5/1/2011
“You’re using your vagina for research?!” Peace Corps volunteer friend squeals at me while shoveling chunks of cheese into her mouth.
“Jesus ew. No. I’m just saying.” I defend. “I’m starting to understand this tangled web of sexual relations between the people here.”
“Oh really?”
“Their lack of getting to know each other. This segregation between the genders, it all causes people to cheat. And now I’m thinking its being born into a world of tragedy that causes them to close up and live behind these self protecting walls. ROMANCE IS DEAD IN SWAZILAND. And I’m starting to understand all this because well, I’ve dated “them”. Men who grew up with ambassador fathers or infamous lawyer dads who stayed out all night fucking other women while their mothers sat at home crying to their ten year olds about their cheating fathers. ‘I promised my mother I’d never be like my father, but it’s exactly who I am today. It’s all I saw growing up. I don’t know how to NOT be HIM.’ They’d confide in me. I mean take this one guy for instance….”
“At eleven I said, ‘Fuck dogs’.” My new Zimbabwean friend tells me over dinner.
“At age eleven you said fuck dogs?” I laugh. “I’m impressed. But not surprised.”
“Why aren’t you surprised?” He asks.
“Because….” I lean across the table and whisper now. “Let’s face it. You’re African. Way to fulfill THAT stereotype.”
Zimbabwe begins to tell me his story. He doesn’t hate dogs but rather no longer desires them in his life. Growing up, his best friend was his dog and at the young impressionable age of eleven, his best friend died on him.
“And now. I say, fuck dogs. I gave it a shot.” He smiles. I think about all the dogs I’ve buried this past year. I could never say, “Fuck dogs”.
“Same goes for love. Why risk it when you know it’s only going to end in tears, pain, and unbearable anguish?” I can’t help but shoot my crooked finger in the air and protest, “Wait a minute.” I say. I’ve heard this before many times and I still struggle to understand how someone can so easily just give up on love. I shift in my seat, preparing to talk about myself, again.
“I mean I’m someone whose been falling in love since before grade school.” I tell him. Let’s see. Kevin Easterday. Kindergarten. Showing him how to kiss in the closet. Caught by the jealous Jessica who told the teacher. Then there was Chad in the third grade and the love letter I wrote Toby in yellow crayon in case someone else found it. In my mind, only Tobey had the ability to read yellow. Unfortunately, so did Mrs. Sprecklemeyer. Then there was the blue eyed Jesse James Gerrard. The rebel who no doubt gave my mother panic attacks. Then came the peer-proclaimed dyke phase. Thank you Katie Hamilton. Quickly proved them wrong when I started dating a man four years older than me and of course gave my mother more panic attacks.
No. Falling in love had never been hard for me. And how many times I ended up hurting myself- was uncountable. Heartache so bad it moved you to listen to Coldplay for pete’s sake. COLDPLAY. And yet, I always bounced back, ready to do it all over again. So I smile big and tell Zimbabwe, “The sweet ain’t as sweet without the sour baby. Or at least that’s what Jason Lee said in ‘Vanilla Sky’.”
Yup. It’s always been worth it for me. But why. Why had it always been so easy for me and not for others? In High School, my best friend catches her father cheating on her mother. Ten years later and still it’s, “Fuck men.” Another friend, grows up watching the boy she loves fall in love with every friend that surrounds her, but never her. To this day, can’t seem to put her safety wall down and let a man in. Sometimes I envy their lack of emotional ties whereas I feel pulled from every person every which way. But again, I ask myself why. Maybe they had never experienced REAL love? Maybe their heart vessels were smaller than my own.
“At 34 and you’ve never been IN love?” I ask Mamba.
“Nope. I don’t know. Lack of options maybe. They all seem to fall for me and I just end up hurting them.”
This is blowing my mind.
So I ask Zimbabwe, “Have you ever been in love?”
He thinks it over. He ponders a bit then says, “I think so. Yes. Maybe. No? I don’t know. How do you know?” And like I once told my best friend, raised a Southern Baptist, when she asked me in High School, “How do you know when you’ve had an orgasm?”
