I was a woman now…or at least my mother suggested as much today, on my fifteenth birthday. Measuring up to my standing mirror I felt meretricious more than womanly, scantly 5 feet with darken olive skin, my coarse crow hair lay flat, extending to the dimple on my lower back where the ends of my hair dance callously above my still pubescent butt. I caught the scowl on my slender face and the grimace of my forest eyes, and quickly recovered my composer realizing a verbal lashing would ensue if my mother realized I was attempting to sexualize my "womanly" body.
I shifted my gaze to the upper left corner of the mirror awaiting a reaction from my mother who was nestled cross-legged on the corner of my bed. Her piercing blonde hair was illuminated by the morning sun coming in through the double-hinged window; her skin was taut around a slender body, and appropriately opaque as to not clash with her shimmering braided locks. She was the pinnacle of superficial beauty and angelic grace, and a hypocrite of her self-proclaimed stance on femininity.
Clearly I was not of her blood; I knew that, there was no great mystery behind my origins. I am Iroquois, and I know very little of my culture apart from what public education teaches during Native American Appreciation Month and Google search engine results. I preferred the term Native Indian or American Indian, popularized my Russell Means, an Oglala Sioux man whose famous stand against the American Government in the 1970's was the last of its kind. I am a third generation "cultured" Indian. My biological grandparents moved into the center city of West Philadelphia under the provisions of the 1952 Indian Relocation Act, they had my mother who married an Iroquois man, birthed me, and then I was abandoned after vehicular homicide stole both my parents. I was three when they left and four when I was adopted by Susan. Dr. Whoodland the director of Walter Jones Orphanage had the nerve to say, "You are fortunate to have entered the system so young, they're much easier to relocate at such an early age." Upon reflection I see now I had a plethora of traits, which made me attractive to the blind ambition of women like my mother; I was of course a child, and a female, and a minority. I was a demographic trifecta for Susan to imprint upon and to preach about to others; the only way I could improve on those traits would be to declare myself a lesbian.
"I am so proud of you for making it this far into your blossoming life against the growing attrition we face in society today; you have achieved a level of independence, and intelligence I never had growing up." Her face shined with a mother's love and of calculating subterfuge, an easy task for a woman who lives by double standards. This was simply the ground work for her propaganda, "That being said, it's time for us to break down your new obligations." Unfolding her legs, they fell to the bed sides; her flashy verdant toe nails kissed the shag carpeting as she gingerly kicked her legs. Still beaming she patted the mattress with her hand, a motion I understood as an order rather than an invitation. "Your body has matured into a beautiful specimen of the woman form." My vacant bust would argue otherwise, I retorted to myself. Susan continued, "I think it is time for you to join me in my group's rallies, you're very intelligent, and you understand the arguments and our struggle against the patriarchy."
I understood alright, I understood that this was payment for 11 years of allowing Susan to raise me; it was time for the holy trinity…the embodiment of discrimination to make her small voice known to the world. Susan's mouth kept talking, but my mind was already reeling into itself, too busy to comprehend the words, or syllabic sounds she managed to regurgitate on a daily basis. Susan raised an intelligent person, but to her disadvantage; I disagreed with modern or third-wave feminism in its entirety. I've read the literature, and seen the shameful fall in activism throughout the ages; Feminism has evolved from women like Emily Davison into women humiliating and verbally castrating male children, victimizing other women, and dictating what roles in the business world were appropriate for women to assume. Like all great undertakings, feminism had become the monster of inequality it slew decades ago. Instead of arguing equality for all, modern feminism demanded inequality for men, becoming the bastard child of its humble first-wave origins and subject to the egoist whims of people like Harrieta Garman, and cash grabbers like Anitai Sarkesiam.
Mom had finished talking and was looking quizzically at me, I had missed something and now she was expecting an answer. My face flushed and before I could search for a reasonable response my subconscious reacted, "Yes, of course that won't be a problem."
The sides of her voluptuous rosy lips arched as if she had successful hooked her prey. Gradually I understood what I had just agreed to, "We'll leave in a few hours for the convention center, thank you dear so much." Her voice screeched like nails on a chalkboard, echoing as if a chasm had opened where my brain once was. Great, now I get to join my Mom on the hypocrite train…
I left the apartment to enjoy the little time remaining of my birthday at the playground down the street where I would usually spend most of my day. I stepped free of the small doorway that allowed entry into the old brick building. As the door creaked and slammed behind me, the electronic mechanism controlling the locks clanked into place causing me to jump slightly. Everything about my current position in life seemed out of place, and while the reasonable assumption would be to blame puberty and "womanhood" it was more than that. It was my mother's crusade, declaring women should not wear make-up despite her own piercings and cosmetics, the hate mail to women speaking out against the need for feminism, the rocks in the toilet bowl reserve tank to conserve water, grass fed meat products and free range chicken eggs. It went beyond her to people at school claiming to be vampire-kin and everything other imaginary-kin, others parading schizophrenia and trying to popularize it, and Facebook with its 51 gender "identities".
