Gone Screaming

       My daughter has decided I will be the new servant for her new family when the current one goes to give birth, and I'm about to lose the job I just got, because they want my fucking transcript.....in fucking AMERICA. Ha!

Did I mention I tend to realize my circumstantial/emotional/FUCKING LIFE wounds in delayed release?  


       Last week a very obese, bronze, colourfully attired American consulate officer asked me less than five questions, typed straight-faced for five minutes then informed me that I was a filthy dirty nigger liar and my application was denied (and thus access to a large part of my identity).  She didn't actually use those words (though I wish she had) in fact the only time she showed the slightest emotion was when she told me I had misused my visa in the past, I said I had not, and she let out a sharp, deep, groaning "WRONG!" that was filled with a viscous disdain equal to every bit of her large mass.  And I felt like a filthy dirty nigger beggar, but had no choice but to walk out with my head held high, wander down the road with a dignified stride, look both ways, cross the street and make my way to a bourgeois coffee shop, in an Expat shopping area named Le Petit Village, where I sipped a cappuccino while a German man watched me with a wounded confusion as I had denied his open, warm smile, and an older, stately black woman at a business meeting stared at me with fascination; what could be so fascinating about a filthy dirty nigger failure blinking away her tears while dunking her complimentary pastry? 


       That was a monday; my male friends were out of town, and my female friends are bitches so I held my breath (and my tears) till Wednesday.  Instead, I wandered through the hectic city in a silent haze. I made it to the mall, bought a movie ticket, had a beer at sunset, ate chocolate.  

       By Wednesday my breath (and tears) were long forgotten.  Instead I joined the boyz and we partied hard with a town that was busting with all the fresh meat in for the summer.  Old and new pretty faces beamed with happiness to hear I was here for a month and I beamed back and screamed "FUCK America!".  I fell sick before the weekend and stayed in, ignored my relatives, shut myself in my bed, allowed my child to get lost in the feeling of family and not needing me so much. It was only yesterday that I remembered I've been choking on a scream that holds so much lust and hunger in it and there is not a single thing to say because everyone has moved on and who would I say it to anyhow?  My lungs and dreams are fucking bursting with images and tears and filthy dirty nigger rage.

       Do you know how many times this has happened before? To so many thousands of people over the decades of global civilization as we know it? How many times a person has been told, fuck what you know, you are nothing? Often it is in ways just as simple as mine; a letter; a word; a "no"; but just as often, of course, are the more graphic ways we all know from history class. Is it easier when it is just a letter?

Mississippi Masala was a great movie-well actually it was okay and I don't believe it is even considered a stand out in Denzel Washington's career, but it was great to me because I remember seeing it for the first time when I was but a young, naive girl.  We gathered in my uncle's stifling hot apartment (the very same uncle whose home we now occupy, but long before he built the current mansion and even before his wife had to be watched over for fear she would kill her babies).  Back then the crowded apartment was filled with relatives whose faces are a blur, but who exuded warmth and safety, all sitting in eager anticipation to see this long awaited film.  I barely could understand it, save for the fact that it had to do with Uganda....and Denzel Washington; thus, of course, I felt only pride.

hartnursery.co.za

       I've watched the film again only in the last 10 years and at the time I think I was hungry for my home and those memories of exotic, safe, adventures with blurred faces and rituals.  I commiserated with the father in the film, an Indian motel owner, as he read the last rejection of his appeal to the Ugandan government, then gazed at an old, faded photograph of a large compound, much like one I currently am hiding out in, similarly filled with bougainvillea bushes the likes of which I have only ever seen in Uganda. The scene is touching: such romance; such poignancy; such bullshit.


       Who gives a shit about a fucking old house and a bush that is long overgrown?!  When that man looks at the photograph he is quietly feeling like a filthy dirty nothing and beginning to hate the people who have made him feel this way (at least if you believe the claims that current racism from returnee Indian generations is a simmering response to how their parents and grandparents were treated).  Maybe yes, maybe no, but for sure he is fucking screaming; I am fucking screaming, because actually it really is about an old house, a scent of flowers, a place I once stood and the deep hunger to stand there again and say "this was me". It is that fucking simple and being refused that is poignantly brutal indeed.

        And it is about all the people I hoped to look in the eye again, who would see me in a way that just can't happen here; whose ears might hear my voice in a way that just can't happen here; 


        But now my lungs are choking with screams of lust and hunger, and they are too far away to listen....