I replied, “When you know you know. And if you aren’t sure then as my favorite ancient guru, the eight ball, so eloquently puts it ‘Outlook not so good.’ Or ’Try again later.’”
“So you go on dates with men to understand them?” Peace Corps friend clarifies.
“Well that certainly sounds better than, ‘Using my vagina for the sake of research’.” I smile.
An RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer) who served in Lesotho and is now working in Swaziland, with Baylor, came here to conduct surveys and interviews with the Men Having Sex with Men (MSM) and sex worker population. Our country director tells us, “So if you have any questions for him he’ll be holding a conference at our office next week.” Myself and 4 other Peace Corps volunteers arrive early that morning. I’m the only “straight” one in the bunch. Question after question is asked and I find myself slowly taking over the discussion. I hadn’t realized how much I already knew about the relationship dynamics in this country.
But it wasn’t just the few men I’d been on dates with that I learned from. It was the sex worker whose hair I held back as she puked guts into the toilet. She wipes her chin and pulls out her wallet filled with pictures of all the children she never sees. Or the pub, Mario’s, that the homosexual population considers their “underground gay bar” but the rest of Swaziland has no idea the entertainment being delivered to them every Thursday night is really Gay Karaoke. Or the Chinese Bar in Manzini, that attracts sex workers. I wait for the drunken man talking to the two prostitutes, who sit at their usual booth, to leave then watch as they signal other customers over. I pay close attention to these signals and the ones used by the gay community. Sign language to let a person know, you’re game. Then there’s the very direct and simple Afrikaners I’ve met over the years. Dancing at a club in Ezulwini with friends, a tall and lean young man swoops me off my feet and begins teaching me how to do some ballroom shuffle. His head looks down on mine, and I can hear him breathing. He places is hand securely on my lower back, guiding me where he wants me to go. It was the first time I’d allowed someone to guide me in such an assertive manner and it was the first time I’d felt like a lady in quite a while. Afterwards, I tell him I’m dating Mamba and he says to me, “Well then, I’ll stop trying. I’m not racist but I don’t share a woman with a black man.” Or the other Afrikaner I fought with who drunkenly yelled at a young and very frightened bartender. He demanded she give him her name. You’d be surprised how much power these white supremacsts have and I didn’t want her to loose her job.
“This is Phindile. We’re good friends.” I lie to the Afrikaner.
“Hey. Little girl. Stay out of this.” He grunts back.
“Hey neandrathal. Evolve.” I hiss.
Now, towering over me, this one isn’t in the mood for a dance, he shouts, “Fucking Americans. If you don’t teach these monkeys how customer service is done, they’ll never learn!”
“He buddy. Apartheids over. Why don’t ya go throw a football laterally you jock!” My Peace Corps friend holding me back.
“But I wanna Dexter style head butt this a hole!” I shout.
A few months later, out with Mamba and co., he introduces me to a new set of friends of his- the biker guys. And there sat tall neandrathal man glaring back at me.
“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” I smile smug with my arm extended.
Mamba later asks, “Did I miss something?”
“I might have shoulder-shoved him a few months back.”
“Dammit Mere. Afrikaners are not afraid to hit their women. They’re very deeply troubled people.” He points to a man standing at the back of the bar. “See that guy. He found out his wife was cheating on him so he stood under a scalding hot shower for thirty minutes.” The man turns his head our way and I notice the whole left side is almost melted off. “Then he took his wife and son for a ride and drove everyone off a cliff. Thankfully, they all survived.”
“Jesus. So what happened?”
“They’re Afrikan. They don’t divorce.”
The family walks over to greet us and I shake their hands. They seemed ridiculously happy, as if I’d seen them on some Quaker Oats commercial.
“You think they’re bad. Try the second -generation coloreds. (Bi-racial). You find that colored people only seem to want to be with other colored people and hang with only colored people. So naturally, they procreate and have second generation colored babies. These children grow up not really knowing what they are, white or black, and become very angry and violent.”
I wonder who would win in a fight, an Afrikaner or second generation “Colored”?
I was beginning to think Swazi.
