superfluous sincerity

Strained salt from saline to ensure it’d sink. A palm between scapula shoved it off the brink.

I broke the habit’s knobby knees; fed its false honey to blaspheming bees.

Snipped the leash and wreathed a noose. Pulled the teeth and set them loose.

Dammed the mouth of the River Lies. Cried out the last of my self-pity cries.

From Jealousy’s burdens my mind was finally free. It was then that I started, in earnest, to trust in Trust and to love me.

I. One sweaty-palmed evening, thumbing through his phone while he lay sleeping, a realization hit me: I was cheating on Trust with my Jealousy.

If Jealousy was a third wheel, it would be a flat tire. It would be a Mad Max machine sinking its teeth into Subaru.

Jealousy warned my pimples popped holes in his libido; said my slight scoliosis was a major disappointment; promised he prayed my teeth would melt to her shape- round yet flat.

Ten times a night Jealousy called, demanding that I track him out of the corner of my eye until my vision crossed. It was getting clingy. I was getting dizzy.

II. So, I broke up with my Jealousy, buried it deep beneath a Dead Sea; with Styx and stones on top. Bedazzled it with bricks and watched it drop.

Strained salt from saline to ensure it’d sink. A palm between scapula shoved it off the brink.

I broke the habit’s knobby knees; fed its false honey to blaspheming bees.

Snipped the leash and wreathed a noose. Pulled the teeth and set them loose.

Dammed the mouth of the River Lies. Cried out the last of my self-pity cries.

From Jealousy’s burdens my mind was finally free. It was then that I started, in earnest, to trust in Trust and to love me.

III. Three weeks later, Jealousy’s ghost came calling, meowed like a Siamese- LOUD.

Claws tried to stitch the itch back into fingertip.

Whispers sang the familiar siren pop-hit, “Baby Check Phone One More Time”;

The panic spread like poison ivy. But I will no longer let this feeling drive me.  

I shifted into goodbye; I insisted that it go. Felt the ecstasy of limits, the triumph of saying NO.

I sent the phantom packing, with a pat on its head; “We can still be friends,” it bluffed, its cheeks going red.

“No not friends; but we will be memories.” As I turned my back, the door closed with ease.

You have no place here with me; with me and him; just us two. Driving smooth, driving love, in our all wheel Subaru.

Thank you to all the women marching today for literally taking steps to change our country. I hope the sound of your synchronized steps shake Washington awake. My heart beats in time with your footsteps. You are my heroes!

I wrote this two years ago and it still rings true:

This sticker came in the mail after I donated to Planned Parenthood. Immediately upon receiving it, I was picking at the peel, tossing on my boots, and grabbing at my keys. I felt so proud; so empowered; so ready to take action, even if it was just a car sticker.

But suddenly, my body went stiff. I hesitated at the door's threshold. My worry was not "oh it's a lease.” It was: “Wait. What if I get attacked? What if someone sees this on my car and smashes a window in? What if they pop my tires to demonstrate their disagreement? What if they pop my nasal septum in order to demonstrate their hatred of me and of women? What if I am shot on spot for my feminism? What if I am putting a target on my already endangered body? What if it this is what they call 'asking for it'? What am I risking here to show my feminism?"

For five days, the sticker sat staring at me from the coffee table, sometimes whispering, "Save yourself, sister; I've had my heart bombed by a thousand thugs for speaking out. Hide your tongue." And sometimes it said, "Do it; you have to; lick the envelope and commit to this message. Braver women have done much more." Out of cowardice, I debated. I put a dirty dish of comfort on top and forgot about it for a bit.

Maybe it would have been my my first thought if it were a different time. A time with a president who unflinchingly labeled himself a feminist and who acted like one; a time when organizations like Planned Parenthood were not in danger of being cut; a time when our country was not about to be led by a man who openly incites violence to smother opposing views, who is caught on camera bragging about the diurnal details of his routine of sexual assault, a man who would like to not only put up a wall but capture and rerelease "illegal" people as if they were an enemy species, a man built of money but devoid of integrity. Tomorrow our president?

