Free

The knock came earlier than I expected. I could hear my coffee pot gurgle as the last of the coffee brewed into its carafe. The two of them stood out on my doorstep dressed in mostly black. The slight peak of their badges became apparent to me as I opened the door. As I let them in I noticed the unmarked vehicle in front of my house. I had expected them last week.

The last time they had showed at my doorstep was in 1997. I was living in San Francisco then with my first love. It was my birthday and we were late to meet my parents for dinner. It was to be the first time he met my family. I naively told the men in black I had to go, that people were waiting for me. To which they let me know I was detained. The last time I had heard the word detention was in high school and similarly, I had no rights. I had to stay. I remember excusing myself to call the restaurant. My parents were waiting. This was before cell phones when you had to rely on the kindness of a stranger on the other end of the phone. I spoke slowly to my father telling him I would not be able to make the meal. I asked him not to come: I had no rights to an attorney. I had no rights at all. The taller man in black stood over me as I explained to my father who the men in black were and what they wanted. I was instructed to hang up.

I remember sitting on my bed since I lived in a studio as small as a closet. I reached for my partner’s hand as the questions began. Hours went by. I grew hungry and tired yet my answers remained the same. I couldn’t help them. The questions turned into accusations and I still couldn’t help them. Then came the threats; loss of home and freedom. I was numb. They grew tired. I remember their last words as they left, that I would be watched and that my world was no longer my own.

The next day on the news they caught the man in the dress in a Denny’s in San Diego. It was barely daylight as he stole a restaurants’ sense of security. He did not survive the arrest. I noticed the unmarked car go away, only to return now, 12 years later. My answers remained the same, I couldn’t help them. This time was different though. There is no one to hold my hand. There is no one waiting for me and there is no delusion of rights. I began to wonder if I were to be taken in, who would know I was gone and how long would I be gone for? They paced through my home as I sat on my couch. They asked me about my painting by a man who had achieved freedom after 40 years. The one with the darker eyes reached out to pet my cat. I did not reveal her name as she lay like a puddle on the couch.

After several hours of questions came an offer to drive me to work, I was late. I declined. I closed the door behind them as they made their way to the black car out front. This time I wasn’t numb. I waited at the window watching the car slowly pull away. I knew that this would be the last time I would see the men in mostly black. I also knew that for the first time in 20 years, I was truly free.

Something in between

I couldn’t help but think about the bitter man who ran away. I was never sure what he thought he’d find in a town as cold as the one he left so many years ago. As I walked on the beach in Boipeba over a month ago, I came upon a dachshund playing in the sand. I couldn’t help but think that I had never seen a happy wiener dog before. I watched as he buried his snout in the sand trying to capture the elusive crabs. The sideways walkers teased the pup by darting in and out of their homes and all the while the dachshund let out little barks. I called for the dog as he came running to me with sand on his nose. I giggled as I watched the skip in his step. As he came closer, the wave lightly licked at the shore and the dog was distracted as he chased the sea.

I remembered my days on the train in the same dark town. Sent away in the hopes I would change. And I did. As I sipped red wine and coke in darkened bars with the boys with the long hair, I learned that the beauty of the night was caught in the naked trees as the seasons began to change. I heard it in the whispers of the wind as the branches gently swayed. I no longer knew where I was after late night train rides to stone cities on the outskirts of that same cold town. I changed. As I sat on cobblestone walls and looked out into the night, I cherished the in between time. It was summer turning to fall, as the moon grew tired and color started to return to the sky. And I was in between, still a girl. I was too tired to sleep. My mind awake with thoughts like puzzle pieces, waiting to find their place.

I wondered if it was me as I read the words on the screen and blushed with uncertainty. Perhaps I simply wished they were. Or maybe I just wanted to believe like the sun warming the little dachshund running in the sand, memories of me would sweeten the taste of a sour town.

Knock Knock

For years and years, I would come home and within minutes there would be a knock at my door. Did I want to hear about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? For a long time, I would politely say no. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no issues with anyone’s freedom to practice religion. I just prefer that others keep their religion to themselves. I have yet to knock on anyone’s door asking them if they want to hear about Agnosticism and my worship of caffeine.

All this knocking would remind me of being a teenager attending a high school with tons of Mormons. I remember being the Jewish kid and being asked to attend church services. Knocks and notes on my locker daily. For a long time I didn’t understand why I was getting so much attention until I learned that Mormons get some special star in the sky for converting a Jew. While I was friends’ with some kids that were practicing Latter-day Saints, I never did go to temple with them.

I don't know if it is my proximity to the Mormon Temple, I actually have a splendid view of the place I affectionately call Disneyland North, but the knocks were happening at least once a week and some weeks, daily. My patience with the boys in suits grew thin. I went from polite, “no thanks” to curt “no”. And the very next day the knock would happen again. I started to contemplate how I could make this incessant knocking cease. At first I ignored the knocks, thinking that perhaps if I just didn’t answer the door, they would stop coming around. This didn’t seem to help. I even tried reasoning with the guys, letting them know I would never be interested and that they don’t ever need to return. The very next day, a new set of guys would show. I was done; it was time to make this stop.