Then there’s all the hours added up in the bathrooms of bars I’ve spent with drunken girls touching my hair in awe and talking about their cheating boyfriends as they lean their beer heavy bodies on me. “Doesn’t matter. I’m gonna fuck that guy outside anyway.” They laugh. “These guys have a different sim card for every woman.” They laugh. Sim card is a card you put in your phone with a registered number. Do we have these back home? I can’t even remember anymore. Mamba waits outside the ladies room impatiently. He rolls his eyes when I finally come out, holding another drunken one up.“Can’t take you anywhere.” He groans. “We can’t leave her like this.” I protest. “Dammit woman. Not again.” He moans. And we can’t forget the drunken men, cops and lawyers, at the shady sheebeens I share drinks with as they ask me about oral sex and how to keep a woman interested. Mamba again, shaking his head in the background. Or the older ladies in the locker room who tell me what the sex life is like for a Swazi woman over the age of thirty. Or the camp counselors I’ve worked with who keep me up all night asking questions about a white man’s penis and telling me what kinds of “foreplay” is appropriate in their country.
And my students. Who bare it all everyday to me. Debates and discussions in the classroom about relationships and sexuality. “If my girlfriend is gone I’d have sex with my best mate.” But this isn’t gay, to them. And then there’s the young girls who finally work up the courage and whisper to me after class, “Simphiwe. Can I ask you something?”
Today, one finds me in the library, surrounded by books.
“Is it true what you said about checking someone’s virginity? That you can’t?” She asks me looking down.
I pop up from off the floor, “You mean the hymen?” I clarify. “Most girls have already broken their’s even if they haven’t had sex. You can’t really check that sort of thing.”
“So, let’s say.” She continues now, tears fill her eyes and she continues to look down. I grab her hand and lead her to a chair.
“It’s OK. You can ask me anything.” I say.
“Let’s say you were raped when you were five. And you haven’t had sex since then. Will your future husband be able to tell you have had sex before?”
I explain the vagina as a muscle. Muscles stretch and muscles go back.
“One day.” She continues, tears streaming down her face now. “I was late returning home from school. I missed the bus. My step-mother didn’t believe me. She accused me of having sex with the boys in the bushes. So she told me she was going to check to see if I was still a virgin.”
She holds on tight to the bottom of her chair, trying hard to hold back the tears.
“She held me down. She AND her friends, and.. ah…. they checked. They shoved their fingers inside me and told me I wasn’t a virgin anymore. They laughed and said they were right all along.”
“So now you’re afraid your future husband will say the same thing to you?” I ask.
“He won’t want me anymore Simphiwe. He won’t understand.” I struggle to find the right words. Now is not the time to bash her step-mother.
“I don’t have sex because I’m so scared. My step-mother says all men are pigs. And what if she’s right? He’ll never understand.”
“Why did you tell me about this?” I ask her. “Why didn’t you go to the other teachers?”
She lifts her head and looks at me, “Because. They’ll talk about me to the other teachers. They all gossip and judge. They won’t understand either. I know you won’t say anything. I know you understand. That you care.”
“So now you know what to look for in a partner. (Seems obvious to us, but for these girls identifying these qualities in a person is not easy. Most don’t know these traits are possible in a person.) These are the qualities you need in a man.” I tell her. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life with someone you can’t open up to? To someone who won’t understand and only judge you?”
“No.”
“Here. Help me get these books inside here. I’ll teach you how fiction is organized.”
(I’ve learned when someone has a hard time opening up, keeping their hands busy while they talk is a good way to relieve the nerves.)
“Fiction?” She asks.
“Tuesdays and Thursdays. My library club. You must come.” I smile.
We sit together, organizing fiction by the author’s last name.
“Your step-mother was wrong to hold you down like that. What she did was abuse. You need to know that. And she was wrong to tell you ALL men are pigs. You’re doing the right thing and waiting. Don’t ever settle. OK? I promise you. Men are like wine. They get better with age. MUCH age. You’re in high school. You’ve got plenty of time.”
“OK.”
