From Some Months Ago

9 mm

I went shooting with my boyfriend yesterday. It wasn’t one of those, “I’m going to be a cool girlfriend and go do something I hate just to make sure he still likes me”. It was more of a, “Will I always flinch when I hear anything above a 22? If I shoot a gun, will the recoil split open my hand like it did my mother’s? If I shoot something besides a 22 rifle, will the bullet explode in the barrel again, burning my face with gun powder and briefly deafen me?” You know, the usual.

I’ve never felt comfortable around guns. I have nothing to say here about the second amendment, nor am I saying that people who enjoy going to shooting ranges are bad. I’m only writing about me, I’m not worrying about you. I know some people grow up with hunters, and some people grow up going to shooting ranges, but some of us grew up with the unlucky task of typically being in a reactionary role around guns. And now I live in Baltimore, and periodically, there are problems…But, I’m big about confronting fears, especially when I know I am safe, and the fear is mostly mental.

22 caliber revolvers are nothing. They sincerely feel like you aren’t shooting anything at all, and that, in its own right, is kind of scary to think about…However, the worst part was the sound of the higher caliber weapons being unloaded right next to me. It’s like when a drum is hit at a concert and it’s so loud that you involuntarily blink every time.

We moved up to the 9 mm, the kind of gun my mom had a concealed permit for when we lived in our old neighborhood when I was young. I watched how Dave stood, how his muscles flexed back against the kick-back. I watched the explosion in the barrel, the shell flying out in unpredictable directions, and I smelled the powder as it hung in the air. When it was my turn, I couldn’t shoot while the man next to me was still firing bazookas (OK, exaggeration.), so I waited, as if it were a bowling alley and I was just being polite. I fired 15 shots total with the 9, and that isn’t a lot. I only fired that many because after the first five, I turned to Dave, holding back tears. I fired the next 10 to practice aim. To face the fear. To not cry about it.

I hated how it felt; heavy, leaving imprints on my hands.

I hated the recoil; my hands shook and I was paranoid that I’d miss the target to a tragic degree.

I hated the shell hitting me, like an immediate reminder.

I hate the idea that young men are told that this is cool, and masculine, and a way to “take care of things”. How we are divorced from the consequences of our actions, exemplified by the act of killing someone with a gun.

But mostly, I hated how I felt. I felt like someone was making me do it, like it was against my will. It wasn’t, but I felt like crying because I didn’t want to do it. I faced my fear but I didn’t kill it, because maybe I’m not the kind of person who can be entrusted to kill anything at all.

The Sonoran

So, I guess when I said that I had shallow roots, I meant like the roots of a cactus. Sparse, spread out and shallow, but present none-the-less. Adapted to the drought, willing to survive on so little; transplanted to a region too saturated to struggle through. A case of too much too soon, and on and on. I couldn’t possibly suck it up and store it all properly. Even if I could absorb it all, swelling to my fill, the roots!—My roots! Their clinging, oh their pitiful grasp, it’s never enough the keep a giant upright. Top-heavy and easily toppled, poached for my skeleton, to be bleached and sold to sit in a room. I am not an addition, I’m a piece contributing to a theme. Decorative, see? It’s not the meat they’re after, it’s the eyelets revealed after the kill.

The only thing I am currently learning at my job is that I should just be quiet.

Ditch the Chopper

I fear for the body, but the only thing I can focus on protecting is the mind.

Baltimore Body Count

Four murders in 3 weeks, in the safest district of Baltimore. In my district. Only counting those in my district. The fear is that this isn't just gang activity, it's not just about drugs. Something is happening.
"Unprecedented!", they declare.
"I can't remember a time...", the police commissioner mumbles.
They excuse it by simply stating, "The weather is warming up." It is a universal truth, just geographically misplaced. Sure, the murders always spike, but they never spike here. We rallied. We walked the blocks with clergy and angels, cameras and politicians; but we didn't even stop at the spot where the 22-year-old was shot the week before. In broad daylight, it was 2 pm. It was 3 pm now, and seven days later, and it was great. There were neon green shirts and hot dogs for anyone who would have them. Then we went home.

