I will not brush my hair for you. I will not pull these haphazard waves into a smoothshiny sleekness, I will not put my mane under wraps. I will not press a pillow over the face of my hips and thighs so that I sway to your liking, will not take down the talk for you, will not wear heels to make my ass and back tight for you, I will not unfurrow my brow or unarrow my eyes or sheath my claws: I will not do anything that you wouldn’t do for me.
City-living is far more like a jungle than I’ve realized—I’m learning when to keep my shades on, when to look him in the eyes, when to run, to stride back…. Whether to judge a man by his gender or to trust, or to keep my head bent forward like he isn’t there. It’s like I’ve been walking this line all my life, blind, and now my eyes are open: when to turn on the impassivity, the knowledge of whom I can’t pin to the ground, that I have just as much right to be here—this dorm floor, this sidewalk, this classroom, this dark street—as you do. When to open those buffalo eyes their way, to open up enough that divine light can stretch from my eyes to theirs, like morning glory vines, the way smoke longs for the heights of the sky. When to defend and when to heal. Can you do both at once? Yes, yes, you must, something tells me. The same thing that tells me what girl has got her claws sheathed, when to go to bed, whether the shadow in my room is from moonlight or something far darker.
Something drew me to this city—instinct, my gut, my third eye seeing the poverty and injustice that lies wherever there concrete and cars outnumber life forms. The city that ties it’s Monterrey Oaks to stand upright, the city that just now finds it’s community gardens full of mercury and lead. The city that is the stage for immigrant rallies and Ginsberg and revolution…I know my calling is here, but what for, exactly? And how long? How long before my heart calls me back to the hills, to the sharpness of ground and true prairie-gold winds?
I’m not saying I don’t love it here—I’m walking my path, but I know it’s not the only path I could take. My life’s work, in my mind, was always a specific scientific computation: take path that offers maximum help to maximum people. Now, now it is more complicated: Where, exactly? Low-income housing? Veggielution? Immigrant education? Health education? Women’s rights? Advocate for battered women? I don’t know, I don’t really have a set of interests, except in the LBGT area… Social work has so many opportunities that the only way I’ll know is if I work in every one of them.
And then there are men. Oh, men, oh, boys. Boys make me forget my wild-womaness, my night-eyesight and my integrity. Boys make me want to frolic and laugh and forget, but I can’t: the lake of my soul reaches to earth’s corners, I get my fire from her roiling depths, so how can I forget her call? The boy-men here, I want them, but get to close and they scare me into running, fleeing without my claws and big-toothed-grace, tripping over roots in the night…. Alone, night, again.
But somethought bubbles up, lapping at the shore in waves: need, want, need, want, the three layers of myself: the lake, the trees, the sky. Water sinks as low as it can, as close as it can, seeps into earth like a lover; and sky, the wind of the mind flows confident as a stream, but the trees in between? My soul is in the earth and I cherish her like a lover, and my self, well, I love it too and am confident in my own being, but isn’t there something… closer? Something between self-love and earth-love? That missing piece sings in the trees a lonely song, the way redwoods do when their roots find nothing to cling to. There are only boy-men here, nothing substantive, but still my nose twitches and I find myself hunting, falling, forgetting… Cycle cycle spiral, samsara, great wheel, big red road…
My footprints sing my four directions song, my uncut mane whispers which way the wind blows, which turn is the instinct of my heart and my lust longs for her other and the horizon is but a haze, I can do nothing but follow that call…
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