I hold my hand out. She puts Judy Blume down and puts her hand in mine.
“We’re in this together.” I tell her.“Women. It’s never been easy for us, especially here, but you’ve shown me today how brave you are.”
“I want to tell her my uncle raped me. I want to tell her I forgive her for what she did and I love her for putting me through school and taking me in when my parents left. Church tells us to forgive. I forgive her. I forgive my parents for leaving me. And I even forgive him. If I ever saw him again, I would tell him just that. I forgive you.”
Swaziland, as I’ve stated before, has been torn apart. Families and relationships are destroyed, leaving behind thick trails of dishonesty, jealousy, betrayal, unimaginable cruelty and apathy for the children to learn on their own. There desperately needs to be a study done to understand the root of the problem in this country. What is causing such a stunt in their social growth? If only Kinsey were here with me now. We’d interview, survey, seek to understand why it is they do what they do. We’d write books, journals, articles- all would be published. We’d eventually win a Pulitzer or whatever prize it is a good little writer wins. He’d pat me on the shoulder and say, “Well done my friend. Well done.” I’d look up at him and say, “Now, seriously man, can you loose the stupid bowtie?” He’d respond, “OK, Justin Beiber hair-cut.” And I’d say, “Touché my friend. Touché.”
But there’s a fine line between reporting and helping people. I’m constantly torn, trying to do both. All the stories I’ve heard and seen. All the times I’ve been told, “Stay out of it.”
At a backpackers, volunteers and I share a meal with a man. Middle aged and white South African.
“I’m a photographer.” He tells us.
“We’re Peace Corps.” I say back.
He laughs, “All those bloody rules you have to follow. How do you do it?”
“It keeps me here without having to pay.”
He continues to tell us stories of shooting pictures during the apartheid. “It’s incredibly challenging to stand back and shoot photo after photo of people dying right in front of you, and not being able to do anything. People scrutinize, and you start to feel the guilt.” He says cool and cavalier. “My best mate couldn’t take it. He ended up killing himself.”
Turns out, his friend is the one who took the famous shot of the vulture stalking the Sudanese child. I remember seeing this award-winning photo years ago.
“Things start to come into perspective when you’ve been shot yourself.”
“You were shot?” I ask.
“And I watched my other buddy die. We called ourselves The Bang Bang Club. We were constantly being shot at.” My friend grabs my hand under the table, and whispers through the left side of her mouth, “Holy shit. This is Greg Marinovich. I’m reading his book.”
“Can I just say, it’s an honor to meet you.” My friend says. “Your book is on my nightstand table as we speak.”
“You have a nightstand?” I joke.
“They’re actually making a film about it.” He says.
“And who will be playing you?” I ask.
“Ryan Phillipe.”
He looks nothing like Ryan Phillipe.
“So what’s the secret?” I ask. “To keep traveling and have a family.”
“You marry someone else who understands. My wife travels for her work as well. We take shifts watching the kids. Or they come with us. We have an understanding.”
The next few days, I thought heavily on his words, “It’s incredibly challenging to stand back and shoot photo after photo of people dying right in front of you, and not being able to do anything about it.”
I couldn’t help but feel incredibly self-righteous every time I wrote.
About a year ago, things began to change for me. Once these people seemed like animals at a zoo. Not the usual black bear or red fox- but the rare and new meer cat all the way from Africa. I was mesmerized. But from a distance, a far far distance, I thought, I could never be like “them”. And around a year ago, I had gone from taking notes and photos and living amongst this crowd to becoming one of them.
“You volunteers thinking you’re better than us.” Mamba once told me. “It’s always us vs. you guys. Like we’re so different.”
At some point, during my service, some part of my lower brain stem had started to understand and recognize the way they did things. My understanding led me to start doing them myself. My thoughts became more, “Swazi”. I may never be “them” on paper, or really anyone other than myself- but my behavior was becoming more and more like “them” and I didn’t know if this was a good thing or bad thing.
“We need to talk.” I tell Mamba at our usual restaurant.
“Ah oh. Four words anyone in a relationship hates hearing.” He says to me.
“Is that what this is?” I ask.
