On the Bus: For my Son Ibrahim

On the Bus: For my Son Ibrahim

            I was on my way to see my son. I wanted a child so badly, I just went out and got one. I thought I was ready for motherhood, but my parents had to pick up a lot of my slack. I looked out the window and graffiti on the walls in Parowan proclaimed I was beautiful. The mountaintops were capped. I had forgotten what snow looked like. My old cross-country injury started complaining so I adjusted in my seat. Does it count as an injury if I’d never gotten it looked at? Being young I thought myself invincible; thought my body would take care of itself. I thought everything would take care of itself.

            My head scarf slipped and I became anxious about my modesty, and remembered those girls in India who were raped. I wasn’t getting any younger, and I was tired of being single. If I got raped who would have married me then? It was a question I asked myself because in my head the rape would have been violent although past experience proved I would acquiesce in the interest of self- preservation.

            He was someone I knew. I didn’t want him to think of himself as someone who was capable of doing what he was doing so I lied and said I was sorry even though he did it. I didn’t want to think of myself as a victim. When he finished he pushed me away, leaving me crumpled on the floor as he ran to the bathroom to throw up like he did when he was upset.

            It was about that time I became concerned with my modesty. I covered myself so only my eyes would show when I was out in the cold, but indoors my hands, neck, face, and hair were visible. I insisted on being treated like a dignified woman. I was less concerned as the year wore on. I still covered up, but to avoid getting tan and wrinkly.

            I used to believe in love before that. Used to believe there was someone out there I would meet and something inside me would click immediately into place and I would instantly worship him with everything I had, and that initial worship would be enough to carry us through those quaint little “rough patches” we’d have because we were annoyed at having to do the dishes three times in a row. I used to be quite the romantic.

            After that disappointment I fell out of love and after a year with no one to love I started to believe it didn’t exist. Romance was a social construct designed to make the social (sometimes legal, sometimes spiritual) contract to align two houses more bearable. Maybe I was trying so hard to close off my heart because I couldn’t stand to have it broken again. Even a year later, especially a year later, when the weather was the same kind of nice as it had been then, and the same songs were playing on the radio and in my head; it still hurt enough to cry.

            I wanted to fall in love. I wanted to find a good man and marry him and trust that enough of love would blossom and we would be happy. I wanted to, but my treacherous heart kept telling me that when I saw him it would swell and flutter and I’d just know. “I’ll do it,” it cautioned, “whether you’re single or not.” So despite receiving several respectable offers I found I could not do it.

            I was alone for so long I gave up hope and the offers stopped coming, and my biological clock kept ticking, and time stretched on and on like a treadmill, never getting anywhere but where you’d already been. Then I met him, and he was married, just like the first one had gotten married and I lied to him and said I was happy. I felt that spark and despite not knowing a single thing about him, I was instantly ready to pledge my self and my everything to him. He didn’t wear a ring so colors were more vibrant and jokes seemed funnier and the whole world was gayer than a 1950’s musical for two whole weeks before I spoke to him and cracked. Like a light switch, I was off- like the time I lay on the floor while a man threw up down the hall only worse because at least back then I had the plan to lie and let him think it was my fault because I knew it was something I could overcome and I wasn’t sure he could shoulder that kind of guilt. I had faith in those moments that time would heal and I wouldn’t always feel the way I felt.

            This time though, this time I had no hope. No hope, and so did you blame me for getting knocked up and saying I didn’t know who the daddy was? It was true after all. I didn’t really know him all that well, but he was beautiful and I wanted my baby to look like him. I wanted someone to love, and to love me. I had so much love to give, and after nine months of being bonded to another person I finally admitted my love, my devotion to this single, beautiful creature. Did you really blame me for giving birth to a bastard child out of wedlock? Do you still?

Light and Dark

The sky is a greenish-grey with ominous clouds in the distance

marring our view of the horizon. My eyes followed the phone lines

up and down, up and down

until I became nauseated.

The fear we feel -when the headlights of passing cars pierce the darkness is indescribable.

Fools use the light of torches to find their way in darkness.

They need to shun the light to find their way to darkness.

