CHAPTER I: STIRRINGS

I remembered seeing his face in the newspaper. Something stirred in me when I saw it. Not dissent, no. That was something I could not comprehend. Not then. But something was there. Disgust, perhaps. Or pity. Some revolting emotion that rose like bile and quickly sank back down into my gut where it settled for the next hour. By the time the clock struck 13, I had forgotten the source of my discomfort and moved to the telescreen, which was announcing the current standing of the war against Eurasia. Rations had been increased (praise Big Brother!) and Eurasian casualties were mounting. Victory was clearly imminent.

I turned off the TV that day feeling satisfied. But in my dreams— for rebellion always starts in the subconscious, buried deep below the rote societal rituals and self-imposed boundaries— I heard his name spoken aloud, from the mustached lips of the poster that hung over my bed. Big Brother.

Winston Smith.

When I awoke the next morning, I had forgotten.

There were, after all, larger concerns. Most notably, my job in the Ministry of Truth. A name change here, a date change there. So-and-so is no longer in the favor of the party, and of course we are at war with Eastasia, not Eurasia. What a foolish mistake to make.

There was always, of course, a lingering doubt. I could’ve sworn, just last night…

But such concerns passed quickly. My job of censorship and revision was no more complex or morally wrong than adding a period to a run-on sentence or adding a capital letter to a name. I was an editor. Such things were necessary.

At the end of the day, I’d dump the out-of-date papers into the Memory Holes and go home.

I always slept soundly.

That was the advantage afforded to me by conformity. I did not need to dwell on the moral quandary of changing history, or stress over the ever-shrinking rations. After all, Big Brother had our best interests at heart. And rations were always going up. War was always closer to being won. Wages were steadily increasing… as long as I kept changing the numbers to fit.

Life was good. Big Brother was good. Oceania was good.

But after seeing Winston Smith’s face underneath the headline “Traitor,” my dreams were never quite the same. Day after day, week after week, his face, his name, seemed to haunt me, for reasons that I could not comprehend. I began to call him my Dream-Self, since I could no longer remember why he seemed so familiar or where I knew him from. The newspaper from that day was long gone, sunk deep down into the memory hole. Both literally and metaphorically. My brain was built on short term scaffolding, suspended over an endless pit of long term memories that had sunk into oblivion.

In my Dream Life, as Winston, I saw myself doing things I’d never dreamed of doing. Evil things. Traitorous things. All with Winston’s face instead of my own. At first, I hated him. Feared him, and all that he represented. The dangerous potential that he spawned deep within my own brain.

It was worse than rebellion. Worse than a betrayal of my mind and government. It was a betrayal of my own sense of self. The man named Winston who haunted my dreams was middle aged. I was 25, only a step away from my school years. He was a dissenter. I was… well, at the time I’d convinced myself I wasn’t.

But the key difference between us was the most damning of all.

He was a man.

I was a woman.

How could I see myself in a man? How could I, even in dreams, walk in the shoes of a man nearly twice my age?

It was unnatural, surely. But it was also impossible to deny. Somehow, as imperceptibly as air making its way into a vault, I had become the thing I hated most.

A traitor.

For two months I lived with that vile knowledge. Never acting on anything, of course— I was far too much of a coward for that— but the feelings were there. Alongside a new, forbidden desire.

At 25, the societal pressure to marry began to ramp up. Neighbors, coworkers, family members… all of them would wonder how on earth a pretty girl like you isn’t married yet?

Of course, the answer was always… complicated. Pre-marital intercourse was illegal, of course. But it was pretty much an unspoken rule that it happened. Even the Thought Police didn’t enforce it. It was enough of a threat that we knew they could.

I had quite a few boys try to get away with it. I always vehemently refused. I wasn’t in the mood. I wasn’t ready. We needed to get married first… all excuses, although it took being a traitor to realize that. All my vehement refusals were not, as it turned out, due to my unsealing loyalty to the party.

I didn’t like men.

But it goes deeper than that, doesn’t it, Amy?

Yes. Much, much deeper. With each day that passed, my traitorous mind dove deeper into its self-exploration. All the boys I’d dated… I’d never loved them, had I?

No. I’d wanted to be them. I was jealous of their short hair, the flat line of their chest, the Bob of the Adam’s apple in their throat.

I remembered being seven years old. Holding my father’s calloused hand, looking up in awe at the face of Big Brother.

“I want to be just like him when I grow up,” I’d said. My father laughed.

“Well, you can’t be him. No one can— he’s beyond any other man, after all. But perhaps you’ll find a good husband. One who acts the way Big Brother wants, provides for his family. That’s as good as it gets.”