“Well. Yeah. I mean. You’re my girl.” He laughs.
“Yeah.” I exhale. “I guess. I don’t know how comfortable I am with that.”
His eyes no longer twinkle with playfulness.
“What did you do Mere?”
My razor stubbled legs, crossed together, rub and burn with sweat. I tap my foot in the air nervously. You’ve got the wrong girl. I think.
“Tell me.” He says dis-alarmingly.
My lips are numb with wasps squeezed between them, afraid to let these wings out.
So. I tell him a story that went something like, one thing led to another. Yadda yadda yadda. “And I just thought you should know.”
His once sparkling eyes now look down on me.
“So. Now you’re the people you call THEM.” He says.
A long and as to be expected pause.
“You wanna know why I’m 34 and single.” He continues. “Because I CHOOSE to be. I could easily be married with children by now. But I don’t want to be apart of this. This sexual network that YOU are now apart of.”
I hold back emotion. Which has never been easy for me.
“You think I don’t know what it’s like? You go to Brook’s homestead ‘sister’s’ funeral and think you’re Swazi now? Think you know? They call you Simphiwe. They call her Fikile. Your Peace Corps made up names. I’ve buried so many because of this disease. I watched my cousin waste away. And so many others like him. I LIVE this.”
“I know.” I whisper back.
“Am I just research to you?”
“God of course not.” I plead.
Welcome to the wonderful world of multiple-concurrent partners, starring: Me.
“Do you remember what you said to me the first time we met, almost two years ago?” He asks. “You told me, ‘Not a chance.’ And walked off. You assumed that’s all I was after. That I was just like them.”
“I’ve changed.”
“You’ve grown, and that’s what I like about you. Your ability to grow, learn, seek out answers, even when it gets you into trouble over and over again. How many times has Brook gotten drunk and yelled at you, ‘Everybody just LOVES SIMPHIWE. It’s always about SIMPHIWE. SIMPHIWE. SIMPHIWE. SIMPHIWE!’Every place I take you two, people just flock to you. People are naturally attracted to you. You’re open. You’re willing to hold anyone’s hand no matter what. You don’t roll your eyes and set us apart like other outsiders. But you still have SO much to learn. You judge me for never being in love. You judge Brook for being too scared to fall in love. But it’s all shit Mere. You’re the one who’s too afraid to fall in love. You talk about that guy back home that you loved for so many years. The men you’ve dated since then and every time you start to get close, to feel something you fuck it up. Run away and hurt him. You hide behind other people’s suffering. You write their stories. But YOU are the one who’s too scared. Too scared to look at yourself.”
Mamba stands to leave. “I’ve never read your blog. Nor do I want to. But I’m sure you write about everyone and their flaws and how they must change. But do you have the strength to do that to yourself?” He grabs my arm and turns it over, “Vula Emehlo.”
He walks out the door. And this time, I don’t stop him.
I sit at our table. Alone now. The chicken mayo sandwich looking back at me. Watching. Judging. I listen to the dim electric buzz of the clock overhead. Watching me. Judging. Loudly counting the seconds, minutes, hours, until I’ve figured myself out. Or at least, grow the fuck up. My paint was beginning to chip off and exposing veins and insecurities now bled through. Patches of bare bone stuck out. An explosion has gone off inside me, leaving a clean flattened area for room to grow. Or so I hoped. I’m stuck in this moment of realization. His ability to hold up a mirror and show me my inner-self was completely necessary and truly un-nerving.
“Fuck.” I exhale kicking a chair. I stand to go, leaving an un-touched chicken mayo behind. Which has never happened. Those around stare, as they always do. I shout back, “Ubuka ini?!” (What are you looking at?)
The synapses keep firing away inside my head. I’m outside and people pass greeting. As they always do. I entertain them with a fake look when really my thoughts are with him. I curve my lips upwards to squeeze out a smile, but my eyes remain the same: sunken, sullen. I keep going over the last 30 minutes in my mind.
“You write your stories about us and you think you’re so different.” He said to me.
“This isn’t about ME. My blog isn’t some journal or diary. I write about what I see.”
