Juliet Takes a Breath (19 page)

That section of
Raging Flower
was my favorite. Hearing her read it made my heart burst open. In that moment, I loved Harlowe Brisbane. Loved her like family. Loved her in that forever way. I felt bold and ready to write down my own story. Brave and full of stupid cute butterflies, I reached for Kira's hand and held it. She shifted closer to me.

Harlowe read about the time she grabbed a flashlight and a mirror, smoked a lot of weed, and explored her pussy. She was 23 and had never looked at her vulva. She spent an entire evening spreading the folds of her flesh, noted color and density of hair. She liked it so much she did it again on her period. And that was her catalyst into pussy obsession.

The entire room laughed. A collective orgasm teased out of us by Harlowe Brisbane.
Raging Flower
live reinforced the dedication of my discipleship. Harlowe moved past the personal and read sections that built the foundation of the cult-like worship that followed her. She asked us to reflect on the first woman we'd entered into community with. It's assumed that mothers are the first but in this world nothing is promised, not even a mother's love. So who was that first woman? Who were our blood sisters? Could we count them on our hands? See their faces in our daydreams? Did we honor our bodies, our spiritual selves, and harness our energies to envision a future centered around us? We were creatures in sync with the moon, after all.

The final section Harlowe read was a reminder that the fight never ends. Every day that we exist on this planet the forces of white men in power are aimed at policing women's bodies and subjugating our identities to make us feel lesser than, to control us through physical and economic annihilation. These acts of violence are experienced by trans women and women of color at higher rates. Harlowe urged her fellow white women to remember this and to never forget the vast amount of privilege they experience because of whiteness. It is the duty of white women to stand in solidarity with queer, trans, women of color, listen to their needs and make sure that feminism and sisterhood brings all of our voices together.

Pussy Power Forever!

Another round of wild applause erupted for Harlowe. She asked if anyone had any questions. Most of the questions were from wide-eyed fan girls. “Oh Harlowe, I love you, how did you get the idea to write
Raging Flower
?” “Hi, Harlowe, I was wondering if you had any suggestions for new writers?” “Hi, so I love that you use the word ‘pussy' so much in
Raging Flower
, was it weird at first?” They hit all of the basics.

Zaira had arrived and sat next to Maxine without me noticing. Before I could say hello to her, she stood up to ask Harlowe a question.

“Harlowe, do you really think that tacking on a message of unity and solidarity for queer and trans women of color at the end of
Raging Flower
was powerful enough to make a difference? As if a few sentences were enough to bridge the disparity among women who experience oppression due to their multiple intersectionalities and women who don't have to navigate those intersectionalities? Do you think that this message is enough to rally non-white women to your particular brand of feminism? To be your blood sisters?”

The room stayed silent. All eyes on Zaira. Regal. Poised. Gold dress cinched at the waist with a silver belt, Zaira's intensity and grace manifested through her every pore. I stared at her, mesmerized.

Harlowe cleared her throat.

“I believe in my heart that we can all be blood sisters.
Raging Flower
isn't perfect by any means, but I believe it's good start. It was for me. It's the beginning of my journey into a more politicized woman-centric consciousness, and I wanted to share that. Do I think that queer and trans women of color will read my work and feel like they see themselves in my words? Not necessarily, but some will and do. I mean, I know someone right now sitting in this room who is a testament to this, someone who isn't white, who grew up in the ghetto, dodging bullets and crackheads, someone who is lesbian and Latina and fought for her whole life to make it out of the Bronx alive and to get an education. She grew up in poverty and without any privilege. No support from her family, especially after coming out, and that person is here today. That person is Juliet Milagros Palante, my assistant and friend who came all the way from the Bronx to be here with me and to learn how to be a better feminist and all of that is because of
Raging Flower
because anyone can see themselves in that work. Juliet is the proof. Juliet, can you stand up for everyone, please?”

Zaira, looked over at me, her eyes wide, almost apologetic. People turned their heads, poked past mohawks to see who Harlowe was referring to. What did that poor child raised in the violent ghetto look like? I was curious myself. Was that who I was to Harlowe?

