Potatoes are uninspiring.
Nothing.
The skin. The flesh. The faint smell. The sprouting spuds. The fact that it could be turned into battery in a middle
school science experiment.
Nothing.
Now if it was French fries or garlic mashed potatoes or latkes. That would be another story.
And it’s funny. How something so plain and bland and uninspiring could become something so flavorful and inviting
and decadent.
So I’ll choose to see French fries. Or garlic mashed potatoes. Or latkes.
Not latkes loaded with onions though. But the latkes like last night. Just crispy enough. Just tangy enough. Perfect
shreds of potatoes.
Or French fries from Toni’s by George. Somewhat soggy. Loaded with salt. With a Greek salad perfectly proportioned
with iceberg lettuce and carrots and cucumbers and black olives and feta cheese and the most sinful Greek dressing
you ever did taste.
And I spent many nights with my Greek salad and French fries and Pepsi from Toni’s by George.
Nights I wanted to eat and nights I forced myself to eat. And my favorite meal became a chore. In hopes of tricking
myself into eating. Putting only my favorites in front of me to trick my mind into tricking my stomach to declare
its hunger.
And halfway through this prompt I wanted to vomit.
Because thoughts of latkes and mashed potatoes and oil and French fries became too much. Sickening. Physically
and mentally sickening.
Because there’s guilt that comes with eating. That comes with hunger.
And even when I am not forcing my brain to trick my stomach the guilt is there. Dripping acid on every bite. On
every thought. On every desire.
Because desire is not allowed.
My therapist asked me who taught me that is wasn’t ok to need.
And I was struck silent.
Because I don’t know that answer.
And immediately I had a battle in my mind. A silent battle.
Because desiring is wanting and wanting and needing are two entirely different things.
Only I didn’t want to say that out loud. Say it and sound combative. Or like I wasn’t listening.
Because even if the question didn’t pertain to my eating it intrigued me and I wanted time to think about it. To
digest it.
On Tuesday my skin did not fit again.
And I tried wearing my most comfortable clothes and soft boots and that only made it worse. Because I looked like
crap and my socks kept falling down under the boots and my feet were sweating and my hair was dirty and eventually
we just had to go home because I couldn’t take it anymore.
My skin suffocating and consuming me.
So I took my new body shop products out of their protective packaging and lit every candle in the house. I sprayed
my pillow with orange and chamomile and my bed with bergamot and lavender and turned down the sheets. And I let
the water run until it was steaming and soft. And smoothed the Africa spa exfoliate and lathered the body wash
and my skin relaxed and loosened its grip on my legs and arms and body and throat and mind. And the steaming water
loosened the oil and debris from my hair. And my skin drank the almond oil and cocoa butter until its thirst was
quenched and for the first time all day I breathed.
Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not what you think it is.
It is a clue. An offer.
I wish she would stop poisoning me. Me and my mind and my stomach and my writing.
Three years later.
But then I hear that phrase and all it applies to is her.
Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not what you think it is.
It is not loving and it is not caring and it is not truthful and it is not real and it is not nice.
We listen, we follow directions and we are kind. The only 3 rules in my classroom.
And had she been my student she would never have earned a sticker because in her mind those rules did not apply.
Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t think you understand or think you are being heard or think it will change.
It’s not what you think it is.
It’s not over when you think it’s over and it’s not gone when you think it’s gone.
Don’t get your hopes up. Like that.
Evil like that doesn’t just walk away and trauma like that doesn’t just exit your mind. Or your body.
Because the acid pours itself every bite of food and on every pang of hunger when you are least expecting it.
When you are giggling and content and eating chocolate with your students or when you are innocently taking the
first bite of your favorite French fries or when you are quizzically staring at a raw potato. It returns.
It’s not gone and a boring uninspiring prompt becomes something else entirely.
So don’t get your hopes up about this piece. About writing something that is not about her. Or it. Because it’s
not what you think it is.
I am all set with preaching to the choir.
Doing it or witnessing it.
And that is why I don’t perform.
Because that’s what they seem to want. For someone to tell them something they already know.
To hear something they agree with.
To hear something political and edgy that is actually neither.
Because there is nothing political nor edgy about bashing the president at a lounge in fucking Cambridge.
And there is nothing edgy about condemning the war at a Boston poetry slam.
And when it’s not political it is self wallowing or pandering.