I hadn’t been able to protest then. Hadn’t been able to explain that wasn’t what I’d meant.

Now, here I was.

A dissenter.

And worse.

A queer.

It was a word I’d heard muttered before. The crudest of insults. There had been many men and women executed on just the rumor that they were queer. Sleeping with another of the same sex? Preposterous. Becoming the other sex? That was truly vile. I’d watched a man executed after he was caught wearing his wife’s clothing. They let his body hang, lifeless, in the square for months. They killed him in his wife’s wedding dress. She was killed, too, but was at least spared the shame and indignity of being left on display.

I’d cheered with the rest as his rope had gone taut. Now the memory of it made me sick. I was just like him. A queer. A faggot. Good for nothing except burning.

Given another year, maybe another two, perhaps I would have dissented. Perhaps I would have shorn off my hair. Perhaps I would have even done the unthinkable and slept with another woman. Maybe I would have died the same way Winston did— tortured into submission before being put down like a stray dog.

But I did not have a year. I had three months. Three months of limbo, of treacherous thoughts and tormented dreams, nightmares of being tortured by a man with a thick brown mustache and a handsome face.

It happened during the Two Minutes Hate.

I always screamed the loudest. I imagined I was screaming at myself. YOU WORTHLESS CUNT. YOU FILTHY TRAITOR. DIRTY WHORE. YOU SLIMY, DISGUSTING, USELESS QUEE—

And then the bombs dropped.

Just that morning we’d been informed that we were closer to winning the war against Eurasia— it was Eurasia again, I noticed now that the names had always been changing— and now the Ministry of Truth was in ruins. My skin felt like it was being bathed in molten silver. Alarms that I’d never heard before were blaring.

The unthinkable had happened. Eurasia and Eastasia had suddenly begun an alliance. We were fighting a two-front— maybe even a three-front— war.

And they had bombed us. The bastards had actually bombed us.

I remember being in some kind of flying vehicle— a helicopter, maybe, with blades that sliced through the air like butter, or an alien spacecraft, whirring like it was powered by magic. Then I remember soldiers yelling unintelligibly. Then I remember another explosion.

By the time I came back to myself, the only thing I could think about was pain. In my face. In my arms. My feet. My legs. I could see patches of black crust on my stomach. Every inch of skin was either bandaged, bruised, or oozing a nauseating mix of pus and blood.

It was then that I saw the doctor’s faces for the first time.

These were not Oceania doctors. Their eyes were thin, and dark. Their hair was neatly trimmed, but in a vastly different style than the men I’d known from London. Their uniforms were different.

I was in Eastasia.

My father died 27 years ago, two days before my son was born. I was closer to him then than I had been for many years, thanks to my wonderful husband who helped me to accept as enough the kindness, sensitivity and genuinely good heart, indeed, the love, his alcoholism made it hard for me to acknowledge.

My parents divorced when I was five years old. They remained civil over the years and my stepmother and my mom were friendly during his lifetime, and even after he died at the age of 47. He would have turned 48 later that year. My mom cried when he died. And many times over the years since. I think she always loved him but could not let his brokenness break me, their only child.

Because he was broken. Broken by a family that seemed to prefer him defeated to striving for a life better than they had attained. A family that beat down his dreams as nothing more than smoke in the wind. A family that knew its place (my great-grandmother actually used those exact words when I interviewed her for a sociology paper in college), and, apparently, its place was in a broken down tenement on Amsterdam and 164th, in New York City. He let his dreams wither and die, but, even so, he managed a somewhat better life than his family anticipated, working for the city of New York his entire adult life until his health required he retire on disability a mere few weeks before he died.

He filled his brokenness, the void created by abuse, the shadow of dreams unfulfilled mixed with a healthy dose of self-hatred, with alcohol. Like his mother. Like his sister. Like my cousin. But unlike them, he also filled it with working hard. Playing softball. Fishing. Going on trips to Mexico and Puerto Rico with my stepmom. Coming to ballet recitals and making the audience laugh as he screamed, “Don’t drop my baby” as I performed a pas de deux. Taking his life in his hands as he let me practice driving his boat of a car. Getting me my first summer internship at his job when I was 17. Taking me to dinner, just the two of us, as I was growing into womanhood. Coming to my high school and college graduations. Driving me and all my earthly possessions to college. Throwing a surprise party for my 21st birthday. Writing me letters and calling me when I lived in Spain. Giving me away at my wedding. Always loving. Loving me. Loving my stepmom. Loving my cousin’s children when she couldn’t. Loving his mom despite her constant meanness (in almost every sense of the word “mean”). It was never enough, though. Until it was too late to matter.