They do not know that it is only in darkness they can find the truth and are not

dazzled by the light in their lies.

We are as afraid of the light as they are of the dark.

We must all embrace the dark.

Dark leaches passion for conflict-

war, politics, religion.

Dark takes away your humanity,

    but it’s a good thing.

Dark symbolizes death - but it’s a good thing?

But seems soulless.

(also death)     --Despair?

Light is bad.

Emotion,

 rage,

conflict,

heady confusion.

Desperation to find something, but what?

THE DARK.

People afraid of the dark,

      afraid to find peace.

Step into the dark, step into peace.

Healing.

People seek the dark,              -afraid of life?

They seem like living things, like sentient beings.

“Neon light haunts us.

-Too bright!

Telephone lines teeming with power, buzzing their warning.”

Dark brings silence                              --brings peace.

Cool breeze across our faces wipes the anxiety and tension from our brows.

Behind these clouds in the mist

bodies cling to themselves, waiting for Blessed Darkness to complete its

work in removing that    violent-  evil-  hateful-   oppressive-    light from them.

We join them, those bodies in the mist. We have escaped our oppressors so we lie together, huddled on the ground, and serenely wait for the Darkness to -

Release us.

Almost

Almost

By: Alice Parker

She has two jobs. She has two jobs and one project. One goal, she’s working on. And the longer she works the less likely she will ever achieve that goal.  She won’t tell you about both jobs. She’ll tell you about one job and the project. She’ll tell you about the job that Uncle Sam knows about. The one with the name tag and the paycheck twice a month that doesn’t pay the bills but almost. She won’t tell you about the other job that covers “almost” unless she thinks you can help her, - and even then, it’s never said.

Before anything is broached she needs to know a few things. Is he clean? She’s gotta know. What about the others he’s been with, were they clean? Does he have a condom? No condom, no dice. If it breaks, he is required to buy the backup plan. A few other things: stay emotionless. This is not a romantic relationship. That means no fidelity, no jealousy. It goes both ways. Does he understand? Good.

            Charity girl. It ain’t trickin’ if you got it, and she’s got it. She works late into the night because that’s what Uncle Sam requires, and the alarm clock rings and she doesn’t hear in time to catch the bus. She needs a ride across town. Call after call and her only option is one who pays. This is really inconvenient for him. That’s what he says anyway. The negotiating starts right off the bat; angling for a higher payout for a trip across town. Offer a ride back to get even more. This time it’s something they’ve never done, but he’s wanted to try it. A small price to pay for this favor she’s asked of him. A ride for a ride, and she’s in a bind, or about to be anyway, if he gets what he wants.

There’s twenty cents in her bank account, but the bills are paid. She’s got a boy at home and he never starves. She looks at the cupboard and there are only two noodle packets left. She knows there will be a week when no one takes her out. She’s saving them for an emergency. She goes through the list for a name she hasn’t hit up in a while. Someone hurting for what she has to offer in exchange for a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs, and a gallon of milk. Never money. She’s not a whore, she’s a charity girl. She doesn’t need money; she has a job that pays the bills. Almost all, but not the grocer. Company for food or she starves. She compartmentalizes. No emotion, just favors. Clinical, sexual favors without the sensuality.

            It’s really not all that bad. An orgasm for a meal, and sometimes she gets to keep her clothes on. Some want her to enjoy it too, but she feels dirtier somehow if she climaxes. It never occurs to her to fake one. She tells them honestly she doesn’t want to come. A hooker with a heart of gold. Oh, she’ll indulge every now and then. She lets them take her out, enjoy her company; she really is a sparkling conversationalist, and in exchange, she comes and goes with enough leftovers to last for two days if she rations. That’s two more days she doesn’t have to call. Make ‘em wait a little longer. Make them negotiate a little less even though they know she can’t say no.

            She doesn’t know how she got where she is, and she doesn’t intend to stay although she knows no one does. She has a project, a plan. She wants to marry; a man and a new financial plan. One man to replace many. Not many, although she never tells. She’ll never tell. A lady never tells. The longer she works the more dangerous it gets. She’s gotta stay clean to achieve the goal. A nice man, family; a home, security. She wants it all.