        Photographs don't look back; fuck what you know; to them, you are nothing....
       

MAKE MISTEAKS

              I have a new therapist, because my mother is a good person, but a terrible role model and I need somewhere to go to vent my fury over her behavior and seek guidance so as not to repeat such mistakes in my own journey in motherhood.  But I digress.  


              My new therapist asked me to come up with an empowering mantra, probably to combat my chronic acute worthlessness syndrome (don't look it up), and also because she is under a lot of pressure to match the momentum my old therapist had going, which threatens to cease during her temporary absence (nice of her to feel obligated to earn that ca$hmoney). The mantra is something that is supposed to be unique (fuck "everything happens for a reason" cliches) and have to do with me, myself (e.g not spiritual or externally directed).  I have actually been having a hard time coming up with something.  I just wasn't feeling inspired by any words of wisdom that I would find uplifting.  Then the other morning, I received this email ("received" was a new vocab word for Ms. V yesterday and the previous sentence is how she showed she understood the word; I said yes, but also you can receive normal mail, like from a post office; she had no idea what I was talking about-granted there are no personal mailboxes in Uganda or Tz, but it still made me shudder and a scene from Terminators came to mind) but I digress:




Dear Jill, [except he used a very intimate tribal name that NOBODY calls me except in traditional greeting and that he was specifically asked NOT use, even while we were dating that stuff happened]


                 How are u doing dear? its been ages [yes, yes it has, specifically because I begged and pleaded for him to dis-exist from my life.  I wrote a long email detailing exactly why we would never "have dinner as friends" and promised to not HATE him if he promised to leave me alone.....2 years ago, but emotionally it was never, as in it never happened. THIS NEVER HAPPENED!] I pray and hope you are fine and doing well [what is a good analogy for the creep factor in having someone you are so vehemently disgusted by "praying for you"?  Like a pedophile apologizing while molesting his victim, Prayer has never felt so corrupted to me] I have been thinking about you so much of late and i am wondering whether u can squeeze a little time and we have another cup of tea like we did last time [Eww, "squeeze".  Ha! This is funny.  The last time I did see him was after he sent a text that he had moved to Kampala from his village home and had been passing my house every morning for five months on his way to work, hoping to see me. Though he had betrayed me in a way that almost cost me my entire brand, my existential guilt won out and I thought God may be tricking me and I should reach out to this fellow Being with only Love and Mercy in my heart to prove I was better.  I had a terrible flu and he spent five minutes discussing the benefits of vitamin C: "as found in citrus fruits.....orange, lemons, uhmmmm, there are others". I tried really hard to vomit on him, but unfortunately I wasn't that sick].   


Today morning, i have gone thru all the emails you sent me and was glad to see the two btful photos u once sent me.... [Grrosss, GROSS, GROSS, GROSS. What pics? I totally forgot about this.]


Also, i was happy to see an email which had our old, special  names... (Turtle and Trekker.)[For fuck sakes!] My whole morning has been great... and with old, sweet memories [Anyone who is PATHETIC enough to admit this is NOT in God's Favor-no existential guilt needed]


...i cant 4get the day we climbed the mountain and visited that family at the top..and gave them some money.. then the river, and stone throwing. [I remember how miserable and worthless I felt that day. I thought I had malaria, but in retrospect, I think I kept closing my eyes and doubling over in shame not illness.]


i lost my other fone, with your contact, i wld have called u.[I NEVER answer you're fucking calls ya DOUCHE] please call me on (0782--- --- or 0704 --- --)if u are within Uganda[ Someone must have tipped him off that I left.....ahhhhh! He went back to the old house. Ugandans are MAGNIFICENT stalkers....I should know] i will be glad to hear from u.


Best regards, "Ed"




              After dealing with the waves of nausea and fury that hit me after reading this (alleviated only by the idea of what a great post it would make), I had sudden clarity as to my own "remember me" shout-outs to past lovers.  I shuddered with shame.  I had just been musing about the sentimental logic of perhaps shooting a once-upon-a-BRIEF-time guy an email, just, you know, to see how he was doing (like it is to HIS benefit; like without my email enquiry he may suffer tremendously).  And now, with the roles reversed and my potential behavior reflected back at me, I have no choice but to acknowledge how WRONG, how painfully, humiliatingly, sacrilegiously WRONG it is to EVER send such an email when you know, by silence or direct communication, that your sentimental affections are UNRECIPROCATED.  