I am guilty of being unforgiving. Not of him. I forgave him what I saw as weakness long before he died. Thank God. But I could not find it in my heart to forgive his mother. My grandmother. Sadly, I suppose I still have not. I understood that she was embittered by the society in which she lived, a society which closed a door in her face every time she knocked; that impressed upon her time and again that she did not matter; that she had no right to want better; that what little she was permitted was enough. But even so, I could not forgive her for not trying to offer a better vision to her son; for not instilling in him a sense of self-respect, self-worth, self-love. For mirroring to him the same sense of “less than” that he found out in the world. When the world and your family tells you over and over again that your life is worthless, it is not easy to find the strength inside you to prove to them and yourself that they are wrong. Given his circumstances, he did rather well, I think. He loved, something I am not certain my grandmother ever managed to do.

When my son was born, two days after my father passed, I used to fantasize that their souls met in passing, or, alternatively, that God was giving my daddy a second chance at a happier life, with me as his mom. Either way, I hope he is happy with the mom I have been. And I hope he knows, wherever his soul might be, how much I love my daddy.

Happy Father’s Day to all the daddies. Wishing you much love.

My mom got a boyfriend when I was around 5 years old.

We'd been living with my grandmother, who watched me while my mom finished school and worked the drive-thru at McDonald's to support us. I don't remember seeing her much those days; the few times I did she was tired.

She met a guy at college, and he started coming around to visit. I remember him being really, really tall (to be fair I was really, really short) with geeky glasses and a soft-spoken demeanor. Later on my mom would tell me he was a teaching assistant for her physics class, by which she meant he was really smart but a bit socially awkward.

He had a motorcycle, which did seem cool for a geek. He would work on it in the driveway, and fixing it up seemed more exciting to him than actually riding it. I remember coming out to watch him while he patiently explained what he was doing, none of which I understood at that age. Later on my mom would tell me he hadn't ever wanted children; he didn't think he could handle them. Unfortunately there was no choice - I was already there.

We all went on a hike one day, packing our backpacks up with snacks and an old-school boombox with kid songs on tape (yes, I'm that old). Apparently he loved hiking, but had worried a little kid couldn't keep up. My mom was a very stubborn woman and had insisted, "No, we will - just watch." I sang most of the way and made it the entire trail roundtrip, jumping into the river a few times to splash about until my mom hauled me out and toweled me off. Later on my mom would tell me I had behaved really well, considering I didn't wander off the trail into the poison oak and kept up the entire way without crying or needing carried.

I got my first Nintendo Entertainment System one summer for my birthday. It came with a few basic games - including Super Mario Brothers, which tested my developing hand-eye coordination as well as my patience. I remember staying up with the setting sun, trying to get past levels and burning through lives like tissue paper. Eventually my mother's boyfriend would sit next to me, watching me play and offering helpful hints until I would get frustrated and hand off the controller. Then I would watch him play, noting how he moved and jumped while pointing out hazards to him as they appeared on the screen. Later on my mom would tell me the two of us seemed to be lost in our own world on those evenings.

I don't remember the engagement, I only remember the wedding. We had it in the same church we always went to on Sundays just dressed up nicer, with lots of food. I got a major headache that morning, and they tried to help me through it but it knocked me out until the final ceremony. I sort of understood what was happening, but my young mind didn't really care. Later on my mom would tell me she worried my headache was some sort of sign that she was making a mistake but the day proceeded anyway.

One day both my mom and her new husband met me at school to walk me home. This rarely happened, since usually my mother would come alone instead. She had graduated and quit her job now, so showed up more regularly to see me. They explained as we walked that they'd gotten approval for my adoption; my mom's new geek was now legally my dad. I'd have to change my last name, and they'd already told the school and my teachers so I could start using it in class. I wasn't thrilled about the last name. I only remember thinking about that the whole walk home, how ugly it was and how much kids would tease me for it. Later on my mom would tell me when they had asked how I felt that I had just shrugged and said, "Okay. He's my dad anyway, right?"

My mother had three more children with this man. We never used the words "step" or "half" in our home, and my siblings would grow up to be high schoolers before they actually put the pieces together. My quiet, single childhood would be irrevocably changed by these crying, clingy little midgets and I would be forced to learn empathy and responsibility as my mother constantly nagged me not to treat them like aliens. Later on my mother would tell me she felt a bit guilty that I became a built-in babysitter, but such is the reality for older sibs.