A hooker with a heart of gold, but she’s not a hooker. She never thinks of herself as a hooker. Never thinks of herself as a prostitute. All she’s saying is that sometimes she needs help paying for food after tuition and rent. Sometimes she needs a little help and she can’t ask her folks. Not again. Not this time. A mother’s love only goes so far. Whether that’s true or not, she’s not going to admit she needs help again. She’s got it under control. She just needs to get by until she falls in love and everything will be all right.

            She goes to the store even though she’s indisposed so for the next four days she is out of commission. She’s cramping real bad and after last night she’s earned a little treat. Trust her, she’s earned this. She browses the aisles, looking for something sweet that doesn’t cost too much that she can take home and share. Five dollars for a carton of ice cream; she laughs and reflexively lists all the things she could be doing with those five dollars. Five dollars could buy a hamburger, two bus passes, or eight cans of soup with too much salt. It’s five dollars that she doesn’t have to spend on sweets but she’s going to share, so it’s for the boy too, so it’s okay. It’s not even really for her anymore. The boy at home never starves.

            Broad shoulders and blonde hair turn her way and she angles her body cause she know what she has is worth looking at. She flashes a smile and then modestly averts her gaze with a blush although the way she is acting and dressing screams anything but innocence. He flashes a more conservative smile and he’s hers. She’s got him and she knows it. She sidles up and initiates a conversation, casual and flirty and precise. She’s deadly with her precision. It’s a gift. She just knows. Sometimes they’re ugly, sometimes they’re cute but the cute ones are harder and the ugly ones are just grateful.

            She starts with something casual. A lame joke but she’s pretty so he laughs. Then she distances herself so she’s not coming on too strong; creates a little tension so he’s insecure and he reengages. He shoots her another sidelong glance and she bemoans, mostly to herself, but he hears, that she’ll never be able to finish the ice cream she’s holding by herself. She puts it back and pouts at the selection again. He moves closer and she does too, closer to the vanilla, and muses that if she bought the vanilla she could have root beer floats or orange soda floats. He exclaims, almost to himself but he’s not as skilled as she is, that orange floats are the best.

Sugar is a commodity both parties are after. Gimme some sugar, sugar. She hasn’t had sugar in such a long time; she only does as much as she needs to survive. The ladies in the church only know so much so they can’t help enough to put a stop to it. She’d do anything for a little ice cream. Just this once. It’s her birthday. Another year older and another year closer to achieving her goal. She flashes him a smile, and they’re making plans to meet up later. He gets her number, but doesn’t call for a week. She’s not worried; they like to take their time. Wait longer than the three day rule ‘cause they play it cool. He calls and stops by, and they chat over ice cream floats.

Things are going well. She has a good feeling about this one. She bought this time after all. He moves to leave, and goes in for a kiss. She tenses, but calms herself because it’s just a kiss after all. Plenty of people kiss on the first date nowadays. It’s all right. And then it’s not just a kiss. His hands wander, and she tenses again; it’s not just a kiss and she cracks inside. He could have been the one, but his taken before he received so when he asks her to dinner she says yes. She’s going to make him pay for those liberties. He could have been the one, but he’s just another one. It helps to think of him as the prostitute this time. She bought and he was offering to pay her back, and that makes it hurt less but it doesn’t erase all the cracks. Bastard. But it’s not so bad. Besides, she says, it happens all the time. It’s no different from any other dating experience. Dinner and a movie and maybe a goodnight kiss. Only "dinner and a movie" is replaced with shopping and more than a kiss.

She dies a little inside every time she needs a little more “almost” to keep the physical alive. Maybe she’ll meet The One she’s been waiting for at church. By the time he realizes she’s The One maybe he won’t notice that she’s almost dead inside from keeping herself alive. Maybe he won’t notice she is almost a corpse. She’s got it under control, almost. And the “almost” is covered for a little while longer. Just until she achieves her goal, completes her project. It’ll happen. It’s gotta happen. She’s almost there. Almost.