Unfortunately, the time is now. And my first thought was, "what if I am assaulted for having this in my car's back window?" And I'm not saying that is our impending president's fault. He did not plant that idea in my brain; no of course not.

But there have been studies done about the potent power of authority. Stanley Milgram's experiment in 1963 found that many participants were willing to administer supposed electric shocks to others when instructed to do so by a man in a white coat. Sixty-five percent of participants were willing to administer the highest voltage of shock when encouraged by the authority figure (simplepsychology.org). It seems easier to do horrible things when you are told to do so by someone who is powerful; powerful and hateful.

It's hard to see a president with such aggressive, divisive, and misogynistic beliefs and not feel afraid that people will follow suit. That some little boy will watch him boisterously interrupt the person he's debating with and not carry that with him somehow- interrupt his friend in school the next day with a mirroring hand gesture or rude phrase. Or begin assigning numbers to women's bodies according to assessed quality; or talking about how they'll let you do anything if you're the captain of the football team. Or ostracizing the person wearing the hijab. Or laughing at that classmate with disabilities. Or assuming a deficit because of a pigment in skin. Or all of the above. This is not normal; this is not okay.

So many of you will say we are whining; that we are being over sensitive or crying about not getting our choice. And that is likely because you are in a position of privilege or you do not understand the potential for harm that this man and his administration embody. That you are charmed by his money; or that you are impressed by his "honesty". That's your opinion. That's your experience.

But I hope you can still listen. And hear us people who are terrified and angry and feel betrayed by the America we thought we knew. I hope that you can hear the feet of thousands of women marching to the beat of "this is not normal; we will not accept this; no, this is not okay."

I hope you hear the coins from the bottom of my pocketbook drop in the belly of Planned Parenthood's piggy bank. I hope you can hear the throbbing music from the LGBTQ activists dancing outside of Pence's place. I hope you hear the silence in the absence of voices at the inauguration from all of those absent performers that turned down the invitation.

I hope you hear me when I say our president genuinely scares me; when I say I am not afraid of what you think I am afraid of. Let me tell you, don't assume you know. Any day, anytime, I would be glad to Macarena in a porter potty filled with people who are transexual than occupy even the world's most spacious bathroom, 1,460 (please let the days of these four years fly) stalls down from our president elect. No thank you.

Please listen when I say I have taught the sons and daughters of moms and dads who hoped the grass was greener on this side but whose cards are not green; they are human beings who contribute to this country in ways you will never understand unless you listen. Escucha.

Listen. I will listen to you. I will listen to him. But each time I do, I am only more disgusted. I am sick. This is not normal. This is not okay for America or for any country or any person. We need to chant the mantra; refuse desensitization. It's not okay. It will not be four years from now. And I hope we can prove that then.

For now, I am here. I am here if you need to cry or scream or yell or rant or panic attack or pray. I am here and I am scared and I am angry and I am one of many who are stubborn and strong and set in our beliefs. And we will keep being here. So get ready for us.

Thank you so much to all of the incredible women marching around the country on Saturday to remind everyone of the rights of minorities who make up so much of who we are. You are so brave and so important and inspiring and I admire you so much. A huge shoutout to Amanda, my feminist mentor, for her dedication to the cause in Washington; I am so proud of you.

I'm sorry that I will not be there beside you. I'm sorry that I only have a sticker on my vehicle and a rant on my Facebook. But my heart beats in time with your stomps.

“What shade of white was the fur, Daddy? Like snowy white or your bottom teeth?”

Lips closed, I grin; “It was pale yellow after a swim, but a soft white when fluffy.”

Her eyes glitter with curiosity: two snow globes upturned. “Did you touch one?”

Regret ghosts across the pads of my fingertips. “No, they lived in the Arctic; that’s a long way from here.”

As her eyebrows sew together, a wrinkle creases her forehead like a crinkled map. “Where did they go?”

My cheeks burn hot; palms pool with red sunlight streaming in from the window.

Impatient for answers, she presses: “Did they melt with the ice?”

My nostrils inhale sharply; the air is cold. “They’re extinct now. That means there are no more alive.”