When did it become so wrong to be normal? I looked around to see if I had only thought those words or spoken them out loud, but determined it didn't matter as the only company on my doorstep was a mechanized prison, and the frigid November breeze.
I eventually hit North 18th street and made my way to the Clemente Recreation Center deciding that a little basketball would curb my mood and warm me up. As I arrived to the basketball courts there were already a few games started, playing it cool I approached a group of three who without a fourth player had resorted to "horse", possibly the lamest incarnation of a basketball game in recorded history.
The two guys took notice of my presence right away and stepped towards me while the third, a girl, took her shot, "Hola chica! Tu jeugas al baloncesto?"
They were either completely ignorant of what I was, or attempting to be funny. We stopped only paces from each other and sized up the competition, all three were black, and had similar body build and hair; I assumed they were family. The tallest to the right of me slightly edged the other's height, but regardless the top of my head came up to their chests, a daunting disadvantage in a game where height reigned supreme.
Grinning wryly I responded, "Nothing much redneck." Immediately I felt stupid, the basis of my joke was good, they miscategorized me, so I would blatantly miscategorize them, this was sound in theory but the execution left a bad taste in my mouth. "You wanna 2v2? Or are you still trying to remember which hand to dribble with?" I felt redeemed that this jab would restore my legitimacy as a proficient player.
The boy on the left passed an accepting grin, "I'm Avery, and this is my brother Joseph, and his jailbait sweet heart Sophie behind us." We're all underage; it was jailbait no matter how you cut it. I said nothing. "I'll take you on my team and Josie and Sophie can be on a team." He chuckled putting a fist into his brother's shoulder.
We played standard half court rules, check the ball to the other team at the mid-point and begin the round of play. Avery and Joseph battled odds and evens to determine who went first, in gladiatorial fashion their fists flew; one, two, three…odds, one, two, three…evens, one, two, three…odds. Another victory for Avery and the game hadn't even started.
The two boys squared off once more, each clearly understood the others ability, their sibling rivalry turned them into professionals, and they appeared to read the other as if telepathically. With ball in hand Avery checked it with such force a stranger would think his goal was to push the mass of the Earth away from him. Ricocheting upward Joseph received the ball just before it collided with his groin. Nodding at this declaration of war, Joseph bent down and rolled the ball back at such a rate that the slant of the pavement and gravity might bring it back.
After what seemed like minutes the ball was received by Avery and the game commenced, Sophie was on guard, her arms flapping like a dying bird attempting to intercept any potential pass. She was taller than me, but only by a couple of inches, her true advantage was her thick body which she utilized like a bumper car to keep me off kilter. Unable to maintain my balance I used my light frame ducking, and spinning on one foot under her arm sprinting free of her control. Avery quickly noticed as he drove the ball towards the net, as it transferred from his left hand to his right, he cupped the ball swinging it behind his back in my direction. This was my moment to show my reliability to my team mate. Sophie was approaching from behind, and Joseph made the amateur mistake to follow the ball instead of his brother. Receiving the ball I passed it back dodging Sophie's swat from behind by seconds, Joseph dug his heels into the pavement as the ball passed him several feet on his right. Avery was there however, intercepting the ball he performed an under-leg lay-up effortlessly securing two points.
The elation of securing an early lead was exhilarating, while my mind still drifted to the pending events of the day; it was a relief to ignore labels, and political correctness, to simply be a person, with another person. My childhood centered on correction, and social standards which felt anything but standard, throwing it all away felt like freedom.
Avery cheered, "Nice move chica!"
With a chortle I replied, "I'm really not Hispanic, okay? I'm Native Indian"
"I've seen pictures of India" was Joseph's response. Sophie cackled.
"No…Indian, Native American, Pow Wows, Teepees…" I trailed off seeing if my message was finally received.
Avery laughed, "He knows, he's just fucking wit' ya. All those hunting, trapping skills must be why you're so quick on da court." Grinning he checked me the ball indicating he wanted me to start this turn.
"My ancestors are with me" I mused checking the ball to Joseph. Receiving it back I made my move, first faking right, passing the ball behind myself and darting left I caught the ball and made my break for the basket. Joseph was back peddling and maintaining his hold on me, bringing the ball in and spinning right I momentarily lost him, flying with no resistance to the basket I closed the distance and leaped for my lay-up. Miraculously, Joseph sprang from nowhere, his towering body shadowing me in biblical proportions. As the ball passed under my right leg I once again brought it around my back and passed to Avery sitting on three. Joseph could only watch in disbelief as the ball fell through the net.
