Juliet Takes a Breath (10 page)

“My mom is for my dad,” I said softly, missing both of them hard.

“Maybe that works for them. It works for a lot of people,” Maxine replied. “But to me, as a queer person, I have this opportunity to deconstruct and potentially abolish heteronormative relationship structures and create relationship models that work for me, that work for my needs and that don't rely on mimicking straight codes of conduct. Codes that often adhere to strict and archaic gender roles, imbalances of power, and this idea that one half of the relationship is in charge of the other. All of us have the radical power to enter into relationships based solely on honesty and respect with immeasurable reverence to sexual and emotional intimacy. We can decide whether we want to love one person only for life, find a good thing with someone that opens itself up to several other love things with other beautiful humans, or something else entirely.”

“Whoa,” I said, because that's all I could say. All of Maxine's words about love left me spinning. I wanted to ask a million more questions, but I thought about Lainie instead. I imagined her trying to poly me and me being like “hell no.” I wanted to ask Titi Wepa if she'd ever been in a poly thing. I wanted context from some other place that these types of things existed outside of Portland. I'd never ever heard of a polyamory thing happening in the Bronx.

“Whoa is fucken right, sweet Juliet,” Harlowe, nodded, her bright blue eyes were fixed on Maxine. She reached behind me and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, and what's an emdiv?” I asked, as the phrase popped back into my head. “Is it a type of poly something?”

Again, Maxine and Harlowe laughed, like the way my aunts laughed when I asked them questions about sex. They laughed as if they were related to me and it was okay to find delight in what I didn't know.

“M.Div. is a Masters of Divinity. I'm a professor of theology with a focus in Black Womanist Liberation Theology,” Maxine explained.

“Holy shit, you can get a Master's in Divinity?” I asked, impressed, “That sounds like some superhero stuff, like being a god or something. Are you a preacher too?

“Nope,” Maxine said.

“So what's the point if you're not bringing people to God?” I asked.

“We're all gods, Juliet,” Harlowe said, blowing smoke out the car window.

“No, let's be real. There's only one God and He ain't me, you, or Maxine.” Maxine poked my thigh and I froze, again.

“I'm going to assume you were raised Christian, either Pentecostal or Catholic.” Her hand rested on my thigh. Blood rushed to my head, and my cheeks.

“Uh, uh, yes, Pentecostal Protestant,” I sputtered.

“Okay,” Maxine said, giving my thigh a small squeeze. “That's where the one God thing comes from and also why I won't be a preacher. You want answers. Make your own religion out of doubt and curiosity. Don't go running after one God.”

“Well, why not? Why not run after one God?” I asked. “I mean obviously there are other gods in other religions and stuff but I think it's all based on one God anyway. It's just the interpretation that's different.”

“Yes and no. The only thing we can really do, Juliet, is develop our own sustainable theodicies. You know? We need to create our own understanding of Divine presence in a world full of chaos. My God is Black. It's queer. It's a melody of masculine and feminine. It's Audre Lorde and Sleater Kinney. My God and my understanding of God is centered on who I am as a person and what I need to continue my connection to the divine.” Maxine explained. She took a long breath. “It's everyone's job to come up with a theodicy. One that has room for every inch of who they are and the person they evolve into.”

Harlowe snapped her fingers in agreement, the way people do when the spirit hits them at poetry slams. I wanted to tell Harlowe and Maxine about the time I met God. But I didn't; I couldn't. It was better to enjoy this silence. I tried to tell Lainie once. All I did was say that I knew for sure that God was real and it set off her debate team skills. You know, after she laughed and gave me that “Are you serious, babe?” face. She deconstructed the reasons why attempting to make God exist past the realm of faith and into the realities of the human world was absurd. We laid on her futon in the middle of her dorm room, surrounded by tea light candles. She argued that God couldn't exist because God wasn't made up of anything solid. God couldn't be touched. God couldn't walk into a supermarket and buy a gallon of milk. Lainie had a million reasons why God wasn't real in the way that she and I were real. She explained that God was at best an elevated spiritual feeling and at worst one of the most brutal myths people have ever created.

