I light the incense and the first scent that hits my nose is
the zing of lemongrass. A pause. A deep
breath in, then out. Another pause.
Next the candle. Press
the spark wheel, hear the click, light the wick. The murmured prayer, both a continuation and
an abandonment to my old traditions, as now I pray to myself. In the flicker of the flame, darkness and
shadows are highlighted, and I consider all that I keep hidden in the safe
ventricles of my heart.
Lub-dub.
Bisexual.
Lub-dub.
Agnostic.
Lub-dub.
Democrat.
Lub-dub.
On and on with each beat, another secret folded away, nursed
privately while I smile the banal, vapid grin of the traditional Southern wife/helpmeet. I’m white like you. Middle-class like you. Drive a decent car, have a decent job, pay my
bills, walk my dog, all like you.
But my smile becomes strained when you whisper-talk about homosexuals. When you applaud the Ten Commandments going
up in first grade class of a room full of children who should be too young to
know what fornication is. When you put
that Thin Blue Line sticker on your car.
When instead of weeping over the loss of children, you yell louder about
your personal right to own a gun, but then accuse the pro-choice of having the
blood of babes on their hands. When you
proclaim America a Christian nation and complain about the colored people who
are only here to take our jobs and rape our women.
I AM NOT LIKE YOU.
But I keep that smile in place because there is real fear of
what would happen if I let it fall. What
would happen if I openly wept with those who mourn, take up a picket sign at
the next gay club shooting, make that Facebook post that you just can’t handle? If at your next confident assertion, I shake
my head and say “Sorry, I don’t see it that way.”
I keep silent, and I keep silent, and I keep silent until I
want to scream. Until the anger becomes
exhaustion, until the exhaustion becomes chronic fatigue, then high blood pressure
and anxiety medication prescriptions and taking six supplements a day in a desperate
attempt to regulate a body that’s falling apart because I’m too cowardly to
open my mouth more. All for the sake of
a false humility that I was taught in women’s group, a spiritual meekness that looks
like smiling family photos on Facebook and inspirational quotes on
Instagram.
And I scream, and I scream, and I scream, but only when I’m
alone, in places no one can hear, because I’ve learned that my emotions are inconvenient
and my thoughts might make someone uncomfortable, and the only witness for
Christ a woman can have is to make her husband/children/in-laws/parents/boss/co-workers/sisters/brothers/friends
more comfortable.
Or more guilty. Post
that pristine, beautifully highlighted Bible with #quiettime. When that woman who can’t handle any more comes
to you with arms outstretched and choking on her sobs, click your tongue, tell
her to give it to God, and then share her prayer request with a knowing nod to
the other ladies in your small group. Be
above reproach because authenticity and idle hands are the work of the devil.
I am not like you. I
am worse than you, because I hold my tongue while yours snakes out and lights
paths of destruction with every word, post, sneer, demeaning quip, insensitive
prayer.
Please accept my sincerest apologies because I can’t bite my
tongue anymore. So slowly I learn to
speak around swollen lips and masked tears, until I find my peace and I find my
anger, even at the loss of your comfort.
I know you will be angry, surprised, hurt, revolted. I know, because I feel those things every
time you open that deep pit of a mouth of yours. It’s only fair that I open mine.
At least you can’t say I didn’t warn you.
Comments
Post a Comment