When I went back the next week, it wasn't the same. I was alone and it was dark by the time I left my meeting. I had to walk several blocks back to my car when it happened--
Suddenly, I couldn't breath, I couldn't think of anything except that I was going to be shot. Cars roared through the alley next to me and I walked with my hand covering my heart. I was holding on to my scarf as a guise, but really, I was protecting my heart in case they had perfect aim. It was only the second anxiety attack I've had here, which, given everything that has happened in the past 6 months, is pretty impressive.

But when I got home and visions of gunshot wounds, blue lights and spiking line graphs receded I saw something else that made my heart jump to my throat:
He was on the news. He was discussing politics, or business, or something. He was being asked questions and he even had a fancy tag with his name below him, but all I could see was "rapist". The man who tried to rape me is gaining prestige in our nation's capital and all I can think is,
Ok, fine. Keep me right here, where the bodies are cold but I know what I'm up against.
The progression and life that I've made can be taken by a hypothetical bullet, or definitively decimated by another chance encounter.

I fear for the mind, so I'll chance it with the body.

That one time I was bitter

The Spitfire:

It tasted metallic so I had taken to habitually spitting, thinking no one had noticed while ignoring the looks exchanged between posts: raised eyebrows and solemn shrugs. You asked what it tasted like and I replied, saying,
"the bad part of chocolate,
the remnants of rinds...
straight espresso and anything stale."
You said it sounded bitter.
"Fuck you." I quipped, and then regaining my composure, chuckling, I asked,
"How do you mean?"
"It's every man that never wanted you,
it's every day above 105 degrees,
it's every move you've made where you've misplaced something valuable never to be seen again.
You're becoming bitter.
If you're not careful, you'll look around and you won't see a damn thing anymore."
I tried to explain that it wasn't even an emotion, it was a new state of being: like being underwater all the time--surreal and tight in the chest. Not good, but it was a gray area.
I spit again.
This time with mucus!
This time with feeling!

Baby

I had a man lie next to me many nights
Barely there, coming back from everywhere.
Quiet so as to not wake me, though we talked.
Slipping off his clothes and barely dropping into bed,
Some nights our bodies would touch
Most nights they didn’t.
He would smell of absinthe, wine, beer, and cigarettes, but he always smelled good.
He would tell me about his night, about California, about the band
Speech soft and sometimes slurring,
Inches between us, or pressed so close that it would seem sexual.
There never was any sex, even under the influence of everything at all.

I knew he was an alcoholic
I knew he couldn’t commit
I knew we would never inhabit the same place
So he never tried to press his place in my bed
And so there was always room for him there.
I felt sad, only twice, knowing how rare this was,
A gentle man, a lush, a fading memory

Later, I would know a man, upwards of 8 beers on the night.
He was fun? He was loud.
Everything was loud that night.
That mattress was no one’s bed,
There were no sheets and there was no tenderness.
The space didn’t last long.
The kiss had been communicated, agreed.
But I kept my socks on,
My jeans,
My sweatshirt.
It was the line being drawn, physically, then verbally.
Yes, I kissed him.
No, I did not immediately stop him.
But, trust, there is no defense,
No misunderstanding.
I explained my feelings on the subject, my objections
But when I think of it now, I can't think of a moment when he ever acknowledged a word I said.
Including the following:
-No.
-I don't want to do this.
-I don't think this is a good idea.
-Stop.
-No.
I wanted to go to sleep.
I can’t remember when that stopped being a choice.
Instead of the flow of the former memories washing over me,
These memories come in vivid bursts that hurt.
Behind my eyes,
The pit of my stomach,
My neck,
My pride.
A hand on the back of my head
A hand pulling at mine
Directing.
Grabbing.
Wrenching.

