Name It:
A tree-lined street. The perfect shade of pink. A smile. Being swaddled in warmth…something like a hug. A woman, enough like her to understand, but enough unlike her enough to show her something new; a song, maybe, that’s sung to bring something like peace. A heart lamp, broken glass, a small apartment with big windows—no. There’s no more time. There’s no more time and there’s nothing but time, sat in her seat flying past images, slick like rain on metal, flashing by her without even taking a moment to stop and introduce themselves. How rude? If they did stop, saying something like, hello, my name is, she’d listen closely and attentively. Yes, like the tree, because I’m green and tall and I stand strong in the wind, but wave a little with the breeze. I let rainwater wash over me, I let it nourish me, I let people lean on me and I hold them without trouble or fear. I exist for you, but really I exist for myself. My purpose is to stand straight and give beauty, stand straight and be hope. But she wouldn’t know because the scene flashed by her like a cop car on the way to a tragedy and did not introduce itself. She herself was on the way to a tragedy, so it felt most days; it felt like she woke up and brushed her teeth, did her makeup and dressed so she’d be perfectly ready for that day's tragedy. But there was no way to be perfectly ready for anything—not a tragedy—so instead she felt uneasy and sad all day, waiting, waiting for something she wasn’t ready for. What was even the purpose of that word? Ready. She’d come to learn there was no such thing. She’d come to learn that things simply happened, whether or not you were ready, and forcing yourself to be ready was a waste of energy, when instead, you could be using that energy to be, say, I don’t know, texting a friend or calling your mother.
When was the last time she’d done either? It dawned on her that she’d been wasting her energy. But wasn’t that life, just a big long waste of energy? Giving people your time and letting them waste it, giving people your soul and letting them squander it. And from this pain, learning things, doing it again, feeling it again until you found the person who did not waste or squander any part of you, loved you with unconditional grace. That’s what she’d been told. That everything from this point forward was just a series of trial and error until you got it right. And when you got it right, oh it would feel so good because you overcame the struggle, but she felt, truly in her heart, she knew, that she’d never best her struggle. She never learned to let go of pain, never knew how to drop it, could never let it be soothed by the glory of getting it right. But not that she didn’t want too—it being that she believed she couldn’t, truly, in her heart believed that when the day came and all was perfect and right in the world, when it was time to drop the baggage she’d been dragging around for so long, she’d look down and see the load was never separate from her, but apart of her whole the entire time, growing like a tumor in her side, infiltrating every cell in her body. She could never let it go. Everything appeared so ephemeral to her in a way no one else seemed to see, she was keenly aware that every single thing she clutched to for survival, was fake, no more real than a rug, that could be pulled out from her at any moment by a tragedy. A death, a flood, a big explosion, a plane crash, a sink hole opening up and swallowing it all, an earthquake. And so on.
The vehicle shook as it ran over a bump, she hit her head on the window which she rested it. The pain was sudden, sharp, and skinny. It knocked her out of her mind for a moment, forcing her to remember that she was not alone. In the row across the aisle from her, an older woman cloaked in black from head to toe sat with a child, who, also dressed in black, ate an orange like he’d never done so before. He let the juice drip all over himself, his mouth becoming sticky beyond belief and his hands covered in the little white strings of the oranges insides. The older woman responsible for him seemed completely uninterested in his mess, her attention focused on a small paper booklet she held in her hands. While he, working away at the fruit, took each slice and tore it open with his hands, letting the wet flesh touch the open air, picking at it with dirty hands, before placing both pieces in his mouth at once, chewing, and swallowing them. She found it strange and violent but so were many things. At least in her experience. And a small part of her believed that strange violence was a part of a boy's nature. The pair looked dressed for a funeral, though she hoped that isn’t where they were heading. He would be scolded, surely, the boy. He would be yelled at—maybe even hit—for ruining his good funeral clothes. On a day already uncharted for a child he’d be yelled at for not knowing, which is not a sin, nor a crime, but something it seems the world has grown completely intolerable of. At least he’d made the bus smell like citrus before he was punished. At least he wasn’t sitting next to her, sticky and unaware of it.
