Juliet Takes a Breath (11 page)

“Wait, no fair. I want to know what happens next!” Melonie exclaimed, her voice breathy and deep. Her son wiggled in his stroller.

“So, I did it, okay?” I asked. My heart beat fast. “Like it's not stupid?”

“Nope, not at all, sister. You should definitely submit that to the anthology.”

“Word, aight,” I agreed, “Your turn.”

Melonie shared a story about robots taking over the banking industries. They thrived on the evil souls of heartless corporate bankers. It was heavy but rad. I wondered if moms were allowed to date. 'Cuz in another life I'd ask her out and then maybe she'd keep reading to me.

Zaira announced the end of the workshop. The room erupted in hugs and kisses, as if we'd all given birth. Melonie pulled me super close and whispered, “Submit that story, girl.” She kissed my cheek and turned to baby Nasir.

Harlowe, Maxine, and I left the workshop after more hugs and rounds of introductions. I was exhausted. The workshop was beautiful, but I definitely needed some low-key chill time. I wasn't sure where I'd get any of that. The three of us passed two young white women who had been in the workshop with us. They were near the water fountains. I paused for a sip.

White Girl #1: “I loved the workshop but like I don't get why the white ally thing has to be such a big deal, like why do we have to be the quiet ones? All our voices matter, you know?”

White Girl #2: “No I understand, it's like in my feminism we're equals. Why does any group have to have the dominant voice? I know reverse racism isn't technically real but like this kinda felt like that.”

Maxine and I rolled our eyes. I didn't really know what was wrong with what they said but it felt weird. Their tone and the fact that this was what they took from the workshop felt strange but like, whatever; white girls say dumb shit sometimes.

But Harlowe spun around and addressed them.

“It's not about having a ‘dominant voice.' It's about women of color owning their own space and their voices being treated with dignity and respect. It's about women of color not having to shout over white voices to be heard. We are the dominant force almost all of the time. White women are the stars of all the movies. White women are the lead speakers in feminist debates, and it's little white girls that send the nation into a frenzy when they've been kidnapped. So if for like one or two hours in a small classroom somewhere in Oregon, a group of women of color have a workshop and have decided to open it up to us, we should be fucking grateful and not whining about how we're not the most important or equally as important. Our entire existence is constantly being validated and yeah, we have lots of shit to deal with because of the patriarchy. But for goddess sake, check your privilege. We're the ones that need to give women of color space for their voices.”

At that last line, Maxine walked off. The two white girls stared at her, eyes wide.

White Girl #1: “Oh my fucking goddess, are you Harlowe Brisbane? The Empowering Your Pussy lady?”

I stayed for a minute. But I felt that weird thing again, like when the white girls first opened their mouths; something felt wrong. I didn't understand what Harlowe meant about “giving us space” for our voices. I left her to deal with her groupies. What was I supposed to do anyway?

The ride home in the pick up truck was tense. Maxine wasn't speaking to Harlowe. Harlowe seemed frustrated and wasn't speaking to anyone. I was tired and hot and cranky. But I had my first science fiction story ever in my notebook and planned to maybe think about submitting it to Zaira's anthology. I didn't have the headspace to deal with anything else. 

 

 

Zaira's workshop left me with so many questions. Since I'd arrived in Portland, all I'd amassed was questions. Questions about words and phrases, queerness, POC spaces, whiteness, the world of women, privileges, and the women I still had to research. All of it swirled in my head and I didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know how much I cared about it. None of it was about Puerto Rican chicks from the Bronx. All of it seemed black and white and rich and poor and queer and weird. Still no calls or texts or anything from Lainie. I missed Saturday morning nerd cartoons with my brother. I missed the way he smelled like chocolate. I missed my mom's fried eggs and chorizos and Titi Wepa and my Dad.

