep them company.
They only began to head back as the shadows grew long, the light painting the world in reds and oranges as the sun set. A shadow moved where Kerry hadn't expected anyone to be, and she stopped, putting a hand on Alicia's shoulder to let her girlfriend know what she was doing, the whir of Alicia's chair fading as Alicia came to a halt as well. Kerry peered into the darkness, and from what she could see, there was a little girl with Mickey Mouse puffs, her back to Kerry and Alicia, surrounded by several men, big ones with white sticks tangled into long ropes of ill-kempt hair and half-flattened afros, their skin oddly pale.
One of them moved just the right way, and to Kerry's shock, she realized that their faces were rotting off. Not just their faces, but all of their skin, their bodies, to the point Kerry could see bone and gray muscle. This was, she realized, more than simple disease, especially taking in the shambling gait of the men around the little girl.
In any other situation, Kerry would have fled, left the zombies for someone else to deal with, but the someone else who'd have to deal with them was a kid, and you didn't just leave kids to their fates, no matter what. Kerry sharply barked for Alicia to call the cops and she pelted across the manicured grass, to Alicia's terrified shouting. The grass would hinder Alicia's progress, and if one of those men attacked, tipped Alicia over, she'd be able to defend herself or escape, not both, which Kerry didn't want to risk.
Kerry shoved two of the men away, trying her best to ignore the way their bodies squelched as she reached for the little girl's hand. Dear god, those were bones in their hair. She didn't allow herself any more time to contemplate them, towing the little girl after her, then just swinging the child, who couldn't have been older than eight, over her shoulder as she ran back to Alicia, who was staring past her in shock.
Kerry turned to see what had caused Alicia's shock, and had to put the little girl down when she realized that the men who'd been surrounding the little girl were gone. There was no sign of them, which wasn't possible, because Kerry had pushed past them, she'd felt their too-soft bodies and seen their milky dead eyes. Kerry heard motion and rustling behind her, and assumed the little girl was crawling into Alicia's lap.
Then she heard Alicia making a distressed sound, and looked back to see:
Mickey Mouse puffs held in place by pink balls
A too-wide, too-bright, too-sharp smile
Unnatural pupil-less blue-upon-blue eyes.
The girl was sitting in Alicia's lap, holding Alicia's wrists down, where she couldn't reach the controls, the pair surrounded by the same men Kerry had just 'rescued' the little girl from, bringing Kerry to the terrifying realization that they weren't attackers.
They were minions.
The last thing Kerry thought was, "Today started so well."
Kerry and Alicia had worked on the same team for about a year, doing a multilingual project with three guys, all white. As the only women on the team, they'd bonded quickly, especially when it became clear that Kerry was the Japanese expert, and Alicia was the German expert. That'd teach the men to make assumptions.
Bonding at work by giggling at the white guys had turned into lunch at the sushi counter and soon, dinner at a nice Japanese steakhouse. Alicia preferred the ones with white servers, because they never assumed she spoke Japanese, which Kerry could appreciate.
Kerry had gotten her letter changed right before the multilingual project, so she had been able to make a fresh start with her new team. It had thrown off people who'd known her before, but the company had stood by Kerry, and that was more than plenty for Kerry to stand by the company, and when Alicia had reflexively accepted Kerry, it forced their other team members to do the same.
Unfortunately, Kerry's landlord hadn't been so accommodating, and Kerry decided to move out before she got pushed out. A careless comment from Alicia, and the two women were soon plotting a plan to move in together, one they soon brought to fruition at a spacious, open-plan place with well-maintained ramps and a wonderful non-discrimination policy.
They hired movers, and spent their first night in their new home eating takeout, watching old movies, and making love.
The next day, they decided to go out, explore their new neighborhood, and just have a good time, making faces at each other in the bathroom mirror as they put their makeup on, and laughing when they accidentally grabbed one another's makeup, because the electric blue eyeshadow that would work on Kerry wasn't doing Alicia any favors, while Alicia's bronzing glitter powder would just wash out Kerry.
Since they were exploring, Kerry went with her cute jeans, fro, and tennies, while Alicia opted for a floral sundress and a flower headband, both women determined to look as beautiful as they felt together. They were cute as hell, and so in love.
And as fantastic as the day began, it only got better.