She looked the other way, out the window, and saw nothing. Large green fields stretching miles and miles. The occasional herd of cows. Signs in a language she didn’t recognize. How she wished to be unaware, how she wished to not know. She felt she knew everything. No. She knew every thing. Every thing which was meaningless, empty, and senile. Every thing which promised safety but only brought tragedy. She knew what was in the reflection of each mirror shrouded with smoke, it was her of course. Her face, her body, her self. She was the center of every thing, which meant she was the center of nothing.
What would make her happy? That question followed her everywhere. No plane ride or bus trip could sever the rope which tied her to it, nothing could break that ball and chain. A cool breeze. A plate with sunny side up eggs, hash browns, and bacon. Righteousness. The color purple. Sprinting from one end of the street to the next. Winning the race. Having a body was really torturous work, all it did was take and take, but having a mind was worse, because it took nothing but expected a lot. All your attention, all your focus, all your willpower, your hopes, your dreams. A mind is best used for wanting. Think of a dream that left your body in peril, left you distraught, angry, fearful, tired, think of what it took from you—nothing. The dream itself took little, so little it felt like nothing at all. It was the body that did the taking, the body that responded to the dream and felt the fear, the mind might’ve triggered the nervous system, but the body kept you up all night afterwards. The body takes in response to the mind, and the mind, though it takes nothing, wants everything.
The bus slowed as it turned into the next stop. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a lone sheep on the side of the road. It sat there, just looking. Watching the bus pass, fiddling with its jaw, breathing. Nothing more. How content it seemed, though she could never know for sure. Sitting, looking. She tried it too, sitting and looking, staring out of the window of the bus, watching the grey sky barrel into itself, clouds heavy and sinking like a bowling ball as they traveled alongside her. Outside there is so much grass and all of it is tinged yellow. More passengers got on. A white man with a silver beard walked slowly through the aisle, trying to find a seat. He had a long black jacket on and a plastic bag full to the brim with crap. There was a seat open next to her but she hoped no one sat down in it. She didn’t want to be near anyone, especially not a stranger. She feared being near someone new might taint her, in the close proximity of the bus the strangers thoughts and emotions would slowly bleed into hers, the way two strong scents intertwine to create a worse one. The white man stepped in front of her, looked down at the seat, as if he was ready to sit in it, then looked her in the eye, saw something in them he didn’t like, and turned back to the front of the bus.
Fine. She did not want anyone sitting next to her anyways, and especially not a man, those creatures who think they can lay claim over her. Anything could’ve happened if he were to sit down. He could’ve had a weapon in that plastic bag, multiple weapons, even. If she dozed off, head against the window, still and vulnerable, he could’ve reached over with a swift, quiet movement, and touched her. The freedom men lived in disturbed her. The idea that they moved through each day, not once thinking about how their actions affected the people around them. If, when, he sat down next to her and did as he pleased, with not an eye on him, and without the fear within him of consequence to stop him, she was at his mercy. Just sitting next to him, she was at his mercy.
More people entered the bus. A group of teenage girls beelined for the back. A man and his child found two seats near the second set of doors. A lone traveler with a big bag on his back squeezed between a family of five up front. He filled the gap between the mother and father, the gap they’d been using to store their stroller. Now the stroller had to be placed in the aisle, and the mother, visibly upset, held her purse tight and scanned the bus for another open seat. Still no one sat next to her, no one moved. An older woman with a shopping bag sat in the handicap seat. A man walked all the way up the aisle, then back down, before deciding to just stand. The only empty seat on the bus was the one next to her. She used little energy to wonder why. It was because she was black.
Hmph. Well, better for her. More space, more privacy. She started to wonder what she might do with her energy and her time if she didn’t have to waste so much of it? Maybe she would start her own business. She’d always liked the idea of being a chef, maybe she would open a restaurant. She read a lot of Anthony Bourdain, she felt there were no facets to him. It seemed, he was himself in every motion he made, everything he exerted his energy into was purposeful. In every episode of Parts Unknown he slipped into the new culture like a change of clothes, not faltering at moments of connection but diving right into them. No fear, no shame, not waiting at all to peel back the layers. Maybe it was because he was a man. Maybe it was because he knew something she didn’t, something fundamental about building a life. This thing he’d learned was something gained from his experiences about the world as a man. A part of her wanted to be like him, another felt sick at the thought.
