The only thing I could think was, "I'm on vacation. I'm on vacation? I'm on vacation!" and I cried. My best friend lives three hours from me, and I was getting closer every second. I was going to lie next to the pool, in the sun, and have no responsibility to yell at children. That's what I did. And it was awesome. I drove, my privilege hitting me like a ton of bricks every mile marker. Then I got lost and had to call Haylee, who met me at the end of her road. I pulled over after I turned onto her sidestreet, and, after some vehicular finagling, so did she. We both got out, hugged, broke apart, hugged again, broke apart, screamed, hugged one more time, and then got back into our cars.
After two days spent poolside and shopping, we made our way to Canada for a music festival. (The thought of which still seems ridiculous in hindsight.) Anyway, Haylee and I lost our hearing during the twenty one pilots concert, jumped and danced for Weezer, and (I) screamed for Father John Misty. I spent much of our time dragging my directionally challenged friend from one place to the next, pointing us toward photo booths and kiosks. (Haylee seemed only able to locate a fruitless claw machine.) Either way, we ate poutine and ordered in on Sunday night. We went to another, different party, rode in a taxi, and walked around Montreal like it was our job.
Honored, I felt, to spend this long, long weekend with Haylee, to see such amazing artists, to pay way too much for food, and to be here, to be present.
***
Haylee and I were navigating the subway system, an apparatus I'd never encountered, in order to move from our hotel to the music festival and back. On Friday night, we were walking along a long hallway, which led to the exit and, five blocks later, our hotel. At the end of the hall two men were situated, one sitting, the other standing. The standing one moved between the legs of the sitting one in order to make sexual gestures. Haylee and I, if we hadn't already, visibly stiffened. Haylee, who lacks a sense of direction, and I, panicked and still unsure in a city almost 4000 times the size of Burlington, did not know what to do, where to go, when two french-speaking men were walking toward us with was obviously an agenda. Incidentally, we took a wrong turn and ended up explaining to a woman who only spoke French, that we needed her to just walk with us for a certain amount of distance we could not describe. She finally understood, at least to some extent, and Haylee and I walked the five blocks back to our hotel looking over our shoulders.
In other news, a black twelve-year old girl's jaw was fractured by a white police officer and GOP candidate Ben Carson believes we need to move beyond race.
In other news, queer history is constantly erased and the other day my father told me that "all the queers like Freddie Mercury went around giving themselves AIDS."
In other news, our elected officials, and the society they represent, are so against pre-marital sex that the idea of closing many people's only access to (sexual) healthcare is a more logical option allowing abortions.
In other news, 48.4% of girls in Yemen will be married before age 18. (Source)
In other news, I get really upset sometimes because I convince myself that my rhetoric isn't good enough to make a difference and even if it does, my voice isn't loud enough to have a widespread effect. No one's listening and even if they were it wouldn't matter.
***
My parents were arguing, about what who knows, who remembers. But it was not a small fight. My sister wasn't older than three, which would've made me about eight. I'm not sure if you, reader, know many eight-year-olds, but their decision making skills are not particularly honed. My sister's decision, on the other hand, was much easier. She was a baby, clinging tightly to the back of my legs until my mother moved to the door, said she was leaving, swore she wouldn't come back. (She didn't pack anything; she never does). But to the door she went. They were both screaming, deafeningly so. My sister was crying. I stood stock still. (Screaming adults are like that myth about t-rexes: if you don't move, they can't see you. You no longer exist. They no longer exist. Reality becomes quiet and empty.) My mother did move, scooped up my loudly crying sister and walked to the door. Everyone shouted their sarcastic, biting good-byes, and I followed my mother to the final door.
At my house, the porch door closes at the edge of a large drop off. I spent afternoons jumping from the ground onto the edge, and seeing how long I could balance on the small piece of metal extending from the house. Every time I stepped up it, I leaned forward a bit and brought my knee close to my chest. Now I stood, toes hanging over the edge of the same metal strip, unsure what to do or where to go. My mother was walking toward her car; my sister was, thumb in her mouth, sitting, bouncing with each step, on my mother's hip. My mom turned back when she didn't her the crunch of my sneakers on the stones behind her. Her face and voice incredulous, "Are you coming?"
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I looked down at my sneakers. It was just one big step. I could lean forward, put my foot out and break into a small jog, just like I did every time I found myself at this precipice. The edge seemed too big, the drop too far, and the height too great, yet the metal piece, I knew was not my home. I didn't know what to do. Nowhere seemed to be where I should go. My mom took my answer hastily. "Fine," she shouted. "Stay with him." And so I did. Until my mom and sister came back.
I had watched them reverse out of the driveway. I had stood and watched the trees across the street until my feet and legs ached. Eventually, I had returned to my room to do whatever it is eight-year-olds do when their mothers and fathers divide them up like property.
I think about this moment a lot. The moment on the precipice. The time I didn't move. Plenty of fights occurred later. In these I made different decisions, following my mother easily out the door and into her car. (We went to my grandma's.) But this one sticks out to me. My mother's tone. My indecision. The way that not choosing a side made it seem like I had chosen a side.
Now I think of my present self in the same situation. One parent screaming on the left and the other on the right. I think of my sister, clinging to the back of my legs. I see myself, car keys in hand, putting my own car in reverse and driving to get ice cream with my sister. I see us driving to my grandmother's for the night. The three of us sleeping in her king bed together. Getting up early and deciding against cereal, because what is it with old people and almond milk? I don't know where we would go or what we would do from there, but I refuse to stand on a precipice any more. My decision is no longer either/or. My decision isn't mom or dad, it's me. I choose me.
***