They found most of the shops downtown were made to accommodate Alicia's chair, in deference to the nearby apartment complex, noone batted an eyelash when Kerry wanted to try on a few things, and when Alicia intimated she wanted to try things on, the workers immediately asked if they needed to let Kerry in to help her.
There was a brief sour spot when some boys made some nasty comments Kerry's way, but a cop drove them off with the reassurance that if he hadn't acted, he couldn't have lived with himself, and he even escorted the pair to the sushi restaurant they'd been heading to for their late lunch.
Eventually, they found themselves happily exhausted near a large, beautiful cemetery, and since it was still light out, they decided that the quiet, serene beauty of the place would be rejuvenating, and it was. The cemetery was full of beautiful statues and placards, planted with lush, vibrant flowers and bushes that attracted lilting birds and a variety of small animals that scurried out of sight with a rustle at the whir of Alicia's approaching chair.
It was an idyllic place to be, and they explored there for the rest of the afternoon, peering at graves, sheepishly giggling when they were able to mark their progress over damp soil by twinned lines and footsteps left in their wake. Both women commented to each other that they wished they'd brought a picnic, or at least takeout, so they could share a meal with the dead, to honor them and keep them company.
They only began to head back as the shadows grew long, the light painting the world in reds and oranges as the sun set. A shadow moved where Kerry hadn't expected anyone to be, and she stopped, putting a hand on Alicia's shoulder to let her girlfriend know what she was doing, the whir of Alicia's chair fading as Alicia came to a halt as well. Kerry peered into the darkness, and from what she could see, there was a little girl with Mickey Mouse puffs, her back to Kerry and Alicia, surrounded by several men, big ones with white sticks tangled into long ropes of ill-kempt hair and half-flattened afros, their skin oddly pale.
One of them moved just the right way, and to Kerry's shock, she realized that their faces were rotting off. Not just their faces, but all of their skin, their bodies, to the point Kerry could see bone and gray muscle. This was, she realized, more than simple disease, especially taking in the shambling gait of the men around the little girl.
In any other situation, Kerry would have fled, left the zombies for someone else to deal with, but the someone else who'd have to deal with them was a kid, and you didn't just leave kids to their fates, no matter what. Kerry sharply barked for Alicia to call the cops and she pelted across the manicured grass, to Alicia's terrified shouting. The grass would hinder Alicia's progress, and if one of those men attacked, tipped Alicia over, she'd be able to defend herself or escape, not both, which Kerry didn't want to risk.
Kerry shoved two of the men away, trying her best to ignore the way their bodies squelched as she reached for the little girl's hand. Dear god, those were bones in their hair. She didn't allow herself any more time to contemplate them, towing the little girl after her, then just swinging the child, who couldn't have been older than eight, over her shoulder as she ran back to Alicia, who was staring past her in shock.
Kerry turned to see what had caused Alicia's shock, and had to put the little girl down when she realized that the men who'd been surrounding the little girl were gone. There was no sign of them, which wasn't possible, because Kerry had pushed past them, she'd felt their too-soft bodies and seen their milky dead eyes. Kerry heard motion and rustling behind her, and assumed the little girl was crawling into Alicia's lap.
Then she heard Alicia making a distressed sound, and looked back to see:
Mickey Mouse puffs held in place by pink balls
A too-wide, too-bright, too-sharp smile
Unnatural pupil-less blue-upon-blue eyes.
The girl was sitting in Alicia's lap, holding Alicia's wrists down, where she couldn't reach the controls, the pair surrounded by the same men Kerry had just 'rescued' the little girl from, bringing Kerry to the terrifying realization that they weren't attackers.
They were minions.
The last thing Kerry thought was, "Today started so well."
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
The Road Home
You are too old for this
I am too young
We both have reasons
This shouldn't be happening
Life shouldn't be like this
Things should be different
Better
More
But they are not
This is the hand
We've been dealt
This is the life we lead
No matter what we want
What we wish
What we hope could be
Though I would take it all away
If I could
I can't
I'm tired
I must help myself first
I pity you
Envy you your departure
Your hope
Your road out of this mess
But your road is not mine
And mine is not yours
They must be walked separately
By each woman alone
While I pity
Your sleepless nights
I must have pity
For my own helpless tears
Fare thee well friend
May the day find you home
And mayhaps someday
Find mine as well.
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