5.25.22 & 5.31.22 & 6.7.22, 6.8.22, 6.9.22

Protecting An Uncaged Animal

I want to go to support and protect you. 

She holds me in her arms as she breathes these words into the morning air clinging to our skin. There is a chill wrapped around us, kept at bay only by the warmth she exudes. She smells of the space between a field and a forest, scents of nature and grass and trees. She does not see my face as she speaks these words. Does not see the crease of my brows, the burden of enduring alone softened by a tender smile curling the corners of my lips. Does she know what saying this does to me? Does she know how it wraps up my fears and drags them away from my heart for a while, how it coils gentle vines around my ribcage and urges blossoms to bloom where they never grew before? Does she know how it makes me wish for us to stay forever in this moment, to never leave the arms she wraps me in, to never again taste the cold breeze of reality? Does she know how special it makes me feel to hear those words?

That I am worthy of someone’s protection? 

I nod against her chest, my fingers pressed against her back. She tells me how she will attend for me. How she will dress the part, wrap herself in wedding attire and walk hand-in-hand with me through those churchly gates to support me in my attempt to celebrate my little brother’s marriage ceremony. Time and again I have warned her, told her how the event will tire me, expressed concern about the treatment she may receive from extended blood relatives. The cult will be there, I murmur. Them and their leader, their elders, their attendees. There will be so many of them, and eyes will be on us. Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure?

Are you sure I am truly worthy of your protection?

Her arms squeeze me yet again. This time dusk has fallen, and we sit on her couch, hours after meeting my parents. All day, tormented emotions built a wave I kept at bay. A building tsunami I built a fragile wall against with alcohol and chipper conversation, until the structure, shoddily built in a hurried manner, came crashing down. It swept away my want for food. It grabbed my ankles and pulled me into melancholy. I inhaled water – I inhaled memories. 

I hear nothing but the words They uttered as a child.

Gay. Possessed. Sin.

I see nothing but the way they looked at me when I held my crush’s hand.

They’re going to think you’re gay – they’re whispering about you. 

The vitriol, the embarrassment, the hatred in their tones. 

There’s something sick about the way they live – perverted. Pedophilic. 

I am a child in a bedroom with a door that does not lock. I am wrapped around the girl I like, willing that They do not enter unannounced. 

And then I am an adult again, a full-grown woman, dragged into my girlfriend’s lap and held against her chest with a tender pressure that reminds me where I am. 

Today is Friday. I am 28. I do not live with my parents. 

I repeat the grounding until I have words to use. And as I spill them, tell her of the fear that struck me on this day, the discomfort of sharing her presence with those that forced me into the closet, explained the hurt of how well They treated her compared to Their lack of desire to grow and change and be better for me. I tell her that the way They sat around us made me itchy, appeared to me – for the briefest of moments – a manner of trapping me, of cornering me. She said she saw. She said it made her feel protective. 

I am worthy of your protection? 

I stand upon fir floors, my hands resting against the coffee shop’s counter. Mother appears by my side, she watches and waits and stares until I end my conversation to look at her. She tells me how hard it was to see me not address her mother, the woman who said queer people deserve to die. She asks if not just saying hi is appropriate. She tells me the woman who informed me with a snicker and a laugh that I looked akin to a gorilla for having body hair, that the woman who chose a pedophile over her own children and grandchildren – that this woman of cruelty and violence now cried in the bathroom because I did not offer a hello. I am the problem. I am the different one, the other. 

I am not worthy of mother’s protection.

A polished wood table digs into my thighs as I sit upon it, tense. The house smells of cinnamon and vanilla and burning wood. Crackles of fire in the stove signal where the waves of heat originate from. Dim lights illuminate the wide room. My fingers curl around my aging phone. With exasperation, and a dash of panic, I tell Them that this boy will not take no for an answer. I tell Them how many times I’ve said it, how many times I’ve refused to date him. He insists. He keeps pushing boundaries. He will not leave me alone. 

Mother laughs. Father says a good man pursues what he wants. 

I express discomfort. Father says persistence is a worthy trait in a man. I stare at him. I stare at my mother. They sit down to watch their show and I am left to deal with seeing this dogged boy in class the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that.

I am not worthy of father’s protection. 

