That was how it happened—at the playground. It was the gritty sand, the dark flutter of the swing in the background and I mean, the thing is, I don’t have to explain it because I know you can feel how it would be, that you know intuitively how you’d be afraid. It happens to every girl sometime, right?
The breeze floated into the hollows of the deepest corners of me, my arm-pits, the space between my toes, the concave of my ear—I was like a cathedral housing stained glass and ancient doorways, my body full of spaces, of immense ceilings and intricate gothic archways, so that I suddenly, too late, wasn’t sure if I was capable of opening this sacred place. There was a holy moment when I marveled at myself and knew that I hadn’t known how beautiful I was, but it was a short moment, ten seconds maybe that I had before I knew it was too late, like standing on the edge of a road about to cross, wondering if you can race the car that’s coming directly at the place you will run to, feeling the fleeting moment where your existence is intertwined with critical choice.
By then he was confident, sure of himself, and I knew I would not say no when I saw his face. Then when he stepped in, quietly, I suddenly knew he was not solemn enough, I could see it in the shine of his eyes, and I couldn’t stay there with him in my mind. I felt myself leave him there mentally, dreamily find a hazy purgatory where I could only think of the color of my father’s eyes. He did not know he was alone. I could not understand what I had done.
It was cold and I remember thinking about how difficult it would be to wash the sand out of my hair, how the shower would later contain dotted reminders of my impurity, swirling matrices of sand falling down the drain. I thought: T.S. Eliot “These fragments I have shored against my ruin.” Then I thought about the rise of my stomach close to my face and how strange it was to see myself from that angle looking down, how I seemed to belong to someone else—like a wrist watch, like a model airplane. I could not claim myself, I was not this girl. I was not afraid.
Afterwards I told him I wanted to fly on the spinning wheel and he pushed me laughing, with such gentleness that at first the shock of his touch on my arm when I was going around was like the softness of my father’s when he held me or embraced me—like when I was learning to dive and he put his hands on the small of my back to usher me into the pool headlong without fear. My father taught me to look at my belly-button, to concentrate on its shape and I would just slip in like a dolphin. That was how it was as I spun there, I thought I was a dolphin, I imagined that I was free and fast and shiny and strong and gone.
Saturday 18 July 2009
Saturday 11 July 2009
Running in December
“We are going running, Briana.” She tells me. “You have to get out of the house.”
“I don’t want to.” I say. I slouch limply on the couch, clenching the muscles in my throat, which burn with righteous indignation. I can still taste the vomit. The acid bites into my mouth like vodka.
“You have to go, come on.” She seems very small in the white doorway, already bundled for the zero degree New Hampshire weather. Her face is angular, her mouth tense, and her body is wrapped in mismatching colors and fabrics. I can hear the frustration in her voice—she needs me to change. I feel like an airline attendant at the counter.
“I can’t help you ma’am. I’m sorry the flight is all booked.”
And now I taste oatmeal rising, gummy, gluey.
“I’ll go.” I announce. “In a little while.” I turn back to watching the commercials on the television. I know she is still standing there because I can see her in the corner of my eye. My body feels like a coffin, dead weight.
“Come on, just come with me. I’ll go get the stuff you need, go upstairs and grab your tennis shoes.”
This time I know she is serious.
I see her feel as if she is losing me, like I am drifting far out in an inner tube on a summer lake and she is calling to me, “come back in a little, that’s too far.” Her voice shakes the lake water and ripples out from the dock.
I listen to the static of the TV as it drones in and out. A man talks about the ultimate exercise machine. I live in a place between me and her.
Then I turn back to her unsmiling face and begin to pull myself up slowly, as if in a dream, pushing against the rough patchwork of the couch for support. I finally stand and face her.
“I don’t want to.” I mumble angrily, even though I have just taken the first step towards getting up. I mosey towards her, dragging my feet a little on the carpet. As I reach the doorway, I pathetically clout the wall with my hand. It is my angry toddler protest against going; my last word. She knows I am coming.
Nana comes through the opposite doorway and sees us standing together, my mom wrapped up in winter clothes like a Christmas present.