At this, her eyes go dark; her mouth flatlines. “Like the dinosaurs?”

I pause, treading water. “Yes, like the dinosaurs. But it’s different this time. This is our fault.”

She nods, and the movement is tragic. Like one white speck bobbing in a dark blue sea before it is erased.

The questions quiet; like she’s heard this story before; like she knows she’ll hear it again; like she knows she’ll tell it someday.

Story is all that’s left.

In the thick November night

from 35,000 feet above,

the Midwest is afloat

on a dark secret sea.

Farmlands surrendered

their greens to sunset,

and now are swallowed

in a shade of black

that invites imagination

to label as it likes.

Boston bound,

my dust dry cells

ache to have thirst

slaked by the Atlantic.

And so I see

what I search for;

the corn stalks unfurl,

ribbon into sea grass,

reeds undulating underwater.

The soy beans crust

colorfully into corals.

Tractors ease edges

and angles into flippers

and fins; the wind turbines

soften, shrink to sea stars.

Forehead leans into the chill

of double glass windows,

eyes drag across dead lands;

scenes painted jet black

by the messy strokes of midnight.

Homesick, seasick,

impatient for destination.

Then, there; look, see;

a reflection dances,

catching my glance in its net.

The lights of the land

are captured again

on the ground;

watch how it sways,

overlaps, waves.

Pretenses, pretending

drains away;

Boston, is that you?

Of course it is.

You are a true city atop an ocean.

You are more beautiful than you know.

The chime of the seatbelt signal

almost sounds like seagulls.

I smile at the black swatches;

I know what lies, what laps

just underneath night’s sly veil.

With memories aglow in my mind

I fill in the dark like a Light Brite.

Then yesterday when I was driving home, I flipped it back up on a whim; suddenly my eyes took in a wider swath of nature; the trees went from being woody walls to orange pillars stretching up to a cerulean sky, all spread out, dappled with black birds.

(This post is about me realizing my white privilege in an interaction with police.)

Last night I got into a small car accident. As I was turning to pull into my drive way, the person behind me didn’t slow down. They drove into the rear end of my car. Everyone was physically fine, thank goodness.

But mentally, I was struggling; years ago I fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into a tree. Waking up to the sound of glass breaking haunted me for weeks. I’ve had anxiety about driving for a long time, so this incident caused it to surface. Joe held me while my body trembled, I cried, and I word vomited nonsense. The other driver was so kind, she hugged me a bunch too. We decided to call the police so that the report could be completed. I felt a sense of relief that the officer would help me feel safe.

When the police officer arrived, he noticed my registration was expired and told me that I was lucky I was in my driveway or else he would have impounded my car. He was all business, wrote me a pricey ticket, and asked if I had questions.

I told him, between tears, that he forgot to ask me a question; he forgot to ask if I was okay. He said I had seemed fine when he saw me before. I told him that I understand that someone can look okay, but mental health is important too and you should always check in with people who have been in an accident. Even if it’s minor, it’s unsettling. He got defensive and said he’s been doing his job for twenty years. In response, I replied that he was doing fine police work, but asking if someone is okay is interpersonal work. He told me to have a good night and left.

I’m extremely respectful of authority, even afraid of getting in trouble; so I don’t know what came over me. Joe said he was shocked that I spoke up this way. I just felt that he should know so that he could ask the next person if they were okay. I understand he needed to ticket me for my mistake, but I thought he could have first talked to me about how I was feeling after this accident.

Afterwards, with the healing powers of a burger coursing through my body, I explained it this way- he works with registration stuff all the time; I forgot and he reminded me. I teach kids how to be compassionate and he forgot so I reminded him. We all forget things sometimes and we can learn from each other.

When things quieted down, I sat in reflection of this interaction, feeling a bit guilty for being so bold and a bit proud for being assertive. I realized I was upset because I felt the officer wasn’t being as compassionate with me as he should have been; I felt I was being treated with coldness when I should have received warmth. I got a reprimand instead of compassion. I felt robbed of the humane reaction; I felt confused that he didn’t make me feel safe. I felt wronged. I felt I wasn’t treated fairly by the officer.