I let her talk and clamped my mouth shut. I held my truth in my throat. That moment between us hurt me. I kept that hurt to myself. I locked it inside my chest cavity. I laughed off its existence in front of Lainie. And then I fucked it away using her body and that futon as transport. I hadn't thought about it since. In the truck with Harlowe and Maxine, it resurfaced. I wanted to blurt out all the wonder and magic, every detail of meeting God, but I didn't.

It wasn't the right time and I didn't know if there'd ever be a right time. Quiet settled in between the three of us. It found room between our hips and shoulders and uncrossed ankles. Harlowe flipped through a CD case, found what she was looking for, and slid a CD into the player. Some white girl rock song I'd never heard before blared through the speakers. The voice screeched and sang about a “rebel girl.” It sounded weird and I wasn't sure if I liked it but it fit. This song about rebel girls somehow fit all three of us. Something inside of me clicked, like I was exactly where I needed to be in my life right in the truck with Harlowe and Maxine. I fell asleep against Harlowe and didn't wake up until we got to where we were going.

 

 

 

The three of us walked into a small classroom. There were about 15 other people already in the room. Maxine was greeted by a woman draped in flowing, brightly colored cloths. Her limbs jutted out from between openings in the fuschias and limes in her fabrics. Her locs wrapped around themselves into a high, full bun. Maxine and the woman embraced. Their hug was deep with room for soft hellos and murmurings of “you look so peaceful.”

Maxine turned to us. “Zaira, this is Juliet. She's Harlowe's research assistant and our houseguest. Juliet, this is Zaira.”

I extended my hand. Zaira reached for it and pulled me gently into a hug.

“Welcome, Sister Juliet,” she whispered against my temple.

I hugged back hard. “Thank you.”

Zaira's embrace was like having motherhood and a fortress wrapped around my body.

“Hello, Harlowe,” Zaira said, taking one half step towards her.

“Zaira, it's good to be here. I love your open workshops,” Harlowe said, and met her halfway. They held hands and forearms, smiled big, admired each other with respect. They didn't hug. I thought it was weird but only for a second.

“Harlowe, Octavia's legacy is for all of us to revel in,” Zaira said. “All we ask is that our white allies respect this space. It's good to have with you us. We're just about to start.”

White allies? What is a white ally? An ally in what? The struggle? What did she mean about Harlowe respecting “our space”? Why didn't people just speak normal around here? Zaira linked arms with Maxine. They walked off, nestled together, greeting other folks around the room. Harlowe paused, watching them move through the space. I stood by Harlowe.

We found seats towards the back, near a very small cluster of white women. I sat on the outskirts of their group next to Harlowe. But I realized that they were the outsider group. Black and brown women of all shades and sizes organized and worked this space. The energy in the room was warm and loving like that plate of food your mom brings back for you from a party at your aunt's house. It felt like home, sort of. The styles of the women here were different from back in the Bronx. People didn't look hard here or worn down. They looked like they worshipped the sun and bathed in buttermilk. It made me feel like this writer's workshop was actually the official meeting of hippies of color or some shit. Just sitting there watching everyone made me view my people through a whole different lens, like we could be hippies too and that wouldn't make us any less black or brown or human. I could dig that.

The power and confidence that radiated from Zaira permeated the bright classroom. She let go of Maxine's arm and walked to the front of the room, clasped her hands together, inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and exhaled. All eyes were on Zaira. She smiled wide and opened her hands, palms facing up.

“Hello, beautiful women writers. Welcome to ‘Honoring Our Ancestors, the Writer Warriors Workshop series.' Thank you for your presence. I'd like to ask all of you to turn to your neighbor, look her in the eyes, and say, ‘Thank you, Sister, for sharing your time and essence.'”

I almost laughed, but the silence and reverence in the room pushed that laugh back into my chest. The woman next to me breastfed her baby. Such a beautiful and weird thing, breastfeeding. The mom held her child with one arm and reached out to me with the other. She said, slightly breathless, “Thank you Sister for sharing your time and essence.” I repeated the blessing, holding her hand and her child's hand.

Zaira blessed her neighbors on both sides.