“Where are you guys going?” She asks with her knowing, quietly hoping eyes.
“Briana and I are going for a run.” My mom pronounces as she goes to the closet in the next room. She opens the closet carefully, stretches her tiny body as far as she can to pull out a box from the top of the closet. She takes out her size 5 running shoes from the box and then heaves it back up to the top. I can see her arm muscles flex like the steel cords of a bridge.
“That sounds like a good idea.” Nana says encouragingly. She reaches and picks up my cereal bowl from the carpet. It is probably the fourth one this morning and sits on the carpet with the grimy remains of oatmeal clinging to its sides. I have eaten out of four different colored bowls this morning. I am too exhausted to care if she knows.
We walk outside into the snowy winter morning of New Hampshire. The weather is sub-degree and not the type of weather that anyone would take a jog in.
I see her begin to stretch. She walks me through every single step.
She says, “put your arms down and feel it in the back of your legs.”
I do it, stretching my legs, bouncing in staccato ballistic movements like a rag doll.
We reach to the sky, twirl our ankles, and crunch our hamstrings. I am getting bored and I am still tired.
She says, “are you cold?”
I nod and she places another scarf around my neck. It is ugly and blue. I am bloated and I want to let my legs collapse into the pavement and lie down. “I’m tired,” I say.
“Run in place for a couple of seconds,” she tells me.
I barely feel the cold. I only slightly notice the freezing of my cheeks. It feels lovely, like absolutely nothing is touching me. It feels like my cheeks and nose have taken Valium.
“Okay, you ready?” She asks. It doesn’t matter what my answer is, she begins running slowly ahead of me and glances back to make sure that I follow. She looks back and I see her eyes, they tell me that I am weak, that my body distrusts me, will not let me move right away because I keep lying to it.
I jog heavily, jarringly. My mom is slightly ahead of me, but my steps begin to fall in with hers and we create a rhythm. Our legs rise and fall together.
She is petite and always shops in the juniors section. Jogging softly in front of me, her small body is dissolved into her 80’s style coat and red mittens.
The air is cuttingly cold and I taste it. Its freshness is like water in my thirsty throat. I wonder what it would be like to taste cold fingers of air going down my throat all of the time. My body loosens slightly in my bundled track suit.
The ice snaps, crackles, and pops as I jog. I love hearing it crack because then I know it is resisting the weight of my body. I want it to break open so that I hit the hard pavement beneath. I begin to feel the iciness of the wind as it slaps my face.
I want to cry because I know I will forget.
The woods around us shelter our running. We are safe within a winter wonderland of ice and drooping branches. I love how the snow on the side of the road reflects beads of sunlight and how the sun is also refracted through the trees onto our faces. My mom is steady ahead of me. She never changes her pace, just glances back to make sure I am still close. Usually I just watch her feet, concentrating on the movement, the swish, swish of legs switching places. It seems like a long time and the road seems to turn and become longer with every second. My throat is frozen and my lungs feel tight. The sun, cold though it is, continues to stream off the snow again and again. The snow is bright like it will explode into all colors of the rainbow because of the intensity of the concentration of light.
The rhythm of our jogging is satisfying. We reach a hill and I feel my legs slowing and the resistance increase. There is a stop sign that is faintly visible at the top of the hill and my mom looks back to say, “We are almost there. You can make it to the stop sign.”
I muster up my breath, “Let’s- walk- the –rest.” I tell her.
“Just make it to this stop sign.”
I focus on the gleaming red glint of the sign and will myself to reach it. A couple steps before we reach it together, I slow to a leisurely walk and tears come to my eyes. We walk for a little while on the side of the road, breathing deeply. There is one more hill before my grandma’s road. We are nearing the end now.
When we reach my grandma’s driveway, I realize how tired my muscles are.
My mom turns to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. “That was a good run. You ran almost 3 miles.” She smiles.
I grunt with the small breath I have left and we walk in silence up the driveway to the house, I am still tasting the air, watching the world go by a little slower, crunching the ice left on the road. We walk side-by-side.