At first I looked in his eyes,
I thought maybe it would convey something if I did.
It wasn’t that he didn’t look at me,
He did.
But when I cried, he rolled his eyes
When I shivered, he turned his back
And turned out the light.
When he put his arm around me again,
I let the freezing temperatures convince me it was innocent.
For hours it was a baffling cycle-

Freezing
Shivering
Proximity
Yanking
Flipping
Pulling
Force
Reasoning
Convincing
Pleading
Disgust
Rejection
Distance
Freezing
Shivering

And if he didn’t “understand” why I would kiss but wouldn’t fuck,
Well that’s no fault of my own.
But I couldn’t get out that night, in an unfamiliar city
I didn’t want to make a scene.
But the next day I didn’t shower
I took the train back to my city
And I walked 2 miles home that night.
Alone, in the freezing wind
I pulled my hood down, and tugged my scarf up,
And I wailed all the way home, knowing no one could hear me
My mascara ran and I didn’t check the streets for cars,

But I didn’t throw up either.

In high school, romantic, terrible things would happen to me.
My stories would write themselves.
Nowadays, it's all just clutter
And if I hear one more metaphor about "power" and "control",
I promise, I will lose it.
Your bullshit sentence structure won't build a meaning around such a thing.
By all means, take refuge, respite

I, of all people, understand.

I guess what I’m trying to say is--
From my lush
To this attempted violation,
Maybe alcohol isn’t the problem;
Maybe the latter is just deserving of a hell all on his own.

From December

I called a radiator a “furnace” when I first got here. Those aren’t the same things, but I suppose I’ve never used either of them so it doesn’t really matter. I’m getting it now though, this city, made of brick, and filled with local businesses, the sky that never gets completely dark, the constant wind on the harbor, the silent segregation…I still find myself agonizing about wasted water, like I never left the desert. Here, no one cares about the water. They don’t feel they need to. Out of sight, out of mind, I’m told, but it hasn’t worked that way for me yet. Oh the other hand, they need to worry less about the water and more about if they can drink it. I work in a school where over 90% of the kids qualify for free or reduced meals, the school provides clothing when needed, and one of the other schools here can't even have "outdoor recess" every day because they can't afford pay someone to monitor the kids in the cafeteria and also someone to watch the kids outside. All the schools in this city don't have drinkable water. The pipes were made with lead, so there are signs above the sinks and drinking fountains that say "Wash hands only" and "Please do not drink the water". It's bad enough to deal with that, but think about how they finally figured out that the kids were being poisoned...

I like living here, truly I do. People ask if I’ll stay after my year with AmeriCorps is done, and I haven’t got a clue. Part of me feels the need to keep moving. An internalized wanderlust born in me by my shallow roots, and my propensity for partially funded travels.

A couple weeks ago I was driving with a friend and someone almost hit us. Slow moving but steady and grating, like they didn’t even care that we were there. I honked but they kept coming. We yelled, we gesticulated…nothing; they kept coming. So I was out of my car, furious and wondering, “What the hell!?” Nothing came of it. The passenger got out of their car and as he walked away he simply asked, “what’s goin’ on?”. Bewildered but unharmed I got back in my car. That was when I realized that I wasn’t in Phoenix anymore. Baltimore is 3rd in the country for violent crimes, including murder. I chastised myself; my bravado may get me killed.

Yesterday, I dug my car out from under the thick, even sheet of snow. I didn’t have anywhere to go, and I’d sooner walk than try to parallel park in these conditions anyway, but it just seemed like the right thing to do. The city laments this storm so I throw my hands up in mock distaste, but I can’t stop jumping through the snowdrifts and squealing to myself. It can’t be real; it’s superimposed! It’s not my car and these aren’t my boots, where am I? I wonder if the snow will ever melt from the graveyard across the street from my house, all those bodies but no heat to warm the surroundings. Sometimes, I think I know how they feel. They closed my work, businesses remained closed and before the plows got there, it felt like we brave few were exploring foreign surfaces. But even still, every so often when I stomped through the powdery piles I mumbled under my breath, “and I miss you, I’m goin’ back home to the West Coast… I wish you woulda put yourself in my suitcase; I love you standing all-alone in a black coat. I miss you, I’m goin’ back home to the west…”