Oppression. OPPRESSION.
And I am not here to pander to your fucking need to assuage your damn guilt. You stupid straight white men who
need to come here because it’s the only place you’ll interact in close quarters with people of color and then you
feel high and mighty and suddenly you’re a fucking ally.
Get a therapist. Write to your senator. Recycle.
DO SOMETHING. Don’t just fucking come here and listen to people whining and spewing shit we’ve all already heard
a thousand times and think that somehow makes you political.
And to the performers, go do your anti war pieces some place where you might actually have an impact. Or perform
something else. Or god forbid – laugh at yourself. Do some kind of writing that doesn’t take itself so fucking
seriously.
But that wouldn’t score you any points. Because they want to hear what they expect to hear.
They need to be stroked.
And apparently so do you.
And that is why I am done.
That and you all keep staring at my tits.
Staring at them pretending not to. Pretending to be too feminist for that.
But this is so not becoming a “don’t objectify me” piece.
Because honestly I don’t care. As long as you’re honestly listening.
Which of course you’re not.
And at least that’s where the Amazon Slam got SOME bonus points.
Because ½ the people who went made no pretense about it. They were going to look at chicks. And tits.
And yes the whole scene was cliché and stupid, but at least people were there for some of the right reasons.
To create community. To watch. To hook up. To vent. To laugh. And sometimes to listen.
And no one listens at slams any more. Or maybe they never did.
Because as much as I tried to tiptoe my way in, it was never my scene.
So stop staring at my tits, close your eyes and actually listen.
You have brown rice from Michigan in your cabinet.
Short grain brown rice.
Because it is expensive, you say.
And it is in you to hold onto things. Which makes the past year that much sadder.
And now you want to hold me.
And I refuse to make this piece sad. Or angry. Or angst ridden.
Because a very young relationship has carried the burden of far too much trauma and angst.
And withstood it.
And that is what amazes me.
About you. And me. And us.
That somehow it is still good. And getting better.
And things that would have ripped apart far more established relationships didn’t succeed in driving a permanent
wedge.
And I think in ways I never have. About things I never have.
And nothing is frantic. Even when it is stressful or confusing.
And for the first time in a long time I let go of things. Or I hold them differently. Things that 1 year ago would
have caused a panic attack now cause tears and sadness. And I no longer hold them in the same places. For the same
amount of time.
And I know that because even when things are sad or angst ridden I eat.
And I want to. And that is very new.
And now I see you in everything.
But not in a frantic way. Not in that “I need to see you in everything because I never actually see you” way. Or
the “I’m going to research everything I can about you to convince you I love you” way.
But in the reminders of you.
In the yellow bricks at cafes and the abandoned rusty cars.
In the fire truck structure on the playground at work. Where there is more exposed metal than shiny red paint.
And even though there are other shiny red things the kids all gravitate toward the rusty stripped down truck.
In the ribbed textures and in the shrimp.
In babies and camera phones.
And in the brown rice.
We dream in unison.
And I see elements I've never seen.
Elements of textures and elements of nature and elements of spirits.
And elements of me.
And elements of her.
And as she watches the girl with the olive guitar and the one with the star tattoo she transports herself.
To a place before the storm.
To a space before the storm.
And I see her there.
And we sway.
And dream in unison.
There is a hole in my hip.
A healing hole, but a hole nonetheless.
And I don’t like it there and I don’t want it there.
All exposed and blue and red.
And it itches.
A hole. A portal.
To places in me I don’t want exposed.
You said that we store our emotions in our hips.
And two weeks ago at our retreat you held me in a way that stretched open my hips and I sobbed. Uncontrollably
sobbed. Because emotions came up that were long buried under layer after layer of skin and tissue and blood.
And the skin and tissue and blood in that spot got bigger after that. Exponentially. It swelled and became hot
to the touch. Pressure hurt. Touch hurt. Clothing hurt. So I had to leave it exposed. And nothing helped. And the
retreat was still wonderful. And peaceful. And present.
And you opened up. At the end. You sat in front of a group of people and actually mentioned it. Your hole. The
storm. The hurricane. The one you never mention by name. “I’ve already lost everything and what if I lose her too?”
It was a rhetorical question so no one answered. But everyone cried.
And my hole is now closing. And yours is just beginning to open. At Mardi Gras I asked you what you missed most.