In the house, I take off my running shoes and brush the ice off of the bottoms of my pants. The house is warm and the dish washer is whirring. I have nothing to do, so I plop back on the couch to relax. My mom goes upstairs and I realize that my grandma has gone shopping. I am alone in the living room with the TV. The room seems darker than before and I can feel a headache coming on. The television switches to commercials. It’s the exercise guy again.
I get up and meander back into the kitchen. The cereal cabinet is cracked, slightly open. I reach in and try to grab the box of Lucky Charms and uncrinkle the bag inside without making too much noise. I hurriedly shovel the cereal out of the box and grab the milk, forgetting to shut the fridge door completely.
Upstairs she will hear the drop, crackle, drop of the cereal rolling over itself into the bowl. She will be in the middle of taking off her running suit and wet socks, readying herself to take a warm shower and prepare for the day. She will slip into the shower as the television drones on downstairs.
In the kitchen, with my legs propped up on the table, I will eat my cereal methodically.
“I don’t want to.” I say. I slouch limply on the couch, clenching the muscles in my throat, which burn with righteous indignation. I can still taste the vomit. The acid bites into my mouth like vodka.
“You have to go, come on.” She seems very small in the white doorway, already bundled for the zero degree New Hampshire weather. Her face is angular, her mouth tense, and her body is wrapped in mismatching colors and fabrics. I can hear the frustration in her voice—she needs me to change. I feel like an airline attendant at the counter.
“I can’t help you ma’am. I’m sorry the flight is all booked.”
And now I taste oatmeal rising, gummy, gluey.
“I’ll go.” I announce. “In a little while.” I turn back to watching the commercials on the television. I know she is still standing there because I can see her in the corner of my eye. My body feels like a coffin, dead weight.
“Come on, just come with me. I’ll go get the stuff you need, go upstairs and grab your tennis shoes.”
This time I know she is serious.
I see her feel as if she is losing me, like I am drifting far out in an inner tube on a summer lake and she is calling to me, “come back in a little, that’s too far.” Her voice shakes the lake water and ripples out from the dock.
I listen to the static of the TV as it drones in and out. A man talks about the ultimate exercise machine. I live in a place between me and her.
Then I turn back to her unsmiling face and begin to pull myself up slowly, as if in a dream, pushing against the rough patchwork of the couch for support. I finally stand and face her.
“I don’t want to.” I mumble angrily, even though I have just taken the first step towards getting up. I mosey towards her, dragging my feet a little on the carpet. As I reach the doorway, I pathetically clout the wall with my hand. It is my angry toddler protest against going; my last word. She knows I am coming.
Nana comes through the opposite doorway and sees us standing together, my mom wrapped up in winter clothes like a Christmas present.
“Where are you guys going?” She asks with her knowing, quietly hoping eyes.
“Briana and I are going for a run.” My mom pronounces as she goes to the closet in the next room. She opens the closet carefully, stretches her tiny body as far as she can to pull out a box from the top of the closet. She takes out her size 5 running shoes from the box and then heaves it back up to the top. I can see her arm muscles flex like the steel cords of a bridge.
“That sounds like a good idea.” Nana says encouragingly. She reaches and picks up my cereal bowl from the carpet. It is probably the fourth one this morning and sits on the carpet with the grimy remains of oatmeal clinging to its sides. I have eaten out of four different colored bowls this morning. I am too exhausted to care if she knows.
We walk outside into the snowy winter morning of New Hampshire. The weather is sub-degree and not the type of weather that anyone would take a jog in.
I see her begin to stretch. She walks me through every single step.
She says, “put your arms down and feel it in the back of your legs.”
I do it, stretching my legs, bouncing in staccato ballistic movements like a rag doll.
We reach to the sky, twirl our ankles, and crunch our hamstrings. I am getting bored and I am still tired.
She says, “are you cold?”
I nod and she places another scarf around my neck. It is ugly and blue. I am bloated and I want to let my legs collapse into the pavement and lie down. “I’m tired,” I say.
“Run in place for a couple of seconds,” she tells me.