As I grew up I had to share the Nintendo more, but for those first few years while my siblings were teething I had it mostly to myself. Well, me and dad. We still stayed up late at night trying to beat Mario Brothers 2 and 3 now. Mom would only permit me to stay up late if we played together, so it was a handy excuse to miss bedtime. When I reached age 12 I had to start wearing glasses; people used to remark how much I looked like my father and I would just smile. A few years later we'd spend hours sitting at the kitchen table as he used college level calculus to solve my middle school algebra problems, all while quietly driving me insane. Later on my mom would wonder whether my father had married her, or had just showed up to be my dad. Unfortunately, since I was always around, he never got the chance to be just a husband.

Nowadays whenever I have to answer medical questions for my aging body I have to admit that, technically speaking, he isn't my "DNA donor" so his medical history doesn't help me. But the title of "Dad" still sticks. Because for all those years that man put in, beating bosses, fixing bikes, and helping with homework, he earned it. Later on my mom could have him to herself for a change, but for all those years he was the Dad me - and my siblings - could always count on.

And still do.

~ Happy Father's Day, to the all the Nintendo dads, math papas, and motorhead pops who volunteered for their first combat missions without any basic training.

And to all the stepdad's, half-dad's, and mixed families out there who realize that love is thicker than water.

Your shadow haunts me

On bright, sunny days

When the warmth on my skin

Should be enough to thaw

The ice you left in my veins

You tower over me in my sleep

Figure shrouded in darkness

Looming at the foot of my bed

I hide under my blankets

But you follow me into my dreams

Your rage is pestilent

A virus toxic to its host

Spreading infection with your fists

I’ve found no vaccine for this disease

Spitting contagion with cutting words to their throats

Your eyes sear my skin

Even now miles and years away

Their brand is a burning thing

I try to cover with ink layers deep

But I still feel them scorching

In all the empty spaces that remain

#poetry #freeverse #personal #childabuse #trauma

The man who makes promises he cannot keep,

The man who stumbles while I sleep,

His eyes narrow and they pierce,

And I fight and try to be fierce.

The man who knows how to smile,

The one who likes to sit and talk for a while,

Cooks me breakfast and tells some jokes,

Runs to the store to buy me cokes.

The man who has two faces,

One that smiles and one that spaces,

Addiction is his true lover,

Go ahead, dad, have another.

Time to celebrate the man who gave me life,

Only to make me crave the knife,

I wish for a different dad,

Maybe then I wouldn't be so sad.

When only one

parent visited

me in the hospital

and said, your mother

and I are getting a divorce

only then

did I cry

tears of joy

for my father

and myself

Even on mute,

porn blares like air raid sirens

when roommates are home.

And as I look her up and down

up and down

up and down

suddenly I’m fearful my skull

isn’t soundproof, that the new age music

will be drowned out by the suck-smack

of our naked bodies colliding in my head.

I avoid eye contact, her figure burned into my retinas,

ass in the air taking it in down doggy style.

The class chants Ohm

but I only manage to moan ohmygod.

Perfect is such a strong word

but her designer yoga wear is a second skin

hugging in all the right places

a body that only has the right places

and when she bends over into a forward fold

there are no secrets.

Is it Bikram in here or is it just me?

Sweat flooding off my forehead, ujjiya out of control

as I struggle and creak from pose to pose

she flows into effortlessly. We

need to get tangled in each other,

move our asanas from the mat to the sheets.

If only I were Shiva, merely

to have extra hands to run over her flawless form.

I would give my salutations to the sun daily

if only for this view.

I may not be in love with yoga,

but damn do I love yoga class.

Namaste.

There is a tirade of words

unspoken, a cataclysm

of silence and I wish she’d speak,

offer just a few syllables

to quell my heart from

wallowing in doubt.

But this is war

with every unspoken word

a land mine I stumble over.

When suddenly, D-Day erupts-

a barrage of artillery exploding as

insults and blame. We’re both wounded,

bleeding from our egos,

vehemently exchanging bullets.

Even pacifists must fight to survive

when thrown into the trenches

and as I take aim, wonder

if winning the fight is worth the losses

as her heart enters my cross-hairs.

Adam was perfect, right?

God stretched out his big finger,

warned him directly about the Tree.

So Adam knew better than to indulge

in Forbidden Fruit.

Of course, it seemed so unfair--

the tree's resplendence was blinding.

Adam was weary with pacing,

shielding his eyes as he stared,

salivating as he said to himself:

“Adam, be strong; don’t give in.

You eat it, you die.”