“No, it’s always been about you.”
“Fine. You want me to write about myself. I’ll write about myself!” I shout at him inside the now echoing restaurant. “I’m fully capable of judging myself. To be judged by others.”
A borderline psychotic and narcissitic confessional if you ask me, but if that’s what it takes. I can do this, expose myself. Other Peace Corps blogs of projects, workshops, the weird fungus growing between their toes, the shouts of frustration about the apathy here. Their thoughts and opinions on these “Host Country Nationals”. What crazy thing their host brother said today. Living in a country with the highest rate of HIV, where everyone is casually fucking. Why?! Little PCV’s scream Why?!
I, a Peace Corps Volunteer, had casual sex and I hurt someone. Peace Corps Volunteers aren’t the saints that everyone (back home) makes them up to me. I can’t go home with this false identity.
And now I stand in my neighboring PCV’s hut, pacing, mumbling. “Just tell me.” He pleads. “It can’t be THAT bad.” I look down and whisper what it is I came here for. “You need PEP?” He repeats. “Yes!” I screech. “You mean the drugs I brought from the States that you made fun of me for carrying?” Two years ago, my neighboring PCV and friend declares to the rest of the volunteers during training, “Now if any of you think you might be at risk of exposure to HIV, just so you know, I brought along PEP.” Back when we didn’t know what PEP was. Back when this volunteer confessed his feelings for me. Ignorance. He explains, “Post exposure prophylaxis. One pill everyday and it pretty much decreases chance of transmission to 0.” I shouted back, “Nerd alert!”
But now I speak weak, “Yes. Ironic. But still. Can I have it?” I ask again.
“Before you can start it, you need to get tested. Which means Peace Corps would be involved.”
We walk to the nearest clinic instead. “I think it’s ridiculous.” He tells me along the way. “Peace Corps doesn’t let us test for HIV on our own. That we have to go to them.” I nod in agreement. “And that they don’t encourage us to come in and get tested during our medical evaluations throughout the two years.” I laugh, “Well if any of us DID contract HIV while serving, it’d be on Peace Corps dime. They don’t want that. But I could never go to them for help. Asking the Peace Corps Medical Officer to be tested and to get on PEP could get me sent home.” I tell him. “I don’t want to risk going home with only three months left. I shouldn’t have to risk my safety in order to stay.” I remember back to a previous volunteer who asked to be tested and put on PEP. The Peace Corps Medical Officer let it leak to other volunteers about her “high risk behavior” and soon everyone knew. This volunteer became outcasted, and threatened to be sent home. People still talk about this “deviant” volunteer. “Condoms break. Your service shouldn’t be threatened because of this.” My friend tells me. “Even if I were raped.” I say. “I’d never go to them. They blame us too often. You remember how they treated me last time. I wouldn’t risk it again. And I know so many others who’d rather keep quiet.”
My friend and I, the only one I can trust, walk to the nearest clinic to ask for two rapid tests.
“Two?” I ask him.
“Yeah.” He smiles back. “I can’t let you test alone.”
“But you could get into trouble for testing outside of Peace Corps.”
“I’m playing pharmacy and giving you PEP, I could get in trouble for a lot of things today.”
“Thank you.” I whisper, holding back the tears.
Back inside his hut, he lays the two tests out on the table. I pace back and forth. My heart skips every other beat as I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans. “I can’t do this.” I tell him. “Everyone is nervous, no matter what they did, to take an HIV test. It’s completely normal.” He grabs my finger and pricks the side. Blood oozes out onto the tiny strip. He does the same to his. “Now. We wait.”
“FUCK. This is worse than a pregnancy test.” I yell. I continue to pace, shaking. My head burns hot and I’m feeling light headed. “Here.” He hands me a shot of vodka. “Take…” Before he can finish I down it. “Ooookkkkk. Well, One more for good measure.” He continues. Two shots later and he’s hovering over our blood strips. My future, I think, lies on one little strip. All of a sudden a masters, a marriage, and babies didn’t seem so bad. I just wanted a life a head of me. Again, now I know why it’s so hard for “them” to test.