I picked up an iced coffee at Blend. No small talk was made. With my family in mind and the workshop whirring around in my head, I took some time at Blend to write my mom a letter. I wasn't sure how else to communicate with her. After a few revisions, I slipped this into an envelope addressed to her:

 

 

Dear Mom,

Remember the time you made me and Lil' Melvin watch the Star Wars Trilogy with you while Dad was away working in Philadelphia? And I complained the whole time about how stupid and terrible the movie was, and I whined so much that after the first movie, you shut off the VCR and sent me to my room? Do you remember how I acted like a spoiled undisciplined white kid on a sitcom and said “Fine, whatever, Mom,” stomped my feet, and stormed up the stairs to my room? And then like 20 minutes later, I came downstairs, crying and apologized and you let me lay my head on your lap and watch the rest of the movies? And how it was the best rainy Saturday the three of us ever had together?

I've been thinking about that day, Mom. I was at a weird but cool sci-fi writer's workshop yesterday. I started a trippy little story about Puerto Rican sisters from Brooklyn. Anyway, anyway, it all made me think of you. Our relationship feels like science fiction. I feel far away from you in my heart and my body and I don't like it. It doesn't feel like us. I wish you were here. But I can't come down the stairs in tears, full of apologies.

I'd like it better if you met me halfway. We could sit in the hallway between your bedroom and mine and it would all be okay and I'd still be that little chubby frizzy-haired girl that you loved so much but maybe I could also be this version of me, the one that loves Lainie, the one that makes big announcements and then runs away, the one that still needs your lap to lie on, the one that still needs you to tell me that you love me. I will watch all the geeky, science fiction, outer space, Outer Limits, Twilight Zone marathon movies with you forever. No complaints. I promise.

 

Love you to the moon and back,

Juliet Milagros Palante

 

I put the envelope into the mailbox outside of Blend. Feeling behind on my work for Harlowe, I hopped on the same bus Phen and I had taken to downtown Portland and made my way to the library. I called Lainie on my bus ride but she didn't pick up. I left a quick message. I spent rest of the ride staring out of the window and watching Portland roll by. It was time to focus on Sophia and Lolita.

The Multnomah Library seemed massive compared to the one at my school. It hummed with a building excitement. I was a beast in the library. Libraries are safe but also exciting. Libraries are where nerds like me go to refuel. They are safe-havens where the polluted noise of the outside world, with all the bullies and bro-dudes and anti-feminist rhetoric, is shut out. Libraries have zero tolerance for bullshit. Their walls protect us and keep us safe from all the bastards that have never read a book for fun.

I wandered around for a bit and found myself in the reference section. The smell of the room reminded me of our basement at home. There was an over-sized Webster's Dictionary on top of a pedestal in the middle of the room. Curious, I made my way to it and flipped it open. I looked up Sophia and found the following:

1) Sophia: Sophia is a female name derived from the Greek word for “Wisdom.”

2) Sophia (Σοφíα, Greek for “wisdom”) is a central term in Hellenistic philosophy and religion, Platonism, Gnosticism, Orthodox Christianity, Esoteric Christianity, as well as Christian mysticism.

Christian mysticism? Female name? I could practically feel Harlowe doing a dance of menstrual joy. I kept Lolita Lebrón in my pocket and focused my search on Sophia/Wisdom. Using one of the open computers, I searched for the history of Greece and the origin of Sophia. Electrified, my quest appeared surmountable and exciting. Four potential book leads popped up. I went over to the help desk and asked an elderly librarian with purple streaks in her hair where I could find books about ancient Greece. She sent me to the back of the second floor. I found the Greek history section and was so immersed in research that I didn't notice the girl shelving books until we bumped shoulders, hard. My notes and all of her books fell to the floor.

“Sorry 'bout that,” she blurted out, “There's always so much to put away, I get a little lost in my head.”

“No problem.” Distracted as well, I crouched down and gathered my things. Some of my papers were mixed in with hers, I sifted through them.

She dropped down to collect her books. She smelled like vanilla lotion and citrus perfume. I looked up and she was hella foxy. Like jet-black hair, thick bangs, green eyes, olive skin, tattooed wrists kind of foxy.

“Um, I'm Kira and when I'm not bumping into strangers, I work here as a junior librarian. So if you need any help, please feel free to ask,” she offered, gathering her books from the floor, “I owe you one.”

“Thanks, I'm Juliet,” I said. My brain started to get a little fuzzy taking in all of her. I knew my mouth was still open but I couldn't close it because I couldn't think.

