Body’s strewn about like carnival waste. Colorful misery. It delighted me. Each trip to the library I snuck into the adult section and devoured pages of corpses. My dad was busy reading books on Eastern Religions. My mom was in the Children’s section with my sister and brother. This was my time, my sweet nectar. I got away with it for about a month. Eventually, my dad stumbled upon my skeletal silhouette curled in a vinyl chair beneath a massive volume of Renaissance Art. I felt like I had been caught with my sister’s hair in my hands. I was so ashamed. That’s when I fell in love with Ghandi.
Instead of signing me up for therapy (after all I was only 10) my dad took me to the video section and showed me three movies, Ghandi, Gorrilla’s in the Mist, and Romero. He knew why I was captivated by the bloody pages. He knew they depicted the First Crusades. He knew my affinity for justice. After all, my over developed superego was his fault. He had taken me along to deliver communion to Hospice patients and shut-ins. I remember; a sliver of speckled sunlight crafted long shadows from the wrinkles of mouths that wanted to smile. Mouths that hadn't spoken in weeks. Forgotten by all but my dad, me and the priest that lived among them. Death isn't contagious. People seem to think it is, but it isn't. I was going give a voice to the voiceless! After practically wearing out the video cassettes of each film I made up my mind. I was going to be a revolutionary when I grew up! Then I hit puberty. Distractions derailed my aspirations.
Boys were of little interest to me because I was of little interest to them. My figure resembled Olive Oyl’s. Few other kids were willing to spar with me on issues concerning life, it’s meaning, and our place in the world. It was easier for them to avoid contact with me altogether. My fulfillment came when my dad asked me a question from the Tao and forced me to defend my answer. Now that was fun. However, I found this wasn't an effective defense mechanism. "Mean Girls" didn't respond the way I wanted them too when I asked, "Can God make a rock heavier than he can lift? If so can he lift it?" Yep. That one didn't work out too well. I obviously had to have a coping mechanism. Actually, I needed two. Yep, it was that bad. My coping mechanism was writing. My distraction was my obsession with running. When I ran I was at peace. I was so busy running to my happy place that I forgot about the whole revolutionary thing. Survival mode. It was hard enough to fight acne, let alone a cause of any kind. Thankfully I was off to college before I knew it.
My anguish paid it's debt. I was actually good at my two comforts. It was ironic I had any athletic ability at all. Of all athletic pursuits running was the one that made the most sense. After all, Buddist monks use running as a way to transcend the physical world. Something I had to master to make it through 12 torturous years of public education. I went to college on both a Creative Performing Arts scholarship and an Athletic scholarship. The Dean of the Creative Writing program said, “I wouldn’t have figured you for an athlete. Most jocks don’t think much.” I was justifiablly offended, but from my experiences I couldn't disagree. Although college was a better fit for me, I clung to a pendulum swinging between the world of the pen and the world of Track. I'd find that Alcohol helped ease those awkward situations quite a bit. For the first time ever, I didn’t know me. Instead of merging myselves, I divided them. Wearing each like a costume.
October 1998 I rode up late to the Conference Cross Country meet because I had been selected by Students of Fine Art to read at the fall Art Opening. Yet no one at the opening knew why I had to duck out early, and my Teammates had no idea why I was late. A rushed trip back to the dorm to change ensured that! I have to admitt it felt a little wonder womanish. I had an alter ego. The poem I read is below. My teammates wouldn't have understood what I was talking about. If they knew I had written this, I'd never lived it down. They imagined poetry readings as being people in black turtlenecks snaping and banging on bongos. And Ohmigod it says, "tits" and "cocks"! *GASP*
1
On sophocated
nights when plump
mosquitos flirted with the
florescent bulbs of porch lights, burning like
the chests of forgotten wives sizzling
in darkness beyond those front
doors we
walked.
Our uneven steps filling
the silence with frenzied
percussion. Our sore
tits pushing against our
shirts. Forced
womanhood
swelling under our tender
skin. we talked under the
humming of crickets about
how our lives would
unravel perfectly like
bubbletape & our
giggles jingled in
the trees.
2
The last time I saw you we
sat on your
parents splintered
porch swing & served
breathless confessions of
bruises and hard cocks to
the chorus of night things singing indigo
tunes in your
blooming yard. Your hand licked my
breast.
I ran.
protected by the beat of
my swift steps, to my door where
the porch light burned for
me. Trespasser.
3
But, now confessions swell
in my eyes. There is
no porch swing
no chorus begging
to hear more.
I sit motionless watching
stars bloom. Letting
the burning in my chest consume
me.
With my Teammates and I never talked about my ideas, my thoughts, or my insights. I saved those for my journals, for creative writing class, literary analysis. With my Writing friends, I never shared that I was an athlete. Yet when I was alone, running, myselves melded and language crashed through me.
By now I had completely lost all memory of my love affair with Ghandi, Jane Goodall, and Monsignor Romero. They are dusty inside me next to the Pythagorean Theorem. I had school records to break, books to read, a major to declare. English Education. There’s a radical profession. A High School English teacher. Something inside of me had to scream, “I want to be a Revolutionary” When I made that commitment. I did it. It made sense. There’s a decent retirement, and vacation package. I like English, I like kids. If I ever had kids I’d have their schedule. So safe, so not me. I should’ve asked myself, “What would Ghandi do?” But, I had plans.
Then He happened. Casey. Boys had begun to like me. Most of them liked the idea of me more than they like me. They just didn’t know it. I avoided them mostly. I wasn’t in the entertainment business, they found me to be quite entertaining in a funny girl sorta way. It wasn’t fun having fun for both people on the date. I was defensive to say the least. I had had one boy friend in my 19 years and that was plenty for me. He was like the others, in love with the idea of me. He left me feeling like a peacock in a room of turkeys. A spectacular ideal of a person, and not a person. I had resigned to the fact that I’d rather be alone than misunderstood. Casey though, was like me.