This is my close up. And I’m sharing it with you.
PCV friend smiles big. “We’re not pregnant!” He laughs. I raise my hand, about to hit him. “Relax. It’s negative. It’s negative.” He rubs my hair, as if I were some cute little puppy he just rescued, and hands me the PEP. “This shit is very toxic. Are you sure you want to take it? Once you start you can’t go back.” I grab the bottle, pull out a pill and swallow. “Now I spoke with one of the doctors from Baylor and he says to take one everyday at the same time until it’s gone. There are a few side effects. Depression. Anxiety. Acid reflux. Nascia. Don’t take any other medication while you’re on this or drink alcohol. Just to be safe. And for god’s sake, if anyone asks, especially Peace Corps, you didn’t get this from me.”
“Thank you.” I say to him.
“You doin’ OK Mere? You can tell me.”
“Yeah.” I say. “I’m good. I’m always good.” I smile and quickly punch him in the gut to lighten the mood.
I arrive home. No dogs to greet me now. I walk alone. I sit on the edge of my bed waiting to hear the banging of my burglar bar door as my dogs come barreling in for a landing. Silence surrounds me. I can only hear Mamba’s words.
And he was right. Zimbabwe says fuck dogs. My friends say fuck men. Mr. Bang Bang Club tells us about the fine line of us and them. Recording or helping. And I sit here, guilty.
I’m not really sure why, but I had learned to keep any real emotion towards another person as superficial as possible. I’d rather talk about other people’s tragedies, than my own. As much as I was afraid of getting hurt, I was just as horrified at the thought of hurting someone else again. Rather fuck it up in the beginning. Skip through all the mushy bits. I never wanted to fuck it up with a title or some stupid term of endearment. He’d call me sweetie and I’d respond with a punch to the stomach. “Don’t call me that.” I’d say. And even still, I’m unable to listen to the sappy tunes of Mr. Coldplay.
I never told Mamba how much he meant to me. How much I appreciated him. That unlike the rest, I noticed, he liked me just as I am. He didn’t hold me up to the light like some Polaroid picture, waiting and hoping for me to develop. To become what they wanted. Hoping someday I’d be the marrying kind, or someday I’d decide I don’t want children either and live on some hippie commune. Be scolded for eating tuna fish in the closet because “WE’RE” vegetarians. I had room to grow into my OWN shoes instead of pretending to wear someone else's. I didn’t feel so small and insignificant.
I made it quite clear to him in the beginning about the previous cheating and lying I put others through before him. And still he didn’t judge. I didn’t pretend not to enjoy People magazine because then he might think I wasn’t as sophisticated as him. I went on and on about how much I tried to live a “cruelty- free life” and he’d just laugh and ask me how my chicken mayo sandwich was treating me. No lecture would follow. “Aren’t you going to call me a hypocrite?” I’d ask.
I was still figuring myself out. And he seemed to be Ok with that.
And I love how he didn’t care what others thought of him. Walking around, confident, in his torn camouflage cargo shorts and his sleeveless sweatshirt (that I continue to make fun of) amongst his North Face polo-wearing buddies. Even when we’re at a restaurant, eating dinner, and he takes off his dirty shoes and sweaty socks and lets his feet air out, as grossed out as I am- I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d pull his hair back in Princess Leia buns inside fancy places and he’d walk around without a care at who all was staring. I love our ridiculous debates. The things he says just to piss me off. I say one thing, he says another, and sometimes I feel like I could be stuck in the middle of this conversation for the rest of my life and be happy.
I pick up the phone and call him.
“I’m sorry.” I say.
“I know.” He says.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
“Make the best of your last few months here I suppose.”
“OK. I think I can do that.” I tell him.
People ask you about the Peace Corps. The things you've done. The people you've helped. But in the end, it's about YOU. You fall apart every day and put yourself back together. And each time you hope that this time, you'll get it right.
I say goodnight and I think, where do I fit in all “this”. Do I write about it? Ah. Better not.
I turn out the light, roll over, grab my i-pod, and put on some Coldplay.
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