                As I contemplated this conclusion, my mantra came floating down to me like a whisper from an angel:


                           I AM BETTER THAN THIS.

P.Y.T

Once Upon a Time.....(time, time, time)


         When I was roughly 11 years old, give or take some months, we took a trip to Malaysia, specifically the island of Penang.  We stayed with an old friend of my mother's who was, at the time, in an open marriage with an obviously (even to me, then) gay man and she was obviously (even to me, then) a lesbian.  Why they insisted on being married, I cannot understand now, but this odd discrepancy also seemed acceptable and obvious to me, then.


           During this trip, our hosts took us on the Penang Hiking Trails; we mostly just trooped along the ridges enjoying the view.  I believe this was my first mountain hike,

wn.com

after which we came back down to feast on steamed fish and rice cooked in coconut milk by vendors on the side of the street. We never saw the inside of a restaurant that whole trip (it is a blessing to see a new country with foreigners who live there-they have the perfect balance of understanding of where you are coming from and knowing what gems to show you that may be dismissed by locals as sub-par).


        At night we would visit a food stall area popular with tourists that was well known for every stall being named Chez whoever owned it: Chez Joe; Chez Ahmed, etc.

        Our hosts ordered for me a pile of hot steaming noodles covered in a melange of fresh seafood. My stomach was not sophisticated enough to eat more than a few bites, but I made note of that image and have spent the rest of my life drooling over the memory of that neglected meal.

www.rasamalaysia.com

        One morning we visited a beach cafe and I sat with my mother and brother (who was 7-ish) eating eggs for breakfast.  On a nearby table a young, brooding, Adonis-like, man sat alone, drinking coffee, looking at no one.  His long hair, and delicate hands, screamed "sensual artist", even to my pre-pubescent self.  I hated the humility of being there with my family, and supposed if I were alone, then we would surely meet and have a torrid love affair, the details of which I'm sure I hadn't quite figured out.  This was my first taste of Lust; and to be honest, my M.O in men has never changed.


          Later we visited the Kek Lok Si Temple, to take a magical tour of gigantic golden and stone Buddha statues set in caves; this was my first experience of religion on such a grandiose scale.  This was my first sense of the Sacred Spirit.

www.photobunga.com

        After the statues we met a Malay Intuitive Reader (Psychic); we prayed with her and she blessed us; she then shuffled my brother and I into another room so she could give my mother a personal reading. My mother was frightened by the experience and never spoke about what the woman said though implied it was too close to the Truth.

tohno-chan.com

           We found ourselves, on a hot, bright, sunny afternoon, in a dimly lit, empty bar/restaurant, looking for a cool drink.  It was quite empty, but there were a few businessmen scattered at tables nearer to the bar and the karaoke stage where a very drunk Asian businessmen crooned into the afternoon air:


                    Raindrops keep fallin on my head
                   And just like the guy-
                   whose feet are too big for his bed
                   Nothing seems to fit.....


         This was my first experience of Karaoke; I have loved it ever since, along with that song which I try to find and sing in every karaoke bar I have ever been too.  I felt sad for the lonely, drunk, man then but think of him fondly today.  I understand, now, the look of a man who was proudly fearless, even in his sorrow. The quintessential Cowboy.


          Our hosts lived just a short walk away from the water and one afternoon I confidently left the house and made this walk, inspired by the calling of the wild ocean tides-I was growing up; I was weary of my mother's skirts.  I sat on the small cliffs and looked out into the sea, captivated.  I must have been quite caught up because I don't remember the men approaching me.  One minute I was alone, the next minute two fat, shirtless, hairy, sweaty white men had gathered around me.  They must have been in their forties, their language delineated them as Eastern Europeans. They cackled and cajoled (at me? how would I know what they were saying?); then one man came next to me and put his arm tight around my shoulders pulling me into his sweaty naked flesh; the other stood before us and pointed a video camera at us; they continued their garbled, rough speaking; the one man kept grinning and pulling me tighter-I think they wanted me to smile, but they never spoke to me; I was a thing.  I scrambled away and disappeared back to the house.


         I sat on the steps outside the front door, until I was sure my bright shame was tucked down, deep inside.  Nothing to get worked up about, right? Doesn't even make it on the radar of possible happenings to young girls alone in the company of men, right? Except from that day on, long before I had developed a sexual identity, I knew what it was like to be a sexual object.


