There was a time in my life when I was wholly preoccupied with people thinking I was “nice.” Though I proudly espoused the old adage that “nice girls rarely make history”, I was fairly consumed with co-workers, friends, lovers, strangers not finding me to be an asshole while I made history. Or you know, lived.
Monday, November 19, 2012
At my core, I am a tactician. I am shrewd. I can, if I choose, deftly manipulate circumstances. I make calculated plans and I execute them. My plans are flawless, and my maneuvering around and in between the places that inevitably fall apart is astounding. If I were not me, I would be invariably impressed with my ability to project and plot, with the way I play chess on a red and black board.
If I were not me, I would demand you king me.
Monday, November 12, 2012
There’s something interesting that happens when everything is over. When you are no longer a unit, a We. When you are no longer lovers that spent hours exploring the expanse of each other’s skin, laying claim to caverns and secret plains only you had discovered. When there is no longer a smile in your heart at a fleeting thought of them. When the warm timbre of your voice that rang in a pitch reserved solely for them no longer rings true in your ears.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
I miss my grandmother the most when I’m sick.
For years as a child her house is where I would convalesce when I was too sick to go to school. I would usually wake up in the morning pretending to be fine in an effort to still go to school (a combination of actually enjoying school and, moreover, the beginning of a lifelong pattern of trying not to be a burden) and my mother would take a brief moment to press her cool cheek to my fevered forehead before declaring, “You’re going to your grandmother’s today.”
If ever there was a good reason to miss school, it was to spend it with her. I’d generally arrive to find her in the kitchen, making me cheese toast and hard boiled eggs and ordering me to lay down under the heavy blanket she’d laid out on the couch while she finished. My mom would try futilely to explain to her what was ailing me and she would always shush her the same way; “That child can talk,” she’d say. “And I done raised plenty of children that I don’t need one I birthed telling me ‘bout taking care of one.”
And that was that.