“Juliet,” Kira said, “I've never met anyone with that name before. I like it.”

“Yeah uhm, my mom was super into the 1968 movie version of
Romeo and Juliet
,” I said, heart beating fast, cheeks turning red, “And then I think I was also conceived at a later date while my parents were watching that movie and so as a joke and out of my Mom's love of that movie, I was named Juliet which I'm thankful for because my little brother's name is Melvin.”

Kira laughed and all the pressure I felt mounting inside me because she was pretty and sweet wiped itself away.

“Well, Juliet, maybe you find me later and say goodbye before you leave, okay?”

I nodded, and walked off wondering what it'd be like to spend the rest of the day talking to Kira. I forced my big silly grin down and turned back to the Grecian history books. Hours passed between pages. One of the first things I learned about “Sophia” was that she was anchored to the word philosophy. She was also linked to Christian religious traditions according to some of the texts but none of the mentions were specific enough.

I was suspicious of the Bible. It had never been particularly forthcoming when it came to stories about women. Mary Magdalene wasn't really a hooker, and Eve didn't force Adam to eat that apple. Bible stories that painted women as untrustworthy or whore-ish always seemed off to me. Like, what did those messages have to do with God's love anyway? Most of the stories weren't even about women directly. They were stories about men in which women had side roles as the mother or the second wife or the daughter-for-sale. Women seemed to always be an after-thought or used to represent temptation. The fact that I grew up in a religious household and had never heard of Sophia further proved to me that the people interpreting Bible were misogynists and didn't care about anything a wise woman had to say. Christianity wasn't budging an inch on this quest of mine.

There were allusions to Sophia's existence but nothing real. My stomach rumbled. It was almost dinnertime and I still hadn't done any research on Lolita. The last book stared me in the face ready to take me down. I flipped it over, bored, and with bleary eyes burned through its glossary. Nothing, nothing until Sophia, pg. 48.

Sophia is the feminine representation of the wisdom of God
.

Oh shit
.
I read that line over and over again. I read page 47 in order to lead myself into the scope of page 48. Sophia was divine wisdom manifested as a feminine force. God had a feminine side? Or was she an entire entity? Like the Holy Spirit? Was Sophia the Holy Spirit?

“Attention, the library will be closing in 30 minutes,” blared the PA system. Jolted straight out of my thoughts, I scooped up the books I needed and ran to the copy machine. I dropped change into the first machine and copied page after page of Sophia-based information. A few paper jams sucked up some of my time and I cursed at the machine.

“Watch out. That one's a little sensitive,” said a voice from behind me.

I turned around and it was Kira.

“So should I kick it,” I asked, trying not to stammer or embarrass myself. “What's the secret?”

“It's more of a hip check,” Kira met me halfway, and bumped her hip against the coin slot. The copy machine rumbled again and printed. “Why aren't you just checking them out?”

“I don't have a library card.”

“Well, next time you're here, come find me. We'll take care of that.”

She walked away. I watched her walk away and at once I wanted her Doc Martens and her attention. Somehow, I managed to get it together. I made the copies I needed and left the library. My bus appeared on the horizon. The phrase “Feminine representation of the wisdom of God” rolled over and over in my head. I still needed to find Lolita; maybe Sophia would lead the way. Maybe in the middle of it all I could make out with Kira.

 

 

 

Read everything you can push into your skull. Read your mother's diary. Read Assata. Read everything Gloria Steinem and bell hooks write. Read all of the poems your friends leave in your locker. Read books about your body written by people who have bodies like yours. Read everything that supports your growth as a vibrant, rebel girl human. Read because you're tired of secrets.

Raging Flower

 

* * *

 

No one was home at Harlowe's. At first, I wondered if Harlowe had any baseball bats in the house for protection. But as the quiet settled in around me, I realized I had an entire house to myself. That never happened at home. Even if there was a 15-minute delay between when I got home and when my family got home, I could always hear the neighbors or the ambulance sirens. There was always immediate proof that a million others were nearby. Here, all I heard were the crickets and the occasional
ting
of someone's bike bell.