An artist and an athlete. Deep, complicated, and sensitive. I was complete in love with him. He made me a better person, accepted all of myselves and helped me meld them together. He still leaves me wordless, a feat in itself. I cannot put into words how he made (or makes) me feel. It is good. The only guy I’d ever want to grow old with.
I was on track to break records, earn respect, Professors were asking me to try to get published. I had plans. Marriage was now one of them. Then my clothes shrank, I got slower despite increased efforts, I was always tired.
Cavernous spots populated the ceiling of the team doctors office like tiny little villages. I was sure I was anemic. It fit every symptom. I was occupying my mind wondering what the little people in the tiny villages were doing. Was there a milk man, a mail man? Would they look like weeble people? The doctor came in with a face so pale, and strained I thought for sure I had cancer. “You’re not anemic” Wheew! “You’re pregnant.” His shoulder’s slumped as he said it, as if he was ashamed for me. Good thing too because I was numb. I didn’t know it then but I was grieving. Slowly I would turn to ash, as this fetus stole away my life. I wanted to start over. He was lying. “How’s the father going to take this” The father? What am I a whore now, me who has had two boyfriends in my life? “uh, uh... He’ll be thrilled” I had to force each word out. Casey wanted nothing more of life than to be a father. Why can’t he be the pregnant one then?
I spent the drive back to my dorm squinting through my tears. I didn’t want to tell Casey because I didn’t want to see him celebrate. This fucker just ruined all of my plans. When I told him he picked me up and spun me around with glee. For a moment I was happy too. Mom said, “Well, Shit what about your running?” Dad said, “You’ll be a great mom.” Coach said, “Can you run this weekend? You can keep your scholarship. If you want to continue competing after the baby let me know. After this season just take it easy and decide what you want to do.” I hated this baby. The next week I’d find out I was 11 weeks already. At 12 weeks I would run my last meet of the year, and get second (to Ann Alyanak). Casey got to keep competing. He got to finish his Senior season unblemished. I remembered. I wanted to be a revolutionary. It’s just that I thought I’d be revolting against something other than my own body.
Everyday I ran, logging as many miles as my tired, burning legs could handle. It was my way of keeping a patch of me green. A sacrament the fetus couldn’t steal away from me. Casey’s little life burning in my belly turning everything to ash, but that one green patch.
5/00
You may rule this
Body with a fetal fist
Ordering changes
Without
Authorization
But this one
minute is mine.
Like that small
Space, hidden
from slum
lords, tenants decorate
to their taste sneaking
sideways glances.
This is my space
Decorated with
Desperate muscles
Fighting atrophy
With blanks and
Dull blades
But still fighting
Fighting you gives this mind
A surreal sense
Of independence
From the body you
Seized without
Warning.
I moved out of my dorm and into a house Casey’s parents bought for us to live in until we were done with school. When he was born he was beautiful. He was perfect, and I still hated him. Casey raised Cooper for 6 months before I realized I wasn’t there. 6 months I loathed them both with my silence and my absences. Two beautiful boys who loved me. I was a ghost to them. At night I’d hear them both crying and roll over to go back to sleep. I wonder now if Casey wanted to vomit when the paper released the article on my "miraculous come-back"? The photo of me smiling with a baby Cooper on my shoulders. Radiant mother. Beautiful boy. No one knew. Casey kept good secrets. I spent my days sleeping and working out. I was alone. Everyone avoided confronting my illness. Depression isn't contagious. People think it is, but it isn't. Casey slept nights in Cooper’s room on the futon his uncle had given us. They were in love. It made me sick.
Then it was over, like a rain that falls and rises up again leaving things wet for days.
Cooper at 9 months. Outdoor Conference.I realized that Casey’s devotion to me was outstanding. He was an amazing father. He was 23, what 23 year old guy is a good father? Not to mention the amount of space he gave me, and without judging me. I fell madly in love with my beautiful son. I overcame my demonself, one I hadn't known exsisted. I finished my degree. I got my school records, conference championships etcetera. I didn’t let me, or Cooper, or anyone stop me. I had won my revolution. There was no celebration to mark the victory, no indication the war was over. I must've still been numb because I kept on fighting as if in my sleep. This singular event made each decision that followed. Yet, I denied its significance until now.
In a sense my voice was murdered by my first pregnancy. I was a livelier version of the wrinkled mouths I so wanted to fight for. It is why I was a working mom and Casey was a stay at home dad. It is why I’ve never gone to grad school. It is why I am so consumed with reaching my potential as a runner. It narrowed my vision of my life, and the life I'd want for my family. I was meandering about myself looking for my voice. I was looking for it in my past selves, Selves that were incomplete to begin with. Stationary, with the illusion of motion. Firing at invisible targets.
But isn’t there more? Possibly not. Maybe there is less. Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe I just need to stop fighting a stale battle, and start recoginzing myself. Now, perhaps, I can feel free to pursue whatever the hell I want to pursue. I still hear that little girl. She still wants to give a voice to the voiceless. I don't know what I'm going to do with her. I'm pretty indulgent.
They are beautiful aren't they.All of us who are fighting to overcome our circumstances are revolutionaries, fighting our own tiny revolutions. If we fail to move on once our rebellious act plays out we risk becoming a causality in our own uprising. Oh yeah, and Cooper is a revolutionary in his own right. He argued evolution with his kindergarten teacher at his Catholic School. “Birds came from Dinosaurs!” That's my boy!