And then here comes Eve-

her perfect titties hanging out,

forbidden sugar on her breath,

nectar trickling down her chin.

Adam want to pounce,

lick the sinful juice of her body;

but he remained resilient to his God.

Except, when Eve turned to strut away,

her fine ass swayed sensually.

Adam just couldn't say no to booty,

indulged in sweet flesh.

And they were being watched.

Angels, in their great celestial domain,

got a glimpse of naked-ass Eve.

They looked around Heaven inquisitively

and pondered bitterly:

“We are divine, damn it.

Why does a silly garden get such fine booty?”

So the angels clawed off their halos,

ripped off their wings,

hurled themselves to Earth.

And that is why I quit reading the Bible.

Genesis told me all I need to know.

Your ass is better than Heaven.

**I don’t like disclaimers, but this oddity was written specifically to be read aloud. So as you read it, just picture yourself in front of a crowded room and at various points, which i hope are obvious, you lock eyes with different audience members and point at them.

Swear to god this is a true story.

Picture, like, the hottest woman you’ve ever seen-

like Natalie Portman in Black Swan

like Angelina Jolie in Gia

like a young Carrie Fisher in her slave Leia outfit

like any porn star you’ve jerked it to, honestly, any porn star

and there’s this woman, she’s standing bare-assed naked in front of me

swaying her hips slowly and making all these other women

look like Sloth from the Goonies, “Hey You Guuuys.”

Her hair, I just want to run my hands through it, messy it up,

yank it tight the way a jockey grips the reins when he’s about to come

in first place at the Kentucky Derby.

Bend her over, make her my Kentucky Derby.

Her hair, I shit you not, it looks just like yours.

Her eyes, I swear to god, in her eyes I could see the sunrise,

the sunset, the Aurora Borealis, the Perseid meteor shower,

and a lesbian orgy on the beach in Cabo during Spring Break.

Honestly, if I couldn’t fuck her brains out,

just staring into her eyes would’ve been a great consolation prize.

As a matter of fact, you and her have the same eyes.

Her smile, sweet Jesus, I wanted it.

I don’t just mean I wanted her lips wrapped around my penis.

I mean, her smile was enough to run to Kay Jewelers or Aaron Brothers

or wherever the fuck you go to get a bitch a ring.

I wanted to love her the way police bullets love black bodies.

Believe it or not, her smile was exactly like yours.

And her tits, do I have to mention they’re the best pair I’ve ever seen?

God probably even patted himself on the back for those.

Of course, I haven’t seen yours yet…

I swear to god, she smelled like a waffle

and I don’t mean that cheap instant toaster shit,

I mean like home-made batter poured into a waffle iron,

topped with gobs of butter and expensive, top-shelf Vermont Maple

and I don’t know if I’m supposed to be horny or hungry;

but either way, I want to dive right in.

Don’t give me that look, breakfast is my favorite meal.

So she takes her finger, brushes it against my lips,

and I would’ve sucked the Universe out of that finger,

but her touch is like gossamer.

She slowly dances her finger lower,

pauses at my chest, probably wanting to swirl it in some chest hair

but I don’t have any–this is probably confusing to her.

When she trails lower toward my belly button, it tickles

but in a good way, the way it tickles when you slide your finger into

the envelope that holds your Christmas bonus.

This woman is such a tease and I can’t help but think I should tie her up

and go down on her like a bulldog eating peanut butter.

She’s not even touching my cock yet and already I want to blow my load.

I’m afraid I just might when she finally gets there.

Her touch still so soft, so gentle, so delicate

like the extra-absorbency tissues I jerk off into…

FUCK!

It all makes sense now.

I’ve fallen asleep after masturbating again.

See, I read this article about the benefits of ejaculation before bed

so these days I’m finding every excuse to take a nap.

Only imagine my surprise when I open my eyes.

I wasn’t imagining that delicate tickling sensation.

Sitting proudly atop my erect penis

like a fucking prince charming ready to take down the dragon

is the biggest, meanest, ugliest, blackest black widow I’ve ever seen in my life.

I swear to god, we do something like lock eyes, I’m frozen in terror

and I shake my head furiously but the fucker bites me, anyway;

I scream that like poor sap Aron Rolston; only

it’s my balls that get caught underneath the boulder.

I smack the shit out of that black widow.

But it’s too late.

And now, after all the venom

and the swelling and the oozing

and the scabbing,

well, my penis isn’t as pretty as it used to be.

I wouldn’t, but others might even use the words

“ugly” and “deformed”.

To be honest, it breaks my heart.

And no fuckin’ kidding, now, my penis, well,

it looks just like you.