Free-Writing Samples

2 free-writes, as promised, from last post

Where I’m from…

Cluster f..ck. Greymere Road. I can’t even explain without photos and flow charts. St. E’s. Brighton. 1966. I’m from a long line of women who can hold up the world, roll it up like a towel, balled up tight and can carry it on their shoulders.

Strong.

Stiff upper lip.

Tough.

I used to admire that strength. Now, I think of lips and mouths, eyes even but no hands or arms free, so busy from carrying, holding, binding up the bundle on the back and shoulders.

No room for hugs or lifts or holds.

My step-father used to sit me on his lap. He drank hot tea with a metal spoon stirring and would take it out of the cup and place it on my forearm as a joke. The heat a flinchable surprise that left no visible burn once the red faded back to pink and disappeared.

“Oh John,” my mother would say, “Stop it” or “Come on” and her exasperation could be felt.

As well as her ineffectiveness.

“Are you a good boy or a bad girl?” he would ask me and my face scrunch. I couldn’t answer. Frustrated. “I’m good. I’m a girl. I’m a good girl.”

He’d repeat. I was obviously wrong.

“Are you a good boy or a bad girl?”

It was just his idea of funny, witty, sarcastic or playful.

“Oh John,” my mother would say. “Stop it” or “Come on.”

But he didn’t.

He was 25 years older than her. His behavior, then and later, chalked up as normal for men of that generation.

She was inches away at the sink, doing dishes.

Inches away at the stove, pouring mashed potatoes out of a box and into boiling water.

Inches away and a mind in the freezer where she’d pull out Steak Ums or something for dinner but she never pulled me from him, towards her.

She never learned to harness a no that meant enough or followed through as though registering her complaint would make my life any different.

I’m from a child mother who had three kids before turning 21, who was only a baby herself, 16, when she got pregnant the first time, who had her own drunk father and couldn’t lift her daughter up or out mother, where love was shared and felt but was not actionable when it came time to protect.

My daughter, with body language, refuses hugs and kisses, doesn’t sit in laps longer than she wishes. I’m glad. I don’t care if others think her rude as long as she is safe. My job isn’t to flatter or cajole them but to protect her physical space.

I don’t want her to be a girl growing up in a body that feels like a salt shaker, and can be grabbed and used by anyone in the house or table without permission or apology. Her being isn’t supposed to be a condiment for someone’s bland and flavorless night. I hope she never knows what it’s like to cling to the inside of a dark shaker rather than watch her soul’s salt be spilled and poured on someone’s plate.

I hope she never learns to squirm in her own skin, wipe wet kisses from old men and see her mother rendered ineffective.

I pray I can keep her from any more of my own mistakes because I never want her to be asked impossible questions such as “Are you a good boy or a bad girl?”

I am becoming the woman who knows how to say, “You’re a bad man” or “If you can’t protect me, I’ll protect myself.” Words alone are not enough if the hands and arms aren’t free to carry, grab up and protect and if the feet stay stuck.

Letter to My 80-Year Old Self

This one, is direct from my journal, without any edits.

You are welcome for the sunscreen I used because I know your skin is fantastic. Only only your face, but still. I hope you are writing letter though it’s 33 years from now so maybe you’ll write to politicians by just thinking sh_t. I’m not really sure.

How was it to see the first female president? Please tell me she did something interesting or inventive and didn’t just act like a suit.

What are my daughter’s babies like? Does she visit us a lot? Do we annoy her only a little? She, in 33 years will be 44. I hope she is happy as a film director in Hollywood. She says she’ll buy a house for me and my cats but I keep telling her I’m a dog person.

I’m pretty happy aren’t I? I’m pretty sure I am and I’m probably the kind of old lady who wears multicolored tights and puts barrettes in my bangs and doesn’t care if I’m wearing sneakers with a skirt. In fact, I’m sorry it took me so long to accept my quirky style and tried to force you into stuff that didn’t let your spin in circles or breathe.

Can you please tell me there is a cure for cancer and cellulite and frizz. And how long until love found me again. Did we learn to bake from scratch or make meals that weren’t throw-up-ish? I hope so.

Do you remember the 40’s? What a whirlwind and course correction? I’m so glad we had the roller coaster ride. We got up so high we finally got a little perspective and learned how to live a happy life at a slower pace.

I’ll return to this prompt because it was fun and 80, is decades away and also close, and so fun to think about. 3 of my favorite people on the planet are in their 70’s and vibrant, happy and beautiful women living interesting lives, political, happy, with deep friendships, rich love lives, passions and hobbies and huge loving hearts. They are great role modes