S.B.T.1

Once upon a time, I walked like a soft breeze, my steps padded by green moss, my dress flowing behind me. The steps I took had reverence, like small prayers, they were glimpses of hope. With no encumberances,no acknowledgement of histories, I could simply walk. I walked by the bee-keepers house, with his front porch painted white, lined with shelves dotted with golden jars of honey, some with long pearly strips of the combs still in them. I wanted to taste the honeycomb, it looked so delicious, it seemed to move, to breathe, with sweetness. When my Godfather bought me a piece one day, I found it actually too sweet, almost nauseatingly so. After that the beekeepers house lost its interest to me. I became fearful of all the bees flying around the place and my fascination with the liquid golden honey-jars dimmed. It was rekindled for a short while, by crabs.

Farther down the road is the bridge that crosses over Crab Creek. There are geese and swans there and crabs of all shapes and sizes. Spiro, my godfather, would take a butterfly net and catch blue crabs scuttling along the bottom of the creek in the mud. The shells would turn from blue to red when they were cooked. I never understood the eating of crabs after I tasted it one day during lunch. It seemed that everywhere things that had magic and mystery were losing their charm. I grappled with this new reality, while still skipping along whistling, whatever it meant. Wound up like a music-box dancer, I just had to keep going.

It was about that time that I became self-conscious. People would smile too hard at me and it hurt. Once a drunken veteran marching in the MayDay Parade pointed at me and came walking towards me, calling me a “cute little box”. It was a degrading experience, that made me see the gum wrappers and oil spots on the road. It was like looking at an ants world. It gave me ant-vision.

Family and friends were always noticing me even though I preferred to be left to myself. Often times, to get my attention, they would point to some quality that I had and define it according to their way of thinking. It was a powerful, often closely calculated influence. I grew up with the feeling of being watched...

There I am sitting on the front steps, cemented brick and plates of slate, the straw doormat brushed by the bottom edge of the screen door. It had just swung shut behind me, and I began to spread the toys around, getting comfortable, getting ready for fantasy doll-play adventures. My collection of dolls was impressive for an eight-year old, but I especially loved Barbie and Ken and all the clothes and accessories. I was a frequent lay-awayer at Loranias Book and Toy Store. It was my favorite store, next to the penny candy store. I liked to change the clothes and style the hair and have them act out different little episodes in the perfectly dressed world of Barbie. This one day I was changing their clothes and got an unusual feeling of power, seeing them naked. Suddenly Ken attacked Barbie, fiercely slapping her boobs, and pushing her butt naked on her crotch until she was twisted in a frenzy of hair and snarled hinges flat underneath him as he pounded relentlessly on her.

Just then, the screen door opened. “What are you doing?” Mom said, looking at the naked Barbies. “I was changing their clothes and they started to fight.” I said matter-of-factly. “Don’t pound them so hard, you’ll break them.” she said and with the sweep of the apron she was gone.