As the bus started again she placed her leg on the empty seat and stretched out. If she was alone, then she’d be alone. She’d be selfish. That being the worst thing a woman can be, the most horrible thing a black woman can be, selfish. Not wanting to give up the self is close to a sin. Murder might be more forgivable, if she’d done it in favor of someone other than herself. Her body was not meant to hers. It never really had been, was always a vehicle for other people's hopes, dreams, ideas, cruelties, pain—tragedies. Her body was a taxi, she took everyone from one place to the next, partners, friends, her parents, all her family. Or maybe it was more like an Uber, because they took and took and she by the end of it she made no money, just wasted more and more. They took and in the end all she was left with were lessons. Don’t give to this kind of person. When someone does this, you do that. Don’t think about this until this happens. Always be ready for what might come but hasn’t yet.
What would make her happy? A tree lined street. Silence. Rooms with white walls and warm lighting. No one else is home. She picked up her bag from the floor of the bus and placed it on the seat next to her. The perfect piece of fruit. Stargazing. An empty notebook. The bus was going quicker than it had been, speeding to the next stop, her stop. Little animal figurines made of glass. A glass of orange juice. Knowing nothing. She opened her backpack and pulled out an apple. She bit into it, and it crunched between her teeth, loud and sharp. She felt like a horse, mashing into it with her mouth, chomping down again and again on the fruit, letting pieces of the skin stick to her face. It was a good apple, tart and sweet. She felt eyes on her, she felt everyone looking, but she was too afraid to look back to see it true. Instead she stayed in her own world, head against the window barreling forward. Let them look, let them see me as I am. Let them know I know every thing and I know nothing. A wave of sadness washed over her and retreated just as quickly. It pained her to think that this is it, this was all there was to life. Eating an apple on the bus and feeling nervous about it.
But it didn’t matter. Because life is what you make of it. That’s what she’d been told. It’s taking lemons and making lemonade, or a lemon cake, or pie, candied lemons—really anything. Life was about creation, it’s why we’re taught to ask our maker these things. God, what will make me happy? She asked him, often as a girl. He’d said, “Look at me and let my light wash over you child. Let it infiltrate you, let it sink you, only then, will it be revealed.” At his command I used my body for devotion, I placed my mind in his hands, expecting one day to feel it, know it. I opened my heart, I let it whelm me, and it took and took, until I was carrying things that weren’t mine. And soon I felt myself start to decay, felt the cells in my body start to break down, unraveling one by one, like a spool being pulled till I turned into a grey pile of detritus on my bedroom floor. And after a period of time spent sweeping myself up, digging through the dust and ashes of my body, finding the pieces I’d need to build myself again and throwing away the rest, I realized that if my maker was truly devoted to me in the way I was devoted to Him he would’ve told me to do exactly as he’d done; take the rib of a man and build a new woman, create myself with what I have in front of me, but when I’m done, kill the part of me that came from him.
“What will make me happy?” She asks herself for the last time. Or at least she hopes it’ll be, knowing that it won’t. The bus glides her into the station. There’s bright fluorescent lighting that dims as she moves through a tunnel, then emerges to brackish daylight. The driver announces the stop. She collects all of her things to go, and begins to walk down the aisle alone. No one else is getting off but her. Everyone seated is looking at her. She doesn’t want to look at anyone in the eyes to know it true but she already know’s it’s true so she might as well look. Right before the door glances at a man and his wife, sitting in the row second to the front, their heads pointed up at her, mouths wide open like baby birds, waiting to feed. She stops and looks at them. They don’t move their gaze. She doesn’t move either, doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of winning. But she must go now so she can begin. She pauses, sticks her tongue out of her mouth as far as it can go, looking mostly at the man but at the woman too, for as long as she can before a cold fear over takes, and right as it does, turns and rushes off the bus. She remembered her body.