"Five, zip! Write home about it bitch!" I cheered, returning Avery's high five.
"What did you just say?" sounded the all too familiar voice of Susan. I felt myself recoil beneath my skin, "You know better than to engage in such posturing!"
"It's only a game Mom, goading is just part of the fun. " My voice was suddenly sheepish.
Joseph perked up and looked mockingly at Susan, "Dang girl! How'd a white thing like you have an Indian? Too much spicy food?" Sophie who possessed as much personality as Barbie cackled once more.
I expected Avery to quip next, but to my surprise he was next to me, "Miss we don't mean any trouble, my brother knows better."
"Really?" Here it begins, I thought. Susan continued, "Then you young man should be letting the girl have an opportunity to make a shot."
"It's not like that, really Mom, its strategy, not egoism." I was losing myself, why speak at all.
"This game is clearly designed to favor masculine traits; men are playing, and men are scoring all the points, its sexist and purposefully biased against the female body." She crossed her arms glaring collectively at them.
"Ma'am you do realize there's woman's basketball too yea?" Avery chimed diplomatically.
"That has nothing to do with this situation!" she hissed venomously.
A wave of calm sated my nerves and I physically felt the vocal cords relax, at this moment I felt like I could conquer the world, "Will you please shut the fuck up Mom!" I tried to hide my own surprising word choice, and continued, "Don't you ever get tired of your bull-shit syllogisms? You ignorant self-absorbed bitch!" I turned on my heels and headed holistically for the street hoping to avoid further confrontation, but knowing that a chase would be inevitable. I doubted I could sympathize my way free from this scenario.
She caught me as I stepped onto the sidewalk, and spun me around to face her, "Have you learned nothing? We…I fight for us, for women everywhere. Your young and have no idea how oppressive the world can be, I have to fight every battle no matter how small, I cannot give up an inch or they will subjugate all of us!"
I could feel my eyes burning, I was either crying or she had lit the burning desire within myself to destroy her. "They? They who Mother? You want to know the fuck I am? I'm human! Born Iroquois, and slave for 11 years to your fucked up ideals of conforming to individualism. Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds? Did you ever think to teach me about my people? No!" I was heaving great breaths of air to keep my irate rebuttal going. It felt great. "You raised a smart girl alright, just not the brainwashed little tripe that you wanted, and guess what, you get one more year then I file to separate from you and live independently. That's what this is all about right? Being independent? Well you got it!"
I turned to proceed down the street, in this moment I felt physically taller and more powerful than my pinwheel of a mother, oppressed by the fight against oppression. She reached out and grabbed my wrist, I winced in pain, this is first time my mother had ever caused physical harm to me. I whipped around and snarled, "Let me go…Susan" Pulling my arm I yanked it free sending her falling backwards. It's all so clear to me, every vivid detail; the 1981 blue Toyota truck, the small ones, it was a faded blue with some rust in places, there was a dent on the right passenger's side door likely from a previous accident, it had a front bumper but the back bumper was missing. A mustachioed man with large circular framed sunglasses was driving, he looked Hispanic, but he could have been Iroquois. After today this battlewagon would bear another mark, the crack in the windshield and the dent on the hood where Susan's body connected with it.
It felt justified after 11 years of feeling used that Karma would drive a truck into her. I chuckle when I think of the irony that vehicular homicide brought me to Susan and delivered me from her. Homicide isn't the right word, fortunately Susan managed to survive but with several broken ribs, and both arms and legs shattered. She's done with me, her pet project fell apart and now she's making living arrangements for me in with family in California.
Three months have elapsed and now I find myself in mandatory counseling in Beverly Hills. I am living with my adopted Aunt and Uncle; they are nice, ordinary people just trying to do right in the world. The counseling was there idea and I guess it makes sense.
I eye the counselor from across a table sitting in my chair, no lounging in this office. My counselor's name is Dr. Wiles, a pretty, colored face with piercing eyes that suggest she is constantly assessing her clients. With a reassuring smile she invites me to begin, "Please tell me your story, and let me get to know you better."
I let out a long, collective sigh and begin my tale, "This is the story all about how my life got turned upside down, so I'd like to take a minute just stay right there and let me tell you how I became the princess of Bel Air. West Philadelphia, I was born and raised, on the playground is where I would spend most of my days. Sitting, relaxing, acting all cool, usually shooting some b-ball after school, but I got in one little fight and my Mom got scared she said, "You're movin' with your Auntie and Uncle in Bel Air.