Just like clockwork, a got home from work and then came the knock. As usual, the question was posed, “did I want to hear about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints?” This time I answered, “Yes, if you want to hear about anal sex?” The young man at the door looked at me and said, “What makes you think we don’t learn about anal sex.” So I answered that I really had no clue what they learned about. He responded that he knew all about anal sex and would be happy to share the churches perspective on this. Damn, foiled by the Mormon! I had no witty response and told him I wasn’t interested. And, of course, a couple days later, the knocks continued.

I had to try something far more extreme. I really didn’t know what I could do. It’s not as if there is a “do not knock” list for Mormons. I was angry and this time when the knock happened, it was a lone, attractive man in the suit and tie. I invited him in to teach me all about Jesus in exchange to listening to my presentation on safer sex. We sat very close to one another as I spoke about sex. The tension between us was palpable. As we got closer and closer, I began to think about how he gets star status for converting me. I started to wonder what I would get if I had sex with a Mormon. Apparently I get peace and quiet. I don’t know what happened to my friend in the suit and tie, but I do know that it has been great; I haven’t had a knock in years.

Genocide on Thanksgiving

If it wasn’t bad enough that I just spent the last several hours with strangers over a holiday meal, I also spent several more annihilating an entire population of ants. True, I am actually related to them (the strangers that is), but when the only “safe” topics of discussion include pets and the latest viral videos, you may as well be strangers. But I digress… my house was crawling, literally. After opening my front door I immediately noticed the black trails. Yes, the plural is intentional. There were multiple trails of ants. As I located the destinations of each trail, I was beyond bummed to discover the ants had nested in my electronics.

First, was my boom box. I guess calling it a boom box is like calling Chihuahua a dog. It’s my $9.99 Walgreen’s CD player that I have had for years. So all the knobs have fallen off and it kind of makes a squeaking noise when the discs rotate, but it still is the only music-playing device I have. The ants had taken over. They were now living in the battery compartment and had even brought all their eggs. I have to confess that a wave of nausea came over me after opening up the battery case and seeing all these little crawling creatures.

Second, was my phone – the landline actually. Remember those “old school” devices kind of like cell phones but plug into walls and have answering machines attached? Well the phone had now become an ant condominium complex. The entire phone and machine were filled with ants and eggs.

Third, was the dust-buster. I was almost embarrassed that ants had moved in to a cleaning apparatus. It was perhaps a sign I needed to use it, but for now, it was functioning as ant track housing.

After deciphering the nest locations I began to spray everything with Orange Guard – a pet friendly ant killing spray. I guess for those of us that grew up with ant farms, this is kind of an oxymoron. But anyway, I found the Buddhist in me a bit traumatized by this act of killing hundreds of ants. And I found myself even more upset with destroying the eggs. The simple truth is I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spray the eggs. I know, they are ants, but it just seemed wrong.

I ended up taking all the new ant homes and putting them outside and shutting the door. I was torn. I didn’t want to lose my phone, my dust buster and definitely not the boom box. But killing the ant eggs was also not a great option for me either. As I debated what to do, I began to hope it wouldn’t rain. My only hope to postpone decision-making was based on weather. I didn’t have to make any choices so long as it stayed dry. The weather seemed to be cooperative at this point.

I have to admit being perplexed with my inability to destroy the ant eggs. I began to surmise that this is really the fault with Disney. I was ruined with images of talking, thinking, feeling ants. I couldn’t kill their eggs. This really made no sense, but yet somehow, I still couldn’t kill. Then I decided this was really about Thanksgiving. While my family is quite new to this country and certainly did not participate in the first Thanksgiving Day meal, it still seemed inappropriate to contribute to the dark history of this holiday.

The tryptophan finally had kicked in while I pondered what to do. I woke up the next morning on my couch still fully dressed. I looked outside and there was my boom box, phone/answering machine and dust buster and that was all. There were no ants. They had completely vacated taking all their home décor and eggs with them. It was impressive really. As I put back all my electronics I began to seriously consider being a vegetarian. My thoughts of a meatless life were soon halted upon the ringing of my now plugged in phone. The first words out of my brother’s mouth were “bacon.” And that’s all it took.

Happy Hour...

Comfort comes in different shapes and sizes. As I walk in I see all the eager faces. There are the ones barking for my attention and the others drooling with excitement. And then there are the more shy and reserve who I catch glancing at me out of the corner of their eyes.

As I take a sip of my drink, it is Cisco who catches my eye. I am immediately attracted to his disinterested stare and his beautiful two-toned eyes. He is gorgeous in that unconventional sort of way; perfect in his imperfections. There is the obvious scar on the side of his nose and his expressive thick eyebrows. He is flirting with me from across the room. His eyes beckoning me to walk over to him. I do.