         Last week I decided to become more proactive about this weight loss thing.  I always envy the young men who, ritualistically, come to the shore of any beach in Dar or Zanzibar, at sundown, and begin a casual regiment of the most fierce and disciplined calisthenics and exercise routine I have ever seen outside of a military setting.  It is an awe-inspiring ritual, but it seems reserved for boys and men only. But still, I thought, what could be the harm in taking a walk on the beach? (This question ruminated in my mind for at least two weeks, so I suppose, somewhere, deep inside, there was an answer).


         I made one circuit round the beach then scrambled for a cliff top, where there were some Muslim school girls sitting, I came and sat close to them (for some reason this made me feel safe) and took in the view, allowed my shoulders to relax from the tension I didn't know I was holding.  I saw him approach out of the corner of my eye but still thought nothing of it, until the sweaty, stupid, shameless man was sitting so close to me I could feel his hot breath. His leering eyes looked through me (why ME? I wanted to shout, go for the Muslim girls then! I am NOT A PRETTY YOUNG THING!!!) It was the way he greeted me, like my response or reaction was predetermined, like pressing power on a computer screen and just assuming it will light up; I was expected to respond, I was expected to greet him for the SOLE REASON that he had greeted me (Why do men DO THIS??? Why is this SUCH a constant in my life?? Would it make me so sick if it wasn't for the echoes in my head, the tucked away memories?) 


        I jumped up so fast he reacted like he thought I meant to push him off the cliff; he jumped up too and dashed off, but I was already out past the parking lot, crossing the street.


         I had walked half a kilometer before I could unclench my hands and quiet my throbbing heart; the ocean view long out of sight; even the sound of the tide rushing was overwhelmed by the echoes of those fat, sweaty, laughing, men.....








                    Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
                    But that doesn't mean my eyes-
                    will soon be turnin red
                    Cryin's not for me, cause
                    I'm never gonna stop the rain-
                    by complaining....

Enchantment is a state of Mind and Love is a feeling....

But when Pesky thoughts prove Troublesome, both lose all meaning [RIP Mama Bear]

        The Editor has confirmed he is (of course) in love (with an idea of me), though it doesn't seem he will make it out here after all.  At most this is a lovely distraction and I will take it just as that.  Though he does have the habit of writing the most intimately reassuring things to me-honestly he knows me not one bit, yet is somehow finding the things to say that I would most want to hear.  I can't imagine how or where he is getting these lovely thoughts about me.


       I came across an old email thread from a past lover.  The love affair was nonsense-really immature and pathetic (on his part, of course). But the email and phone exchanges kept me sane during a really traumatizing 30 days in an immigration nightmare that would very likely have killed me if it weren't for him-in the end said nightmare ended up affirming my need to move to Africa, so it did kill a version of me after all.  Reading the messages again, I was not reminded of his immature, pathetic behavior, but instead was struck by all the lovely things he thought about me, and said to me.


     There have been many lovely things thought about me, and written, and said to me.  Many lovely thoughts.


     Right now there is an overwhelming thought I have been avoiding, but feel it is time to look at it head on.  This thought, a concept really, may do much to explain so many of my thoughts of late-some lovely, and some, not so much.


     I am still struck by all the wonderful people out there in the blogosphere-I'm still so new at exploring this world. I cannot believe some of the exposing things people write about their lives, in such excruciating detail.  I just read one blog of a girl who is in the very active throes of a very dangerous depression. How can one write about such things? Reveal such scary, crazy, crazy-scary things? I thought you were supposed to run and hide and bury yourself until you were presentable again.  She is in the black, in the deep, deep black, but her honest reflection makes me feel I can be more honest about my grey.  I found that blog by stalking trolling perusing another blog by a woman whose life makes my life look like the duller than dull doldrums of existence.  And again she tells her story with such raw, authenticity, but by the Grace of God has found enough light within the ups and downs to not fall into that scary, crazy, crazy-scary way of looking at things.   Her daughter, who also blogs about her struggles and triumphs, wrote my favorite thought for the day: "I'm feeling better".


       I sent the Editor some very badly written abstracts of three lovely little story ideas that could become a few wonderful and unique children's book novels.....in the right hands, with the right thoughts, strung together just so.


