I had my first kiss with a freckled red-haired boy from my
second grade class
who probably weighed 40 pounds and who said nothing nice to
me
in the box-tight dark under his bed
when his face was so close that
I couldn’t move my chin without touching him,
and all my air tasted
used.
“Kiss me or I’ll drop it on you,”
meaning the bed,
whose slats creaked above his skinny shoulders
as he pushed them up,
just enough to prove that he could lift it,
just enough for me to catch my breath
and see the line of light beneath the bedskirt.
That didn’t feel right.
That wasn’t right,
was it?
[He’s pulling
pigtails.
Oh my god how
cute.
He wants to be
your boyfriend.]
It was nothing.
Nothing to think about.
Nothing to tell.
I shut my mouth. I left
the bed behind,
and when I heard the slats creak
in my head
I’d snarl over my shoulder at
the stupid girl
who thought the bed could fall
the pansy ass
who didn’t bust his nose
the liar,
never petrified
like [real threats] would have
done,
just sick,
like anesthetic,
or like wrong.
Now,
all grown and knowing better,
I still hesitate to write this
[attention whore]
to draw the lines
[you’re overreaching]
connect the dots between
[feminist bullshit]
·
the dark under the bed
and
·
the hazy bathroom tiles
·
the 40-pound ton
and
·
the knots at my wrists
·
the line of light
and
·
the stripe of dust
beneath the
cabinet door
Stupid.
This is what happens when you
play games.
Coward.
You never should have let it get
this far.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
[I’m not saying she’s asking for
it, but ...
Once boys get going, they can’t
stop.
Charges like that could ruin his
life.]
It was a misunderstanding.
My voice is tired
from yelling
at
the stupid lying bitch
inside that memory.
There’s no one else to yell at.
Memories like this,
they’re all about what isn’t there.
The boys have no faces.
They have hands,
and weight,
and spit.
They have minutes,
and if I wait them out
their minutes will be finished
and mine can start again.
My oldest daughter is
in second grade this year.
I haven’t taught her
to
be still
or
silent;
to believe
she’s someone’s right;
how to be
the blamer
and
the blamed.
I swear to God
I haven’t taught her that.
Nobody has taught her that.
Everybody has.
ENOUGH.
I
won’t
speak
this
language
anymore.
I’m taking this space back
for my daughter,
this inverse space,
the meanings we don’t say
the judgments we aren’t making.
I’ll dig the prosecutor’s voice
out of her head.
There has to be
another one,
a voice that will not quiet,
saying
Oh my love,
You’re pinned beneath
a boy and not a bed;
a boy can make decisions, not decrees.
A boy can move.
My love,
he has no right.
My love,
you’re one of many.
I’m so sorry. But you are.
My love,
you’re no less human
than he, or she, or them.
Own your right.
You are your right.
You require no permission
and you owe no apology.
It has to be my voice
but not just my voice.
It has to be her own voice,
and yours,
so if she is ever
trapped
beneath a boy,
beneath a bed
stiffening
against an ATM
white knuckling a
subway seat,
if she’s ever
cussed for not
smiling on demand
backed into the bar by “friendly” drunks
ass-slapped by a
stranger
called a cunt by some
troll
the first thing she will think
will not be
[how did I invite this]
but
Stop.
You
Are
Accountable
To
Me.
We’ll find another language
for our daughters
and our sons.
Speak.
Let’s speak.