The aroma of Chinese cuisine wafts through the restaurant’s walls, scented with sesame and soy sauce. I sit with my hands on the table, a parent on either side of me within the circular booth. There is no escape. There is no fleeing from what is about to happen.

They tell me the high school called. Sister Linda told Them about the club I attended, the one where you can find a safe place to discuss your gender, your sexuality. I stare. I can feel the heart in me start to crack, to shrivel, to die. The club leader was my homeroom teacher. She told me I would be safe. She told me no one would know I was there. She told me what we discussed here would be private. I trusted her.

I am not worthy of my teacher’s protection.

Auditorium seats begin to make me ache, and I adjust in an attempt to relieve the pain. On stage, a pastor paces before the microphone, dressed in khakis and a button-up. He gestures across the crowd. He tells the women to cover up. He tells us the men cannot help themselves. He tells us it is our responsibility to keep everyone’s minds pure.

If we do not, we are equally at fault for what might happen next. For the looks. The desire. The lust. A man should not harm us, no, but can we truly blame him when we dress the way we do?

I am not worthy of my church’s protection.

Hawthorne Bridge groans beneath the weight of passing cars. A gust of wind catches the tank top I wear, tugs at it, suggests I stumble closer to the edge, to the railing, to the water far below. I grip the metal, glance through the slats of the pedestrian crossing and see boats underneath. I peer at the rest of the P.E. class ahead of me. I am near the back. I could easily slow. Fall to the end of the line. I could easily mount the wall and throw myself over the edge and never come back up for breath again. Part of me longs to do it.

I am not worthy of my own mind’s protection.

A light alcoholic buzz, paired with nighttime exhaustion and the anxiety of being around new people keeps me upright in the trunk of my car. I’ve been dating her for a little while now. And I have certainly never been to a rave before. She wandered off for the moment, while I gathered the blankets and pillows, put down the seats, made up a bed as best I could. I run my hand across the sheets and contemplate the outside chill. Will this be enough? Will we make it through without getting too cold? 

The light in the trunk blinds me as a voice approaches from the darkness. Feminine. It looks cozy in there with me. The speaker is not my girlfriend. 

A masculine voice joins hers, cooes over how cute our little bed seems to be. I offer a smile into the shadows, unable to make out their shapes, unable to place their voices. And before I can do much else, they step into the light, and launch themselves onto the sheets next to me. 

I recognize the two now that their faces are clear. They spent the entire night fetishizing me and my love. They made my girlfriend’s jaw tight, made her eyes hold the glint of murder in them. They made us both tense in our seats and offer responses through gritted teeth. 

And now they sit inches from me, with wide grins and hands resting too close for comfort. 

I plaster a half-hearted smile to my own features. I do not know what to say. How to respond. I am baffled by my own slow reaction, but I am tongue-tied. I do not wish to cause a scene. I do not wish to react more intensely than I ought to. And I do not know how to react to two unwelcomed people climbing into my car. 

Gravel crunches. The woman beside me smells like berries. The man smells like ignorance. It is a dull scent. 

A striking beauty turns the corner and steps into the car’s illuminating glow. She sees me, she sees the two next to me. The woman greets her. My girlfriend tells them to get out. 

The man asks what she’ll do if he doesn’t. She isn’t having it. She tells him to move. He asks her again. She starts to climb in as the woman exits the truck. 

Nothing. Get out. 

She moves herself to sit next to me, and I shift to the side. Her body is situated between me and the man. Protective. The man huffs and exits. She lies down next to me and exhales heavily. I look at her, the nerves starting to fade.

I am worthy of your protection? 

I did not invite her to the wedding. I mention it in passing as something I am worried about when talking to her one evening. She says she’ll come with me. She says she’s not going to rub elbows with people who do not approve of us – she’s going to support and protect me. 

I am worthy? 

I lay in her embrace. I can hear her slow and steady breath as the night comes to a close. I can feel her warmth and her kisses against my naked shoulder. The mattress curves, urges us closer to one another. The shared blanket acts as a captor of heat, keeping us swaddled and snug. I close my eyes and find myself able to calm my racing mind, to relax the muscles tense from the day’s activities. I listen as sleep begins to waltz away with her, invite her into a different land. I feel at ease. I feel safe.

I feel worthy.