      The play I will audition for at the end of the week is "An Ideal Husband". I am panicked by my overwhelming thought and by how all this....exposure, when I've been quiet for so long, will sit with me. But then I check my email and the Editor has sent something sweet and gentle and simple, a side note that makes not feel so worried about what he will say when he reads the abstracts.  I am taking shallow breaths* (I think I might suffocate if I breathed too deeply) and cautious steps, because I think that's what Mama Bear would say is the best way to keep Pesky Thoughts at bay.


     


       Just a thought....

Movie Magic

mechanolatry.tumblr.com

       Ah! Me! Why oh why do all my love affairs have to happen as if lifted word by word/scene by scene from an epic novel made into Oscar winning epic movie. I've had, in my disturbingly succint romance history, love affairs that rival "Out of Africa", "The Bridges of Madison County", "Before the Sunrise", "An Affair to Remember", and of course the bum who my heart insists on calling my soul mate would be cast well in such notable pics as "Walk the Line", "Memoirs of a Geisha" and maybe even a little "West Side Story" thrown in for good measure.  My romance life makes Bollywood look avant garde.
       Does that sound delicious? Am I wrong to complain that when I do fall it is always with someone incredibly handsome who says and does the most wonderful things, though only for a short while? Should I be happy with that? I want to bump into someone in a supermarket, meet someone through friends, take a class with someone, and then two to five years later joke about how we've never been apart since; I want a "When Harry Met Sally", but am more likely to get a "Friends With Benefits" (w/out the ridiculous Hollywood ending).  I am not allowed the normal.  I tried it briefly, in Uganda, to disastrous results; my Soul still threatens to make me vomit at the thought of him. But it would have been so incredibly easy.....But okay, maybe the truth is I do NOT want a normal; maybe I want incredible; maybe Harry seems like a total jackass, loser and I'd never have banged him. As envious as I get of my friends relationships, that is often the case.  If I could switch places with them, I'd never have got past the first date-ewwwwwwww, they are all so......un-magical! 
           And I get this. I do.
           I have learnt more in the times and ways I've been excluded from normalcy than I have by being a part of a real production. 


           I wrote to him as just an editor, an editor who seemed invitingly writable.  And  then he asked for my picture, and so many words that I'm not sure I actually feel slipped from my fingertips and out to him.  I could own him if I wanted to; I think, he wants to be owned.  

         I've had such an exposing week. First the editor who has now become a constant voice in my mind, and I feel I must be in his as well.  Then there is the that ka-guy who is being amusingly persistent.  And now I pushed my self to get involved with a performance.  Which leads me to think there could be even more interesting interactions in my future.  The editor has suggested a meeting.  Next week. He would fly half way across the world just to have a conversation with me, if that's not romantic I don't know what is.  All of this exposure, so fast, all of a sudden, the question is, am I ready for my close up?

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

"Goddess Brigit inspires, empowers and encourages us to express our Truth through our purpose.  She offers assistance in releasing and transcending fears; self-limiting patterns and unhealed energy, helping us to feel protected and supported through any and all aspects of self-expression and communication."
Who is Goddess Brigit

          The night ended on a funny note as far as Truth telling goes (in Uganda "funny" more often refers to disturbing, uncomfortable, unnatural, wrong. But in Uganda, we have no negative feelings-no wait, we have no words for negative feelings): I was snuggled up to the Little One- we were both reveling in the peace and love and nurturing that occurred between us and within us today; plus I was feeling quite ill (either Malaria again, or tooth gone rot-most likely both-but surely not throat cancer...?!?) 
          I was sick and she was sick of the ghosts that have been hampering her dreams and evening hours. Silly little children's fear, right? Not to this proud heathen.  There's definitely some superstitious happenings that have been going on in the last few days; individually, each of us have felt...invaded (even as I write this I hear her whispering in her sleep and the feeling of a real conversation occurring in front of my blind eyes is making my mama-bear fur stand on end). 
         So we were snuggled, and what begun as scary ghost stories turned into giggling real life stories that were far scarier than the idea of astral-travelling evil relatives and a recently passed mother's protection:


             "Aunty please sleep with me!! When you sleep with me, I'm so comfortable."
             
             "You're comfortable when you sleep with anyone."


"Yes, that's true."


              This introduction led to the topic of the very few men that were listed on the "it's okay to sleep with" list. This in turn led to the topic of why other men were not okay to sleep with. This topic was disturbingly led by the little one:


             "But I don't want some man, you know, kissing me, ewww gross!"


             "Why would a man want to kiss a little girl? (please, please, please say you just heard from so and so that such and such)


             She leans in like an wise owl schooling a naive little chickadee, "You knowww, in Uganda...heh...there are men who kiss. little. children." 


