Time-Out

Published in Tatum Mann’s collaborative zine Hibernation.

The transition of graduating college made me so dizzy I lost my appetite. This new symptom was concerning for me- I was always told I was a girl who wasn’t afraid to eat. My three brothers taught me I must devour what I want, or it will be taken by someone else.

The end of a friendship, the beginning of a new medication, all of the planning. My emotional energy was depleted. I needed boundaries. I needed to slow down. It was as if I was having a massive temper tantrum, and my parents put me in time-out before my kicks and screams could wreck my life any further.

I am not naive enough to think a global pandemic arrived because I needed a break, but that’s what a mind does in survival mode: it rationalizes. Like the first five minutes of time-out, the first day in quarantine lasted a lifetime. Eventually, though, I found calm. I relinquished the idea my parents would crack open the door, sit on the edge of the bed, and let me out early, knowing I learned my lesson. 

I actually began to welcome the stay at home orders. My life shrank, and the confinement steadied my feet to earth. Layers of responsibilities: work, school, social commitments, were shed. I felt lighter. I was left with nothing but my freshly polished apartment, a needle and thread, and the wide open two weeks ahead. Two weeks- I reckoned with myself. The length of a luxurious international vacation. But instead of exploring new places, I sought to rediscover a destination I hadn’t reached in years: a state of rest. 

I did my time. On week three, I stretched my arms and met resistance. My home, once a warm cardigan became a straight jacket overnight. I walked around the house only to hear the creak of my weight against the bruised wood. Where were my parents? I searched in the hope of making amends so I could return to normalcy. But they were nowhere to be found, they had abandoned me completely. My two week time-out became a life sentence without a trial. So did everyone else’s. We were all in solitary confinement, not knowing the next time we’d be able to slap hands, kiss cheeks, or be closer than 6 feet apart. Our time-out was, is, eternal.

Autoportrait

Inspired by AUTOPORTRAIT II (SHATTER) by Tatum Mann, an imitation of Édouard Levée’s “Autoportrait.”

I am equally obsessive and noncommittal. I often research celebrities until it feels like they’re my old friends. I am proud to remember a time without smart phones. If I had to wear the same outfit everyday, it would be overalls, a turtle neck, & dangly earrings. I hope to regularly read the local newspaper next year. I hope I am a good nurse. I either journal everyday, or not at all for months. I audibly “hm” when I listen closely to a story. My house was built right after the Civil War, and I fantasize it was part of the underground railroad. I fear the day it is sold away. I say Bent Creek Farm is mine though it is not. I love public transportation. I am not always sure of things. I was sure of Pitt, and I am sure of Chicago. I was told the dimple on my right cheek appeared after I fell out of a tree and landed on my face. It is my favorite physical feature. I think I’m becoming more introverted as I age. I can’t remember a day without my best friend or my mom, and for that I am extremely lucky. Pretzels are the most comforting snack. I enjoy public speaking. I love attention. My favorite intoxications are cold IPAs or first kisses. Sometimes my hearing is horrible, or possibly just selective. I started going to therapy after my parents separated, and I still see the same woman. Sundays are cherished. I got my first tattoo at age 22. My four older siblings formed my childhood. Biting my nails has never been an issue for me, though sometimes I pretend to do it to look cool. I am impatient. My great grandfather owned a record shop in manhattan, until it went bankrupt from the great depression. I prefer my hair lighter, though never to the point of being described “blonde”. I wish the end of college was different. I have been told I am mature for my age. I am unfocused. I conform. I rebel. I contradict myself.

