Read Online Everything Is So Political by Sandra McIntyre - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra McIntyre
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following.
A new Sherriff was in town. Out with the new, in with the old!
My mother lay on a mattress that they later got rid of because of all the bloodstains. My maternal grandmother Nana Farangis sat behind her, pressing my motherâs head to her own heavy chest and wiping with her brown hand a face that dripped hasty pearls of sweat all the way down to her belly. After five hours of shouting and pleading, of alternating swiftly between praying to God and cursing Him for making her a woman, of biting on a pillow, of almost pulling my grannyâs arm out and kicking the midwife in her breasts so vindictively that my young aunt Bahar had to run and get the poor woman a glass of water, the fight was over and I surrendered. I emerged, with the combined effort of my grandmother and a foulmouthed neighbourhood midwife, slick and juicy like a pink and purple moist fruit, delicate and ready to burst. I was delivered from the womb of time, from an eternity of darkness to a reality of light, bombs and sunshine, of nightingales that travelled the skies freely, blind to borders while my people perished caged. I awoke to a world where fields were swept by bright red poppies that spotted with longing the green of the earth. Head first, with the bulgy angry features of pressed eyes and a convulsed mouth, my long neck and torso followed, with arms and legs sticking out extended and wiry, promising me the gift of height and a flat-chested adolescence. Finally, a full and rounded bottom which in addition to my lips, the few men Iâve slept with loved the most about my body. The first blur I saw when I emerged in my upturned position was the lit TV. I didnât cry, I didnât breathe. I just wanted to hide, to be pushed back into my mother and to stay in her forever. I wanted to go back to sleep in that darkness that was safe. Far away from what was happening. But the midwife delivered to my back three heavy smacks that I was forced to cry despite myself. Physical pain was more real than the intangibility I foresaw of my future. When my father finally arrived from work and held me bundled up in his arms, he cried, and the tears of joy and sorrow that merged and painted his face then, continued to paint my motherâs whenever throughout my childhood she had told me that story, a story she always ended by saying: âMy lovesick nightingale, the day the world met you was the most painful and meaningful of my life.â
Mothers and fathers are ruthless sinners. They condemn many souls to an existence of exile, of failed dreams and marriages, of suicidal lovers and of death and incarcerations, because of their love and hope, because of their selfish needs, as if they didnât know better, as if life hadnât taught them better. Parents are thoroughly and truthfully the worst of criminals.
5
Hanging.
There are worse ways of dying than hanging. You could be stoned to death, or crushed in a car accident. You could fall; surprise the world and tumble down a rooftop while removing snow off a satellite dish, or trip out of a window feeding a sparrow. You could be clearing your throat to cock, spreading your rainbow feathers, slip into a neighbourâs garden and be strangled by a little girl. You could be dragged to the backside of this jail and shot, under the open sky while a wall of tiny incarcerated eyes you had spent time with watched from slits and barred crystalline squares. The last thing you hear could be the echoing whine of the bullet inside you, or possibly, the startled flapping of scared wings. The best way is to die with your whole family. To all of you, just leave together. Snap out of existence toward the finish line like sprinters, charging with your arms flailing, grinning at the cameras. Though I must say that hanging in Iran can be just as despicable to watch, and no doubt to experience, as any stoning. I wonder if they are going to drop me and hear my neck snap and head separate the old-fashioned
A new Sherriff was in town. Out with the new, in with the old!
My mother lay on a mattress that they later got rid of because of all the bloodstains. My maternal grandmother Nana Farangis sat behind her, pressing my motherâs head to her own heavy chest and wiping with her brown hand a face that dripped hasty pearls of sweat all the way down to her belly. After five hours of shouting and pleading, of alternating swiftly between praying to God and cursing Him for making her a woman, of biting on a pillow, of almost pulling my grannyâs arm out and kicking the midwife in her breasts so vindictively that my young aunt Bahar had to run and get the poor woman a glass of water, the fight was over and I surrendered. I emerged, with the combined effort of my grandmother and a foulmouthed neighbourhood midwife, slick and juicy like a pink and purple moist fruit, delicate and ready to burst. I was delivered from the womb of time, from an eternity of darkness to a reality of light, bombs and sunshine, of nightingales that travelled the skies freely, blind to borders while my people perished caged. I awoke to a world where fields were swept by bright red poppies that spotted with longing the green of the earth. Head first, with the bulgy angry features of pressed eyes and a convulsed mouth, my long neck and torso followed, with arms and legs sticking out extended and wiry, promising me the gift of height and a flat-chested adolescence. Finally, a full and rounded bottom which in addition to my lips, the few men Iâve slept with loved the most about my body. The first blur I saw when I emerged in my upturned position was the lit TV. I didnât cry, I didnât breathe. I just wanted to hide, to be pushed back into my mother and to stay in her forever. I wanted to go back to sleep in that darkness that was safe. Far away from what was happening. But the midwife delivered to my back three heavy smacks that I was forced to cry despite myself. Physical pain was more real than the intangibility I foresaw of my future. When my father finally arrived from work and held me bundled up in his arms, he cried, and the tears of joy and sorrow that merged and painted his face then, continued to paint my motherâs whenever throughout my childhood she had told me that story, a story she always ended by saying: âMy lovesick nightingale, the day the world met you was the most painful and meaningful of my life.â
Mothers and fathers are ruthless sinners. They condemn many souls to an existence of exile, of failed dreams and marriages, of suicidal lovers and of death and incarcerations, because of their love and hope, because of their selfish needs, as if they didnât know better, as if life hadnât taught them better. Parents are thoroughly and truthfully the worst of criminals.
5
Hanging.
There are worse ways of dying than hanging. You could be stoned to death, or crushed in a car accident. You could fall; surprise the world and tumble down a rooftop while removing snow off a satellite dish, or trip out of a window feeding a sparrow. You could be clearing your throat to cock, spreading your rainbow feathers, slip into a neighbourâs garden and be strangled by a little girl. You could be dragged to the backside of this jail and shot, under the open sky while a wall of tiny incarcerated eyes you had spent time with watched from slits and barred crystalline squares. The last thing you hear could be the echoing whine of the bullet inside you, or possibly, the startled flapping of scared wings. The best way is to die with your whole family. To all of you, just leave together. Snap out of existence toward the finish line like sprinters, charging with your arms flailing, grinning at the cameras. Though I must say that hanging in Iran can be just as despicable to watch, and no doubt to experience, as any stoning. I wonder if they are going to drop me and hear my neck snap and head separate the old-fashioned
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