Mathematics In which I try reducing you to numbers: I. Nothing is complete until I’ve shared it with you. II. Two chocolate bars melting in the back seat. Two teacups from the shelf, too high to reach. III. The scarring on your chest. IV. Studies suggest this could be the hottest year on record since 1880. And as we age, the ground may come to a boil, burning the flight from our feet. Still, I think: how lucky are we to pilot the same combusting star? V. The feather-touch of fingers in dawnlight. Handspeak To the man in my poetry class, I was talking with a friend, reflecting on the pristine pages of her portfolio. I gushed over the unconditional love radiating from her stanzas. Her poetry made me feel safe, warm, and all fuzzy in my Feeling Cabinet(™). I was excitable, talking too fast. All you saw were my hands. You limped up beside us and reached right into our conversation. You curled your white fingers around the slimness in my wrist like the cold, bony cuffs of convention. You held firm, putting an end to the error I didn’t even realize I made: “Okay,” you said, “Now talk.” I talk with my hands. It’s one of those ADHD things I can’t really control about myself, like bouncing my leg, forgetting my own name, or tuning out tired poems about the socially divisive evils of millenial technology. My hands are so constantly in motion, I barely notice their punctuating posture when I speak. My hands are mediums, possessed by festive ghosts who have made it their undying duty in this mortal coil to turn my social life into a one-man puppet show. Only, you thought this show needed one man more. I realise now, in this late hour, you were right. THANK YOU for inserting yourself into my conversation. Before you so boldly jumped in to save the day, I only had ten fingers, an other woman, and my train of ---umm like, thought to keep me on track. THANK YOU for taking on this task when you saw my hands twisting and turning through the tides of turbulence. You’ve been doing this a lot longer than me, which obviously makes you the authority on how a moderately attractive young lady ought to conduct her own body in a precariously prestigious setting such as Glendale Community College. Where would I even be without #OldWhiteMen to educate me? Granting me permission to speak, stifling all the egregrious gestures that make a girl unique? Silly me. Silly millenial with my silly smartphone and silly Handspeak. To the man in my poetry class: Thank you for reminding me. I’m sorry. I forgot. Forgot my place, Forgot my thought. These hands are far too loud to be anything but silly. Aren’t you glad you caught me so you could set me free? What could a silly girl like me ever be without a man around every corner to take her wrists and lead? Sweetie are you a boy or a girl? d’you prefer pink or blue? you don’t want to turn out gay do you? sweetie, what if somebody tries to hurt you? come on, please? can’t you pose pretty for me? can’t you tuck your teeth together and smile, smile, smile so sweet you split at the seams? can’t you spare us the responsibility of “he” and “she?” can’t you pick one and make it easy for me? are you a boy or a girl? what’s with that face? d’you have something to say? what can I do to make you feel safe? and by the way, is it okay if I use your dead name, I mean, your birth name? just for today, just while they can see, just in front of The Family. they’re going to ask, so please forgive me: are you a boy, or a girl? how does it feel to be different? when did you choose to be different? why do you always need to act so different? who did this to you; where did he go? what did he touch to make you different? oh. is that it, sweetie? are you still dangling from a sick man’s string? is he the thing you’re digging out of your head? is he at the end of every wire cut red? then answer me this: are you the girl he hurt or the boy he created? with the best of intention, I ask: sweetie, are you his victim or his invention? are you a boy, or a girl? are you my daughter, or are you dead? are you some kind of confused, or just sick in the head? are you sure this is you? are you doing okay? is there a pill you can take to make this go away? to make you feel better so we can get through the day without confronting this thing? this “gender neutral” thing this “transgender” thing this confusing and delicate and sensitive thing. this thing dripping out of your eyes and between your thighs. sweetie is it asking too much for you to be happy? God gave you that body. is that not reason enough to be happy? © Jamie Lee Heath
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Kimberly WilliamsKimberly has been fortunate to travel to half the Spanish-speaking countries in the world by the time she was forty. As a traveler into different cultures, she has learned to listen ask questions, and seek points of connections. This page is meant to offer different points of connections between writers, words, ideas, languages, and imaginations. Thank you for visiting. Archives
October 2020
|