             I try to re-assert my authority on the subject, proclaiming my vast understanding of the evils of pedophilia. "Yes I know, those men are everywhere. They are very very sick and bad.


             "Yes, I know." She looks at me trying to asses if I am worldly enough to handle what comes next; and I'm fairly sure I am not but will attempt to fake it.  "Let me tell you..." 


            What comes next is a play by play account of the cancer-stricken man who lived across the street from her and her mother's apartment, the women (and girls) who frequented his home, and the group of little girl's who avidly stalked him in order to report back to authorities-guess who was their leader...
              In the first episode, she'd witnessed said man approach a "beautiful, half-naked" woman walking down the street, propositioned her, led her back to his house, and had some sort of...relations with said woman (I could not lie there and let her try and describe what she did not understand, I had to insert..."gross things?" to stifle my mental freak-out), the most scandalous being he reached over her and stuck his hand in her..."what is this they wear? bla? As IF wanting to TOUCH her breast!" We both looked at each perplexed and disturbed by this possibility (well I was disturbed by the fact that this conversation was happening, but there it is). I got a comic relief from my disquiet when she explained her return home:


         "So I ran home and my heart was just beating: UH-HEH, UH-HEH..." she pants heavily, demonstrating, rolling on the bed, closing her eyes with hand to little chest. "Mummy asked me what happened and I couldn't even talk...I just lied there until I was asleep"


         Part 2, according to her, was the "not so scary" episode, involving a child, who judging by the height she indicated was about 2 or 3 years old, but considering her heroic escape, "she was a clever gal", she sounds more like Jackie Chan aged 35. Though I was too curious to know if she actually stayed and watched the whole episode above, this time I begged for her to cease and desist, I was SCARED, this was too REAL.  She denied my request-welcome to the big girls club:


         "And now he brings home a young gal, and he says 'take off your dress' but she was a clever gal and she says 'no! why should I?!' and he says, 'so I can give you medicine', so the gal took off one dress but she had one on underneath." 
          And the man gets angry, and he shouts at her, she hits him, he shakes her, she kicks him and runs out of the house. 
         "When I saw her kick him I thought, eh! this is a clever gal. I told myself then that if anyone tried to kiss me, I would kick them just like that gal. So when she came running, for us, we called her, 'eh come, come!' And I said, 'wow, clever gal, good job'. And she screamed, 'RUN, Ruuuuunnnn, don't stay here!!' And then she just...ehhh-started crying and shaking like what."


        Mind you understand, though her mother had not given express consent to these...investigations (I hope, I hope, I sincerely hope) Each of these episodes (I will assume they were more and it was only her mercy for me that made her end her tales) were immediately reported back in detail to her mother, and the response was more to confirm what a bad man he was, than to try to heal or reinstate the innocence of her child.   


        This is not a story of trauma, this is a story of communication and it's to POWER:  Are you afraid of the dark?  I know I am.  But don't let the dark know; tell it to go to hell.  You got an evil-witch sending you bad dreams? Sing a child's song about how stupid she is to make you think of your biggest fear-losing the ones you belong to...again.  If there are dirty men in the world and you know too much about it, make a list of all the men you feel safe with, and torture your Aunty with a scary fairy-tale. After all she's there with you, and the dark is not as powerful as her warmth and her love.

"Competition Coming Out Now. Load. Up. Aim. Fire, Fire Pop!" (part 1)

[Title Credit: Fire, Fire by MIA]

             You know that movie with Cher as the mother, Winona Ryder as the troubled adolescent, and Christina Ricci as the adorable youngster? It was one of my favorite movies growing up, I must have watched it a million, gazillion times (and I still can't think of the title, which i'm refusing to google on principle-old age here I come!).  So the story goes (Once upon a time...):

              (Told from the point of view of the adolescent) A young single mother is living in 60's American suburbia with her two daughters. She is self-involved, superficially neglectful, and careless, but sincerely loves her kids.  She moves them from town to town with each cessation of her numerous love affairs, until they come to a town where circumstances, timing, and auxiliary characters force them to grow up.

possessive-adjectives.html 

               Lately it has become a household topic (joke) of sorts, that it's time for me to find a husband. It comes from the sincere desire I have to find "true love", but curiously enough, the discussions have also developed in response to having to find a relaxed way to talk to Vannesa about men.  The thing is, she is only eight years old but she is...stunning.  Both my mother and I were also Pretty Little Girls (very pretty) and we know from personal experience that the world will make a Pretty Little Girl an object (of beauty, innocence, sex, power) no matter how young she is.  It is with these wise eyes that we quickly noted the compulsive way in which men gravitate towards the Little One-old, young, professional, hired hands-they actually reach out and GRAB her, not  sexually, but possessively, right in front of us.