I felt suffocated suddenly. A slight wheeze burned through my lungs. Air. I needed air. I stood up, moved out of the aisle, and left. Tears spilled down my cheeks. My face though, my face was expressionless, hard as a cement block. I didn't have any words.

I don't remember when I started running, but I ran all the way from Powell's to the Steel Bridge. Okay, that's a lie. I ran, like, four blocks, lost my breath, and used my inhaler. I walked the rest of the way. The street lamps glowed white and orange. I wasn't afraid to be alone or to be out in the dark but the quiet felt strange. I still wasn't used to it. If I had Zaira's number, I would have called her. When she referred to someone as sister, she seemed the type to mean it. I didn't know if Maxine would understand or if she'd be mad that I left Harlowe's event. And Harlowe, I'd left her there without a goodbye. Guilt like hot wax spread through my insides. Her words repeated themselves in my head.
Fought her whole life to make it out of the Bronx alive.
Yeah, the Bronx was tough but that wasn't my life. Had I misled Harlowe? Or had she really just used me to make a point?

I had no people in Portland. No Titi Wepa. No Mom and Dad. No Ava. No Lainie.

Maxine called three times. I picked up on number three. The reading was over. She and Zaira were concerned. They wanted to come find me and process. Maxine's gentle voice, deep with love, made me feel cared for. And yet, I told her that I felt too messed up to process, that I just needed to be outside for a while. She understood and asked me to touch base with her when I was somewhere safe. Word. Done. Zaira's voice in the background told me to stay strong, young sister.

A full moon held court over the Willamette. The sky rippled with stars. I prayed for guidance and clarity, released my intentions into the night. I prayed for those things because I couldn't handle the rage that flared up inside. Harlowe said things about me that weren't true. I thought she got it. I thought she was someone who understood me the way I understood her. She called me “the proof,” as if my existence could be summed up as the answer to any and every question about race and representation in
Raging Flower
. Had I handed myself over to her by being here? Was my presence permission? I felt foolish for loving Harlowe so hard and for thinking that we were blood sisters. I wanted to disappear.

Ava called while I paced the bridge. I picked up and she was off and talking at her usual, high-speed pace.

“I had a dream 'bout you,
loca
. The number three was mad prominent in it. In the dream, you had wings and were falling from the sky. And two angels tried to save you. I was the third one and my outfit was really dope. And anyway, I caught you, long story short. So I had to call you, obviously, for good luck. And this is the third and final time I'm gonna ask you to come see me...”

“Let's book the flight right now, Ava.”

“What? Like right now right now?”

“Yes, like I'll give you my card number over the phone, right now,” I said.

“Damn, girl, are you okay?”

“Shit is weird. Mad fucking weird and I don't want to get into it. I just want to see you,” I pleaded. I was crying again and didn't care if she heard me.

“I'm booking you a flight for tomorrow. My dream shit is so real
, loca
. Where are you again? Titi Mari said Iowa or some shit.”

Titi Mari was my mom. She'd been in touch with my mom.

“Portland, Ava, I'm in Portland, Oregon, look for flights out of PDX.”

She didn't press me for any other info. Ava and I booked the flight. She told me she'd pick me up at the airport. I'd spend three days with her, Titi Penny, and Uncle Len. It'd been a few years since our summers together, running around the beaches of Miami as kids. Ava told me she loved me. Primas for life.

Kira texted me. She wanted to come find me and offered to give me a ride anywhere. I told her where I was, and then for a while, it was quiet; just me and the moon.

Harlowe called my cell phone. I almost picked up, but I realized I had nothing to say to her. Everything was a lump in my throat. Harlowe left a voicemail. I didn't listen to it. Avoid. Avoid. Somebody would let her know I was ok. She'd be fine. Harlowe had gotten all of my energy before her reading. I was in full on self-preservation mode.