In response, I felt entitled and safe enough to call that authority figure out, and say, that wasn’t nice, I didn’t like it, and do better next time- essentially I felt like I could say you’re not treating me the way I deserve to be treated.

Wiping my tears away, it hit me: what a prime example of my white privilege. Would I have felt comfortable saying that if I was a different race? Would he have reacted the way he had if I was a different race? There are so many people who get treated unfairly and they don’t have the chance or the privilege to talk back; or if they do, it’s not seen as a hysterical girl spewing her anxiety. It’s interpreted and responded to very differently.

Thinking of that, I felt the way I do when I am living only inside the confines of my mind and then my eyes lock with the vastness of the night sky or the endless expanse of ocean: humbled, my sense of egocentric struggle quieted, small but interconnected, insignificant in a way that not dismissive, but balancing.

Perspective sometimes rear ends you; it pushes you out of your dust-caked comfort zone and into a place where an estimated empathy burns on the tip of your tongue, demanding to be cultivated.

I’m sorry I thought I was the most persecuted person in the world for a moment. I forgot even the fact that I didn’t have to think about my skin color when the police car pulled up already put me in a place of privilege. I had an expired registration and I’m upset because the officer prioritized that over comforting me. The expectation that the officer would be gentle and caring towards me is part of my privilege; the disappointment in his not being- privilege. My entitlement to complain- privilege. Him accepting that and walking away- privilege. I’m unscathed- privilege.

Crisp click echoes from the corner’s crooked spine.

click, hush click, hush click, hush.

Curious I come to uncover the catalyst:

Spider’s web hammocked from wall to wall like bleached cotton candy in some stomach.

Inside an insect wriggles, strokes, swims unsuccessfully through the sea of silk, spun soft but strong.

My eyes ping pong from captive to captor; watch, she approaches in graceful strides to silence her supper.

Slowly she swirls the beetle’s body on the spit of her spinneret.

Spider envelops beetle in a sticky tomb, tucking her meal in napkins bone white, polite not to spill.

Remembering my own dinner waiting in the kitchen, I turn to walk away; the ghost of click crawls along the seams of the wallpaper, following close behind.

I do not stop; I do not turn back; I click the suffering closed. I have practiced the art of clicking away.

Between mouthfuls of spaghetti, I click away from waterlogged eyes of refugees barely bobbing on a sea that is thirsty for their sinking.

With butterfingers, I click away from the headline telling of another body stripped of breath because of its blackness.

At the last course, I click closed the story of the people who my people are not treating like true people.

My apathy lives, safe and fat, like a king inside a castle of click-aways.

Click, I hear again, from the bedroom. It’s a last call; it’s a deathbed prayer. Click on the remote to raise the volume.

It’s the only part of me that needs to be lost.

Why do I ache so badly to shrink, shrink, shrink when my cells’ favorite dance is called “The Multiply”?

Enough. This temple of mine is no Elmore City (the town from “Footloose”). We do not repress a reverent rhythm.

Let my body be Emerald City instead; let me be green and glad in growing.

So dance, cells, dance; make more me.

My little slice of universe has only just begun to e x p a n d.

i. Sister, your eyes have sunk. She pushes her full plate                           away in a gesture of digestive defeat.

Through pursed lips hope surrenders, says, “I’m so full; I can’t find hunger inside me anymore.”

Between urgent mouthfuls, (who am I kidding, among mouthfuls) I huff out indignation;

“Lucky! I wish hunger would leave my body; then I could be skinny, like you.”

(Look how lovely her lean bones lie; like paper-smooth pearls under the tan nylon of her skin.)

Sharp cheekbones waver in a wince; a delicate voice, like a snow globe holding back a storm with glass-thin patience, says, “No.”

Sister spews, “It’s not cute. I don’t want this. My body is sick.”

I eat my words and the rest of my fries; the salt always tastes of shame, but this shame it is a much darker shade.  

ii. The garish white lights shine, no scrutinize, in the Marshall’s dressing room for women.

They are powered by the potential energy of self-criticism; here, my mom tries on one-piece bathing suits.