I barely feel the cold. I only slightly notice the freezing of my cheeks. It feels lovely, like absolutely nothing is touching me. It feels like my cheeks and nose have taken Valium.
“Okay, you ready?” She asks. It doesn’t matter what my answer is, she begins running slowly ahead of me and glances back to make sure that I follow. She looks back and I see her eyes, they tell me that I am weak, that my body distrusts me, will not let me move right away because I keep lying to it.
I jog heavily, jarringly. My mom is slightly ahead of me, but my steps begin to fall in with hers and we create a rhythm. Our legs rise and fall together.
She is petite and always shops in the juniors section. Jogging softly in front of me, her small body is dissolved into her 80’s style coat and red mittens.
The air is cuttingly cold and I taste it. Its freshness is like water in my thirsty throat. I wonder what it would be like to taste cold fingers of air going down my throat all of the time. My body loosens slightly in my bundled track suit.
The ice snaps, crackles, and pops as I jog. I love hearing it crack because then I know it is resisting the weight of my body. I want it to break open so that I hit the hard pavement beneath. I begin to feel the iciness of the wind as it slaps my face.
I want to cry because I know I will forget.
The woods around us shelter our running. We are safe within a winter wonderland of ice and drooping branches. I love how the snow on the side of the road reflects beads of sunlight and how the sun is also refracted through the trees onto our faces. My mom is steady ahead of me. She never changes her pace, just glances back to make sure I am still close. Usually I just watch her feet, concentrating on the movement, the swish, swish of legs switching places. It seems like a long time and the road seems to turn and become longer with every second. My throat is frozen and my lungs feel tight. The sun, cold though it is, continues to stream off the snow again and again. The snow is bright like it will explode into all colors of the rainbow because of the intensity of the concentration of light.
The rhythm of our jogging is satisfying. We reach a hill and I feel my legs slowing and the resistance increase. There is a stop sign that is faintly visible at the top of the hill and my mom looks back to say, “We are almost there. You can make it to the stop sign.”
I muster up my breath, “Let’s- walk- the –rest.” I tell her.
“Just make it to this stop sign.”
I focus on the gleaming red glint of the sign and will myself to reach it. A couple steps before we reach it together, I slow to a leisurely walk and tears come to my eyes. We walk for a little while on the side of the road, breathing deeply. There is one more hill before my grandma’s road. We are nearing the end now.
When we reach my grandma’s driveway, I realize how tired my muscles are.
My mom turns to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. “That was a good run. You ran almost 3 miles.” She smiles.
I grunt with the small breath I have left and we walk in silence up the driveway to the house, I am still tasting the air, watching the world go by a little slower, crunching the ice left on the road. We walk side-by-side.
In the house, I take off my running shoes and brush the ice off of the bottoms of my pants. The house is warm and the dish washer is whirring. I have nothing to do, so I plop back on the couch to relax. My mom goes upstairs and I realize that my grandma has gone shopping. I am alone in the living room with the TV. The room seems darker than before and I can feel a headache coming on. The television switches to commercials. It’s the exercise guy again.
I get up and meander back into the kitchen. The cereal cabinet is cracked, slightly open. I reach in and try to grab the box of Lucky Charms and uncrinkle the bag inside without making too much noise. I hurriedly shovel the cereal out of the box and grab the milk, forgetting to shut the fridge door completely.
Upstairs she will hear the drop, crackle, drop of the cereal rolling over itself into the bowl. She will be in the middle of taking off her running suit and wet socks, readying herself to take a warm shower and prepare for the day. She will slip into the shower as the television drones on downstairs.
In the kitchen, with my legs propped up on the table, I will eat my cereal methodically.
Stomach Flu in Oxford
I have the stomach flu. On my first weekend in Oxford, at the most incredibly university in the world. Instead of peeking into marvelously old bookstores and sipping a mocha at Costa while perusing ancient copies of George Eliot or Virginia Woolf--I am writhing in pain, trying to sleep, and starting a blog--because I just realized that every cool English major I know seems to have a blog.What better time to start one than now? I will always remember how it was under these horribly disgusting circumstances that I first posted onto my beautiful blog. The irony.
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