As I get closer, he sits up. He is bigger and huskier than I had originally thought. I notice the touches of gray that hint of his life experience. He smiles sweetly and I feel my heart in my chest. Today, he is the one. I am impatient waiting to leave. I want him all to myself, to feel him close, so close I feel his breath against my face.

I wait for him outside. As he approaches me, I notice the confidence in his gait and the huge grin on his face. I can’t help but smile, giving away my own excitement. We begin to walk in silence and enter the park. Upon the sound of the latch closing on the gate, we speak for the first time. I ask Cisco if he wants to play and he lets out this huge bark. We both move hurriedly with anticipation through the park, also known to me as my sanctuary.

This is where I can be found during those bad days in which I just want to feel good, even if it’s just for a short while. I am never quite sure who I will choose to spend my time with. Sometimes it’s the big older guys, sometimes it’s the youngsters with no manners and sometimes the lady in the uniform behind the counter will introduce me to my new best friend for the day. I can’t help but to have a smile on my face whenever I come here.

Today it’s Cisco with his long black coat and shepherd features. We take to one another immediately and for a moment I wonder if I could just take him home and make it work. I remember I can’t with my long hours at work and the other hours taken over by performing. We will have to just meet here.

His endurance is incredible and the way his body moves is amazing. He is quiet with the exception of his panting. His tongue grows longer as minutes turn to hours. He finally finishes, laying down next to his toy just far enough away I can’t reach. I sit down and he quickly runs over and lays his head in my lap. It’s time to say goodbye.

We walk back into the building as the lady asks me how he was. Out of breath, I answer, “amazing.” I can’t help but fall in love a little. I say goodbye to Cisco as she asks me if I will be back next week. I remind her it’s the holidays, so I will be here more often. This place always cheers me up.

I know that one day I will get a dog, but for now there is always the Oakland Animal Shelter.

Waiting

It’s 3 am as I wake to the sound of light snoring. I quietly tiptoe out of bed and grab the remnants of what I had been wearing. As I bend to kiss her on her forehead, I notice her arm peeking out from her covers. Instinctively I trace the numbers branded on her arm with my finger. I think about the strength of her arms wrapped around me just hours earlier as she rocked me to sleep. The power of her words as I struggled to make sense of this day. I am waiting for my justice.

Twenty years have passed marked by silent pain and a memory I dare not tell. Only one week ago I shared my story to a room full of strangers amidst cement walls and iron gates. Questions I could barely answer as the words froze on my tongue. I glanced at the pictures, my face not even recognizable to myself, but yet I remember every smell and sound.

I think back to the first time I sat on a couch barely able to tell my story. No eye contact as I watched my feet and the words leave my mouth. And even while I watched the letters escape, I felt a disconnect. The person in the story wasn’t me. It was someone else I used to know. I like who she is now.

I asked my grandmother how she has always been able to tell her story. She smiled as she moved the curl from my face. “Because” she says, “it’s a story about survival”. She reminded me of the time I climbed the jungle gym in school. I was only 5 as my older brother sat under the structure crying, unable to face his fear. She laughed as she recalled that she had to ask a stranger to get me down. She couldn’t climb it either.

Once home, I sit down to the glowing box to reread the long distance ego boost I received days before. I wondered how warm beer and spaetzle could trigger thoughts of me. I think about my friend the monkey man wishing he were up to share maker’s with me and the latest viral videos so I could laugh. And I remember a line from an Eddie Murphy movie as I think about the brand on her arm, “I’m a karate man, I bruise on the inside.”

Last week I was judge and jury. My ruling told, my sentence stated. But today I am waiting.

A Prayer for the Accused...

I prayer every day you get to hear the sound of locking metal gates and cold cement under your feet.
That the steel against your wrists feels stiff and tight and the warmth of the breath in your ear brings terror instead of delight.
The laughter that echoes is never your own.
And the mattress under your tired body, brings torment instead of comfort.

I pray when you wake from the sound of screaming you realize the voice is your own.
And that the emptiness you feel inside is from your starvation and hunger.
The salty taste in your mouth is your tears, your blood and your sweat.
And the pillow against your mouth creates panic as you try to catch a breath.

I pray you cease to recognize your own face and that every day as you look in the mirror, every scar reminds you of horror and fear.
I pray you feel no relief, no trust and no refuge. You never have a moment to close your eyes and escape.

I pray that the wind in your hair steals your breath as you begin to run. And that as you run, your body stings. And that while you ache, you know you have to keep on running.

I pray that you share no kindred faces only glances of pity as you silently pray that no one knows. That you feel transparent and vulnerable wherever you go.

I pray that time marches slowly as years turn into decades. That you feel a chill when it’s warm and sweat in the cold. That the stiffness in your joints grows worse and the surgeries never cease.

I pray that as you hear the sound of my voice you know you didn’t win.
I pray you know now the fighter I am. The strength of my words and the power of what’s now healed. That you know that there are no looks and no words that could break me as you try. And you keep trying.

I pray you hear the sound of my voice as the gate slams shut. The echo of my laughter and the sour taste of your sin forever be with you.