She emerges in a hot-pink stunner and I breathe in the sight of her glow;

Mom turns to the side, checks the profile in the expectant mirror, and mouths to her reflection, “I’m so fat.”

My eyes press their gaze against her abdomen, my first home; all I see are the trappings of her generosity atop muscle built by determination.

The pink suit comes home with us and lives in her closet; it discusses the softness of her skin with her turtlenecks, who swoon when they whisper of her warmth.

iii. “Do you think I need to lose weight?”; the query erupts through my lips like a fish hook in reverse.

“NO!” mom barks; “Sometimes I think you’re too skinny.”

I take it like a grape lollipop, its shape familiar in my mouth; my secret smile seams around it, badly hidden.

I suck on the flavor of that friendly phrase for so long my lips run raw.

It tastes like a puzzle piece folded over on its spine- to give others the convenience of wiggle room.

It tastes like the courtesy, no, the safety, of never being in the way.

iv. On the drive to the beach my sister announces, “I have gained three pounds!” We all cheer; “Congratulations!”

It feels like an opposite day; no, it feels like someone turned an upside down world right side up again.

v. There’s this toxic idea living inside my head: the less space I take up the more I deserve to take up that space.

It’s the only part of me that needs to be lost.

Why do I ache so badly to shrink, shrink, shrink when my cells’ favorite dance is called “The Multiply”?

Enough. This temple of mine is no Elmore City (the town in “Footloose”). We do not repress a reverent rhythm.

Let my body be Emerald City instead; let me be green and glad in growing. 

So dance, cells, dance; make more me.

My little slice of universe has only just begun to e x p a n d.

Below, Indiana farms unfurl flatly, quilting themselves together into one flawless fitted sheet.

A thousand miles away, destination checks its watch; there, my mom is setting out my summer sheets; smoothing them over with her soft, expert touch.

Somewhere above Pennsylvania a fitted sheet falters, buckles, settles into a sea of swells;

the wavelengths of cotton begin to arch their backs, stretching out in the summer sun.

With a cold water shock, the ocean pulls me out of my simile.

It slips into the scene silently, a sure swatch of cerulean smeared across the small of the land’s back.

The boats below bob diminutive like bathtub skiffs, and the waves are wiggles which could be drawn with a watercolor pencil.

But perspective plays tricks; I know Atlantic vastness. I have taken it into my throat and tasted ancient immensity.

Beside me a young girl reaches again for her gum, which spools out like a long violet ribbon.

She doesn’t so much pop it in her mouth as reel it in slow with her teeth; the sugary grape scent washes me in purple nostalgia.

“Look dad,” says my seatmate across the aisle to a man with glasses balanced on his smile lines.

He replies, “That’s Boston.” “Wow”, she breathes, her gum gone silent in her gaping mouth.

Pride blows a bubble in my chest so full that it brushes my rib cage.

My lips grin down at my home state, one earbud dangling, one ear open to the fawning of flatland tourists over my origins.  

Boston is a story I’ve told Midwesterners over and over and over again, in the mythic rhythm of the shore.

I’ve breathed tales of the White Mountains of New Hampshire with elevated adjectives that rise into a pop-up book; My finger thrusts to the summit;“ See, I’ve swapped spit with the sky.”

The watercolor adjectives I’ve used fall short seeing it here now.

Boston is heavy with hard history, whispered buildings, and tall memories.

Soon I will stand on a pier, thrust my thirsty tongue into the air, and catch the tiny crystals of sea salt like snowflakes.

Es mi niño. It’s a no-go. Pero es mi unico niño. Law is law, you should know. Por favor, mi vida es mi niño. So don’t do crime with him in tow. Quiero quedarme con mi hijo. It is past the time to that dream let go. Te amo; te amo; recuerdame, hijo. “Remember Me”; my daughter loves the movie “Coco”.

~

¿Donde esta mi padre? It’s going to be okay. No entiendes; quiero mi padre! You’ll see him some other day. ¿Cuando? ¿Cuando? I do not know. ¿Donde estoy? ¿Que es este lugar? United States; the best by far. ¿Es este lugar seguro? There is nowhere else for you to go.