               I walk with her around the supermarket, she insists on pushing the cart, and will try to maneuver this enormous thing in exact accordance with every step I take; this is cumbersome, to say the least, and after awhile, I cannot help but tell her to "Just. Sit. Tight!" I round the corner to grab a bag of her favorite pasta; in the time it takes to find it, stop to check the price of sesame oil (shit!) and double back, a man has materialized out of thin air to pester her , entice her, cajole her, trying to satisfy some inexplicable (even to him), instinctual need.  She is always doing her best to scrounge up her face in disgust and confusion, in a futile attempt to repel him the way one would swat at mosquitoes on a hot, humid, night by the lake; but the men are just as determined to seek out her light, as mosquitoes seeking out sustenance...

               I remember these interactions well as a little girl and as an adolescent (somewhere after 25, when I have finally owned my identity and my sexuality, I have become the seeker, not the sought-Bah!). But I have never had the chance to experience such an interlude as a third party observer-let alone as the designated protector.  So I round the corner, see the man, and come barreling down on him-realizing shrieking "rape" and hitting him about with my purse may only exacerbate the trauma of the situation, so instead I give my best scowl and throw WTF glares at him. Guess what happens? (And yes, in the two weeks we've been here this has happened enough times for me to standardize the behavior) Invariably, the man will simply wheel away from Vannesa, glide past me, and NEVER, ONCE, make eye contact with me.  Like I'm not even there, or more aptly, like he has just snapped out of his predator's dementia and continues shopping treating us like the random strangers that we are.

              In the times when this happens with my mother also there as a witness we cluck to ourselves about the creepiness of this phenomenon, speculating on what we can do to protect her-we've actually considered the merits of converting to Islam simply for the dress code as a solution to our problem.  Perhaps it is not wise to let the Little One hear us hemming and hawing over this problem, but in any case, she has begun voicing her own disgust at the male population, both child and adult, who all seem recklessly addicted to her against all her wishes; hence the need to discuss.

              In her more frustrated moments, (Ugh- just one memory of walking around a children's store with my best friend and the salesman sliding up to me, running his finger lightly down the length of my arm, and slithering "I liiiikke youuurrr colorrrr" still brings up sparks of anger and revulsion that could ignite a forest fire), I tell it to her straight-there is NO romancing the woes of the Pretty Little Girl. So I tells her, I says:

              "Men EVERYWHERE, no matter their age, profession, or race, men have something weird in them where they have to..."have" a pretty girl: talk to her, befriend her, seduce her, condemn her, demand of her, "master" her...no one knows why.  If you have 100 men in front of you, including uncles, brothers, pastors, teachers, doctors-all the kinds of men in your life, about 30 of them will be men you can be friends with, but they are also a bit "weird", as in they may not hurt YOU, but they may hurt other women or girls or at least not understand how difficult it can be for women and girls.  Then there is another 15, okay well, let's say 20 men who will be men you can really trust, like Uncle G, or Jaja, or a teacher, or a doctor, or some friends who will never ever hurt you AND who understand that it is NOT a figment of your imagination that there are those other men who are out to...own you; these men will protect you no matter what, even against their own kind.  And lastly, out of these 15-20 men there will be 1, 2, maybe 3 men who you will love in a way that is different from the rest, and it is out of these 3 that you will find your husband.

alicexz.deviantart.com

 
The rest of the 100, well the rest are freakin weird, and       sometimes downright bad. In bookstores, at the clinic, in the supermarket, at school (here it has been the security guy on our compound who assaults her with friendliness whenever she takes out the trash) they are always around and they will always try to take some of your light.  But the trick me and Mukaka have learned (in this moment of frustration she was discussing reasons she was not happy) is to NOT stop SHINING just because of them. Don't try to hide your light, don't let them make you unhappy, because then... they win."

               Okay, perhaps most of this speech was said in my head as she had already drifted off into what we were going to have for dinner while we washed up the lunch dishes, but it was a good speech to make, even if it was just to myself...