I heard Kira's motorcycle before I saw it. She pulled up, handed me a helmet, and I hopped on. We zipped up Burnside and back around until I didn't know where we were. I kept my arms around her hips, nestled into her back. Kira pulled up to her house and invited me inside. She promised to take me stargazing another night. She made a quick salad and boxed mac and cheese. It was the most normal thing I'd eaten in Portland. Kira listened to me as I tried to piece together complicated feelings and not cry. Was Harlowe racist? Was I over-sensitive? Did my being from the Bronx scream so loud of poverty and violence that my actual story didn't matter? What did it mean for me as a person and a wannabe feminist that I looked up to Harlowe? Was I proof that her feminism was for everyone?

I stopped after admitting that I loved Harlowe and that made me an even bigger fool. How could I love some fake-ass, kinda racist or something, clueless person like Harlowe?

Kira said she had wondered about Harlowe for a while after reading
Raging Flower
. She wondered if Harlowe was the ally that most people praised her to be. What Harlowe said about me solidified her impression that Harlowe was like every other white lady feminist she'd ever met.

“People are fucked up like that sometimes, Juliet, especially white people. Like I'm half white and half Korean and even some of my friends will assume I'm good at math or know martial arts just because of how I look. Those assumptions live inside people and they do their best to dodge them and intellectualize around them but they're still there. They also don't see me as politicized or as someone who experiences microaggressions. It sucks. We deserve better. You deserve better,” Kira said. She kissed my cheek.

I leaned into her. I asked her if I could take a shower. Kira showed me to the bathroom. I turned on the hot water, slipped off my clothes, and stood under the stream with my eyes shut. She knocked on the door and told me she was leaving me a towel.

“You can come in, if you want,” I said. The second the words came out, I couldn't believe I had said them.

“Okay,” she replied. It was quiet for a minute then the curtain was pulled back. Beautiful, naked Kira moved into the shower with me. She pressed me against the cool tiles and kissed me. The weight of the evening slid off my skin as the hot water washed over us. She soaped up my chest, belly and back. Her hands were firm. She kneaded my back muscles and kissed along my shoulder blades. I let her hands roam my flesh and explore the curves of my body. I didn't think about anything else but kissing her, all of her. She slid her hands along my thighs.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “We don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You feel really good to me. I just want to check in.”

“I don't know what I want to do. I like this. I like kissing you and feeling you and forgetting. But I don't want to use you,” I replied. I gazed at the droplets of water along her eyelashes.

“I'm here. I know what it's like when you need to be kissed and touched. I don't feel used. We can take it slow and stop whenever,” she said.

Kira turned off the shower and led me to her bedroom. Both of us wrapped in towels, bodies warm and wet, we flopped onto her bed. I followed her lead. She loved on me so good. My body never felt so desired and alive. We moved in rhythm with each other. Where she touched and pressed her lips, I did the same. And when I felt her inside of me, I wrapped my hips tight around her waist and gave her everything. I fell asleep with my head on her chest.

In the morning, she dropped me off at Harlowe's. Maxine was the only one home. She said Harlowe was so upset that I'd left that she'd run off to her favorite meditation temple. Maxine didn't seem worried about Harlowe. She hugged me and said she understood why I had to take off for a bit. There was too much to say and not enough time to process. My flight to Miami was set to take off at noon. I packed fast and left my copy of
Raging Flower
on the bed.

Maxine took me to the airport.

And I was gone. On a plane to Miami.

 

 

Bienvenidos a Miami. The World is Yours.

 

 

 

Ava met me at the luggage terminal. She wore black leather leggings, a ripped black T-shirt with the word
Bruja
written across in red letters, and studded knee-high silver boots. We stared at each other for a moment and then Ava wrapped her arms around me. We hugged tight enough to make up for the three years that had passed between our last visit. She smelled like Gucci Rush and all the summer nights we'd shared together as kids. She released me just a stretch, enough to look me in the eyes and see my tears. Ava hugged me again.

“Come on, prima, let's get you home,” she said, as she grabbed my suitcase and my hand.