a word we take for granted, bridge between a and b, here and there, our history of words, words on paper, the belief that hereafter matters
Because you were there
Even when I did not hear your voice I took for granted
You were out there somewhere
Waiting for, fighting for,
That elusive
Happily ever after
When I met Tara she was prettier than me, younger than me, and in most ways far more disenfranchised than me. In fact there was just one area of our briefly conjoined Venn diagram connectedness where the power was ostensibly hers and definitely not mine: she was the real mom to a baby I loved very much. In that (I had been told by at least 2 lawyers) she had the legal edge. She should have been able to designate a capable guardian for her children. The law favored the biological mother. And at that time, at the end of 1998, it gave no credence to the foster mother.
A fact I can accept now, after most of the unbearable losing of Tara’s beautiful child has scarred over.
What I can’t accept is losing Tara
because…
pretend you are a stranger and I am one of those uneven folk you meet at a coffee shop almost from the moment you sit down I have begun to tell this unraveling story about children left alone in a locked room for hours and a fire and a crooked judge, a baby filled with light and her mother, a figure unfairly edited out of all the relevant fairy tales who then ends up dying, not “poison apple” but poison nonetheless and when they come for her with all the accoutrements of salvation there is none left for her, no magic, no fairy godmother, no antidote as the EMTs say oh, it’s (only) Badamo…which is why I, this intrusive stranger, ramble on and on in the coffee shop jamming words into the dam of unrequited
Grief
First, pick my chasuble with care: war paint, cowgirl boots, stretched-out pale-pink tutu from the racks upon racks at the resale store, brand-new for the girls who did not need them anymore, all donated to science or the graveyard where I go to pace and splutter out some fractured litany about a beat-up pickup truck, iterations of a lost father, lawn furniture strewn above the tree line, the same forgotten first name of both Sikorsky and Stravinsky, and this jittery alter-ego who swings wild, shouts loud, raises hell as though bones and memory and words could be as easily strung together as that-to breath life into the dead as they fit their joints and hinges back together, back to life, the way an ordinary man rises from his bed, rubs his eyes, dons his pants and his shirt, walks out into
Light
at dusk I take the bits of fortune cookies, crumbs still scattered across the messy kitchen table and…write to you, about the disposable styrofoam containers, syrupy orange sauce, tendency I have to eat my way through grief (of losing you) when…I admit you…do not need me, better that way, my trenchant sentenceless phrasing, my desert-wandering inertia, my messy house and muted grief all pressed into this vanilla-y cookie folded around words written by a stranger somewhere, perhaps one day there will be an algorithm for these things equal parts admonition and prophecy. Oh, prophecy, the old clothes of mortality, cast-off, superfluous from the beginning to
the children of heaven.
trace my hand along the delicate serrated line where the ridge meets sky, all white above and below the brown demarcation line where mountain ends and sky begins, a litany of snow falling along the narrow path, the minuscule climbers, too small for naked eye, trudging through the storm, coats clutched to chests, never for a moment aware that the scene, the ridge, the world entire is just a teacup in the palm of the hand, held aloft, so fragile, prone to all sorts of risings and fallings, bone China, fragile to the touch
If you asked me how I knew it was you I would touch your face and say aardvarks!! Anteaters!! Warthogs!! Your humor as unmistakable as your wit, odd they all refuse to see you, you in the over-sized retro flippers, ducky float ring and wild Hawaiian print crashing the party, the holiday, the cozy churchy potluck making almost everyone supremely uncomfortable. Everyone except the children who delight in your flamboyant honesty, your failure to adhere in any way to our sheepy ways, shorn and alone
You hand off the flowery shirt, the float, the flippers (none of which you ever needed)
seamless garment to sunblind guards
World go dark, pain and love
Set free
you float for a time in the “even so,” casually, miraculously, inexorably growing limbs and features and organs, that all-important beating heart. No one tells you meanwhile in “Houston…we have a problem” or that the problem is something you cannot (would not)
unmake you
/girlness /not boyness, your binary /identification /of /gender
Will be enough to terminate the mission
… when all along you have done your best in the beautiful floating weeks of the “even so”
You matchless irreplaceable girl-in-the-now, girl-for-a-moment
Until mission control
Aborts, aborts
Letting you
tiny dancer, rocket girl
Go.
A country, just like a single old-left-foot-house-slipper can be metonymous. This-for that, quid-pro-quo, how-did-I-ever-lose-you?-metonymous. Hit me at 2 am, sharp intake of breath too hard to connect it all with proper punctuation metonymous. I once accidentally cut your hand in a car window metonymous. When I met you I thought you were the crazy one metonymous. Lost in Pittsburgh a million years ago metonymous. With you the reason for years of silence had to be different metonymous.
The countries I have lost all have proper names, stable addresses, no missing slippers. Us-and-them, before-and-after countries cheerfully conventional, intentionally respectful, naturally leery of the once-familiar mendicant whose metonymic wholes have been for good or ill
Irrevocably set free.
orgin: Old French, ieu parti (evenly) divided game
ME- iuparti
The term was originally used in chess or other games to denote a problem, or position in which the chances of winning or losing were evenly balanced, hence-
“A dangerous situation”
From “jeu”-a game which derived from Latin “jest” see “joke” and “divide”
Taboos
200. What common crime against children is universally under-reported?
400. What is the FBI definition for rape?
600. What is Planned Parenthood’s policy on rape and incest victims?
800. What constitutes “consent?”
1000. What happens to fetal remains in rape and incest situations?
Famous Rape Survivors
200. Who is Jane Fonda?
400. Who is Oprah Winfrey?
600. Who is Tim Roth?
800. Who is Queen Latifa?
1000. Who is Lady Gaga?
Rape Victims in History
200. Who was Joan of Arc?
400. Who was Elizabeth I?
600. Who was Virginia Woolf?
800. Who was Lawrence of Arabia?
1000. Who is Maya Angelou?
Feminism and abortion
200. What country has the highest number of gender-selective abortions?
400. What cultural biases enable gender-selective abortion?
600. What medical device is used to determine the gender of fetuses?
800. When is the gender of an unborn child visible?
1000. What are some common social problems associated with sex-selective abortion?
Current Events
200. What famous NYC newspaper reported on a 10 year old incest victim in India?
400. What famous British news agency reported on an Indian rape victim seeking a late-term abortion?
600. What is the common redress for incest survivors in India?
800. What state did the 10 year old incest and rape survivor hail from in northern India?
1000. What survivor counseling, services, and support can a 10 year old Indian rape victim expect from local and national governments?
Final Jeopardy
What are common stereotypes, misconceptions, and prejudices perpetuated in general which hinder the prosecution of sexual predators and marginalize their victims?
Carrying Light 