“We are here to celebrate the legacy of our sister, Octavia Butler, one of the greatest writers of all time. One of the only African American sci-fi writers ever. Octavia gave us worlds caught in post-apocalyptic struggles, narratives billowing with critiques of the way racism and brutality are ingrained in white American society and culture, a culture that we must also navigate and reclaim. Octavia gave us the means to do that via a genre where there are no limits. We can be child vampires. We can be warriors. We can be ooloi. We can do it all through writing. This writing series is for the empowerment of Black women and the development of a Black womanist, Afro-futuristic writer's group.
Blackness isn't limited to African Americans here. We welcome our Afro-Latinas
también y toda la gente morena, negrita, el color de la noche y de café
con leche
.
Many of our meetings are closed to non-Black, non-POC individuals but members of the group expressed interest in offering open sessions. White allies, we ask that you respect this space, own your privileges, and remain open to your own journey. We welcome all women here and hope that we can all find or further cultivate our relationship to Octavia Butler's work and to the world of science fiction. In this series of workshops, we will also produce an anthology of sci-fi short stories with a social justice lens from writers of color. I am Zaira. Thank you, Sisters, for sharing your time and essence with us all.”

Zaira was a force. Her words enveloped the room and while she spoke, all attention was on her. She gave us a minute to take it all in. I had mixed feelings, but only about the sci-fi part. Science fiction was actually the worst. My parents were trekkies. They even loved the Star Wars trilogy and were super into all the old sci-fi shows from the 1950's. Don't even get me started on the one Christmas where our entire Christmas tree was decorated with Star Trek ornaments complete with a Spock that told us to live “Live long and prosper.” I was going to die in this workshop of boredom and awkwardness. Cool.

She asked us to stand. We stood in a circle holding hands. Zaira implored us to find a sound within our bodies and memories, hold it in our hearts and then share it out loud. She counted to three and the women in the room opened their mouths releasing secrets, deep hums, and the sounds of prayers. Nothing came out of me. It felt hella awkward and I had nothing to give. I held the hands on each side of me. I moved my mouth as if I was participating but it was too much. The cacophony died down. Zaira called for it again. Once more, I pretended to make noise. Zaira watched me, read my lips, caught my lack of give and let it go. The icebreaker ended. Respectful silence followed. Zaira introduced two women, Aleece and Ruby, to the group. They read excerpts from
Parable of the Sower
and
Kindred
. Trippy shit, for real. I wrote the titles down in my notebook. Zaira and her team then asked us to brainstorm terms we associated with science fiction.

Words written in pastel yellows and pinks filled the blackboard. “Asteroids, milky way, immortality, corporate colonization, gamma rays, meteor showers, parallel universe, queer futurism, no air, Gaia, geeks, moon colonies, lunar pulls, aliens, abduction, time travel, apocalypse…” We were asked to choose one word or phrase and write our science-fiction-loving hearts off. I wanted to leave, smoke a cigarette, and call Ava about this new-wave hippie brown people thing. Maybe she knew about it. But the affirmations and the weird humming got to me. Instead, I remained in my chair and wrote. My words were: heavy metal, android Latinas, and time warp.

Forty-five minutes later, a chime went off indicating the end of the writing exercise. Zaira encouraged the group to share a section of their work with the person they shared the greeting with. The mother turned to me, her child asleep in an orange stroller.

“Do you want to go first?” I asked.

“No way, go for it,” she replied. She reached for my hand. “My name's Melonie, by the way, and this is my son, Nasir,” she said.

“Juliet,” I replied. We shook hands like we were already friends, none of those awkward jerky movements. It was smooth like passing slang through gossip.

I swallowed, feeling awkward. Sci-fi was another notch in my belt of geekery on this trip. But I pushed forward and read from the short story, I titled it
Starlight Mamitas: Three Chords of Rebellion,
in which three
Boricua
sisters from New Brooklyn, year 3035, formed a heavy metal band called the Starlight Mamitas. They sold bionic quarter-waters and titanium jolly ranchers on the train to make money for lessons and instruments. On the night of their first real practice ever, a giant meteor hit their mid-atmosphere apartment complexidome and! That's where it ended. Melonie stared at me. She flashed a huge grin, showing off beautiful full lips and a Madonna gap in her teeth.