White people can do better

I cry

Knowing my ancestor’s tears bred the soil of the world we live in

I shout

Knowing my voice has had the privilege to be heard 

I pray

Knowing it is not enough

I listen

Knowing I will never fully understand

I donate

Knowing there is more action to be done

I speak

Knowing silence is oppression 

I try

Knowing I am not perfect

I share

Knowing it is not my personal narrative

I fear

Knowing my life is not at stake due to the color of my skin

I persist

Knowing real change takes time 

I tire

Knowing my frustrations do not compare to people of colors’

I hope

Knowing white people can do better

Miscellaneous Quarantine Haikus

rain out the window

tv shining its warnings 

will this ever end?

what was life before?

unaware, blissful touching

i try to recall 

is today friday?

or thursday or saturday?

or is it sunday? 

my anxiety

seems appropriate yet still

won’t fix anything

helping looks weird now

best done indoors, immobile 

with clean patient hands 

where are the fruits of

our lack of labor and watchful

waiting? hope feels far 

indescribable

grief in every direction

endless list of loss

with safety and health

i know i’m a lucky one

i remind myself 

what would barack do? 

thankful for healthcare workers

and leaders with brains

dye or cut my hair?

new identities to match 

all of the changes 

facetime zoom or skype

netflix hulu or cable 

so many options! 

my plans have vanished 

an intangible future 

different normals 

i pray distance brings 

us closer to ourselves than

we have ever been

Magic Music

Before apple music and spotify

Before screens

There was a rectangular cube

It was white and skinny

With only five buttons

Of my 500 songs

I had no control which would erupt

when I pressed play

So I believed it was magic

I believed whatever song entered my ears

Was a message just for me 

People are sense makers.

If I was feeling particularly emotional

I would ask the cube a question

Like a magic 8 ball

The answer was always in the music.

Reblooming

I plucked each petal of my being

Until all that was left was a fuzzy prickly stem

And a foundation rooted in dirt and worms

Hoping that then,

I would be acceptable 

I removed the very things 

That made me beautiful

Always landing on “he loves me not”

So I sprouted again,

I nurtured myself with water and sunlight

And began to blossom 

What grew back was not the same flower as before 

It was a larger and more resilient efflorescence 

And now I know I’d rather

Be unloved in full bloom

Then loved 

Stripped down

Let her decide what she wears

My dad told me to dress modestly

As if the body I inhabit is a sin

I never heard him tell my brothers that

He argued that this body isn’t mines, it’s Gods

And that I’d be attracting the wrong attention

He told me about St. Cecilia

who covered her face with dirt and mud because she was so beautiful

How heroic and admirable

Does the way I dress tell the world something about me?

Perhaps

Does the way I dress tell the world “I am a slut?”

No

Clothes don’t say those words.

So what does the way I dress say?

Does it say I’m feminine or masculine?

Rich or Poor?

Does that matter?

We choose what we put on our bodies every day.

If others can pass judgements on our outfit, they must be able to pass judgments on what we didn’t decide to put on that day

Acne, cellulite, the extra fat on my belly and thighs

If a little girl wore the tank top I wear to the bar

It wouldn’t look the same

Maybe clothes aren’t the problem

It’s the bodies underneath.

It’s funny how a father tells his daughters to cover their bodies.

Yet praise from a man about her body is intoxicating

My body is a temple.

And temples are places of worship.

Covering her body is like hiding a secret

The more you hide it, the more power it has over you

Why give her appearance so much power

When her soul & bravery & love is what really makes her powerful.

My dad told me to thank God for how blessed I am to be beautiful.

It’s okay if I’m pretty, but I can’t be sexy.

My dad told me that dressing modestly was respectful to myself and others.

I’ve never tried to hide or change something I respect

In this body that I’m borrowing for this lifetime

I experience every sensation from pleasure to pain

I feel the twists and tugs in my lower abdomen once a month

I make decisions about it

I decide what I feed it

Which careful potions I put on my skin each morning and night

But others get to decide what’s “appropriate” for me to wear?

And what pills I can or can’t take every day?

Why can’t I also decide what clothes I wear

Why can’t people listen to my words instead of listening to the way I look?

Will you tell her that those with smaller bodies will receive a higher status?

Like having a smaller body is an accomplishment

And why is that so?

So much of the way we look is out of our control.

Let me control what I can.

Let her decide what she wears.

Tell her she owns her body.

Like you own a car.

The car is helpful. It’s valuable. But it’s not the most the most important part of life.

All cars look different.

That doesn’t mean one is better than another.

You can put whatever stickers or seat coverings you want on it.

The car will break down sometimes.

It will get scratches and rust

But as long as it’s still running

It works perfectly fine.