“I don’t like to talk about it,” you persist. “I don’t like it.”
“Because you’re still sad,” I suggest.
“I miss my family,” you start to cry.
And I wait. “I know,” I offer. It’s all I can really say. We’re dressed in feathery masks sipping hurricanes from
the mix your brother sent us for Christmas. You skipped yoga because yoga is not what you do on Mardi Gras.
“And my things.”
I wait again.
“But I’m not sad,” you try to tell me.
“You are sad. You can be sad. You are sad every time you try to write another FEMA letter,” I offer.
“Because why do they have to have that picture on the cover? Why do they have that hurricane? To remind us? As
if we didn’t know or remember why we’re filling out forms?”
And I’ve looked at the forms. At the forms where they make you write your name and “Disaster Number ______” on
the top of every page.
And you can’t be rejected one more time. And I know that. So I’m writing the letter.
Like you held me. Like you came to the hospital and held me when my hip was on fire. And they would not let me
look and they would not let you stay. But you stayed. And you held my hand and you held me down. While they told
me it shouldn’t be hurting. I shouldn’t be feeling it. While they injected me and cut me up and dug me out and
squeezed out every last bit of infected tissue and blood and I screamed bloody murder. You looked at me. “I know
it hurts.” You could see what they were doing. Inside of me. And all I could do was feel it. And that was bad enough.
You watched them go inside of me. You watched as the doctor mouthed that she could not numb it. After 3 attempts
she could not numb it. And you never let on.
And later you said everything I needed to hear. That you knew how that was for me. You made the connections I could
only feel throbbing in my hip. “You don’t like to be penetrated. You hate when people are inside of you.” And I
was already sobbing when you continued, “And the last thing YOU need to hear is someone telling you that you shouldn’t
be feeling something when you know you do.”
And in that moment it all shifted. A hole was a portal.
And I don’t want it there.
I looked at it on Monday and told you that. “It’s ugly and I hate it,” I protested. “My hips were one of 3 places
on my body I actually like and now there’s a big gaping hole and I don’t want it there. I don’t want a hole. I
don’t want a scar.”
“Well there’s going to be a scar. And there are people in Iraq whose limbs are being blown off and people with
cancer and put it in perspective.” You’re trying to be helpful.
But I’ve already gone there. “I know in the grand scheme of the world it could be infinitely worse. But in my little
reality there’s a hole in my body and I don’t like it and I want it gone.”
And at Mardi Gras I told you that you could be sad. “But so many people have so much less. So much more reason
to be sad.” I don’t know if you’re trying to convince me or yourself.
“Yes, in the grand scheme of the world people have less. But in your little reality you lost a lot. And it hurt.
And you are sad. And you can be sad and not let the floodgates open.”
“I don’t think I can,” you whisper. And I know you’re done talking about it.
And even with holes I vow to be a container for your sadness.
No thank you.
I do not want a fight.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that laces up in the back and traces the outline of my collar bone.
No thank you.
I do not want threats.
I just a wedding dress.
An ivory one that drops below my hips and flows out to the ground.
No thank you.
I do not want a guilt trip.
I just want a wedding dress.
A soft one that dances when I sway and sways when I dance.
No thank you.
I do not want to be polite.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that everyone will admire as I walk down the aisle.
No thank you.
I do not want to talk about it.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that will capture her gaze as I walk toward her.
No thank you.
I do not want to be manipulated.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that will cover me as we stand protected under the chuppah.
No thank you.
I do not want lies.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that will hold every word of my vows.
No thank you.
I do not want comparisons.
I just want a wedding dress.
One whose fabric will absorb the sounds of the music and the prayers.
No thank you.
I do not want your pain.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that will shiver and leap as she breaks the glass.
No thank you.
I do not want your would haves or could haves or should haves.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that can waltz and salsa and meringue and fox trot and two step.
No thank you.
I do not want your apologies.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that will remember the hora and learn a second line.
No thank you.
I do not want your maybes.
I just want a wedding dress.
One with textures that she likes to touch.
No thank you.
I do not want your martyrdom.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that she will slowly unlace in the back in our room.
No thank you.
I do not want your promises.
I just want a wedding dress.
One that is mine and not yours.
If you have enjoyed Lani Radack's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at radacklani[at]hotmail.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of Lani Radack's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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