To anyone who might be reading this blog:
My workshop wanted to streamline our profiles so I have a new blog as of September 2011. The link to it is located at the upper right corner of this page if you’d like to keep reading.
Thank you for all your support.
M
Los Angeles, 2011
Micah,
This is a lust letter.
I know you have yours and I have mine but sometimes it’s not enough. And when it isn’t, know that you can knock three times and I’ll unbolt, undress and hold you in my hallway where we can kiss, kiss, kiss like we have so much more than 35 minutes to breathe into each other. I wanna be your lunch break baby – soft as a squirrel in a tree niche watching shadows change against the forest floor before gorging myself for winter. You know you want to do this too because you need to tell me something, want to, hunger to and I’m gonna listen for as long and hard as you need. Withold from me, or don’t or rage against me. Either way, I can take it. I need to. I want to take it so very, very badly.
Call me.
Lauren
Lagos, 1981
Anansa,
I do not intend for you to read this until you are a little older, but it has to be written now. I simply want to tell you a story. I cannot predict whether I will be with you when this tale is appropriate to impart so I will keep this and many other of my notes in a place where they may some day be given you.
Two days ago I sent you to your room even though you had not misbehaved. I think I shall remember that afternoon forever. Our black and white gate creaked in its usual way and you were lying with me in the master bedroom reading one of your Janet & John books. Nanny Carol then came in and told me something. She was frightened but kept an even tone so as not to alarm you. I think you said something about her looking pale and even laughed a little about it. That was when I told you leave for your room, and I said so a little too harshly.
I want you to know you did nothing wrong that day. I was in a haste to go downstairs and attend to the woman at the gate. You see, she had walked about 20 miles, penniless and dehydrated, seeking help. Your father was in Ibadan at the time and I was left to man the embassy and staff alone so I felt momentarily lost. All I knew to do was bring her indoors.
Carol and I laid her down in the living room and I called your godmother the doctor to come and attend her. She was dressed in a simple cotton duster – one she probably sewed herself. The pattern of it, little lilac blooms and hot pink cabbage roses were wilted with brown-red stains in the area below her waist. And she moaned so much, Anansa. She was gripped with delirium and fear, grasping our arms and pushing at our bellies and legs with her cracked dusty feet. Pushing and pulling us and mumbling in her dialect while Carol wiped her brow and fanned her frantically.
At first we thought she was pregnant. But she was so slight in build, even with her shapeless duster we saw no swell of belly. We then feared some brutal rape, something your father had received reports on. Wives of traveling workers were easy targets for crime gangs. But she would not let us examine her. It took sedation by your godmother before we could lift her gown.
This poor woman was forced by her husband to wear a chastity device crudely fashioned from metal flashing. The contraption was horrific. It was bound to her waist with wire and he’d cut exit slits for her urine and feces. But the worst of it was that the crotch area of the piece was cut so widely that its jagged, rusty edges sliced into her groin, cutting past skin and into muscle and ligament. I remember the smells of blood and rust, of urine ammonia and agony all at once gripping the afternoon heat and shortening our breath. I don’t remember much more except running from the room and down our carpeted hall silently fighting back tears. I ran to the yard and tore into our garden shed where the hedging shears and wire cutters were kept and I brought them back to the living room. I remember placing a clean rag between her tortured skin and the flashing so that she wouldn’t have to feel me cutting into the device, she wouldn’t have to feel more rusted metal on her skin. Carol helped me snip the wires digging into her waist and we were finally able to free her for treatment. We were so silent that afternoon as we cleaned her body and changed her into a fresh duster. Save for calling the hospital, we were voiceless. We three have daughters. We three are women. We three know the depths of this unspeakable crime.
I tell you this story because I want you to remember horror can exist in such frightening proximity to us all and so you must be careful with who you entrust your person. There are millions of people who migrate to godforsaken places such as these to eke out a living, but at some point, for a few tormented souls, in the desolation, the unfamiliarity or the anxiety of displacement, something allows the unimaginable to spring forth. Please be cautious always because if anyone would even try to hurt you, the very act would drive me to the very worst. I love you fiercely, madly really. Civilized though your father and I seem, we’d cast it all off for you.
Walk always alongside me.
Mama
London, 1997
Mme. Marchand,
I have heard from your late husband’s lawyer on the matter of the property in Lyon. Unfortunately, on account of your being his second spouse who did not purchase any properties with him jointly, we are now subject to the laws of France regarding inheritance. The courts deem neither you nor your child, Delphine, as rightful or direct heirs to any of the contested properties on account that you and Delphine were born in Senegal. Further, you and your husband married in the Seychelles and did not secure your French citizenship. French inheritance laws, as you know, limit passage of property to citizens of France. The courts will, in this case, give full control of your husband’s estate to Dr. Arnaud Marchand, his oldest son, as the laws of primogeniture dictate. Dr. Arnaud has already declared willingness to cover the considerable inheritance taxes. Such an act impedes our goal to secure the Lyon property.
I may still argue for Delphine’s entitlement to a portion of la resérve, she being one of your husband’s six children, and perhaps there will be something you can claim in the quotité disposible.
I am sorry I cannot bring you better news. Perhaps reaching out to Arnaud could work in your and Delphine’s favor. Meanwhile, I shall continue to file all the appeals in accordance with your instructions and hope for the best.
Jean-Denis Pasqual, Esq.
Avocat International
1988 – Quezon City, Philippines
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Reyes,
We regret to inform you that your son, Julian, will have to repeat third year high school. Academically, he has failed to meet the standards set by our institution and refuses to comply with our curriculum. We here at Ateneo pride ourselves in producing top competitors on the University front. As one of the oldest Jesuit schools in the country, it is crucial that each student uphold our unique standard and grow into a “man for others,” as our philosophy dictates. If Julian continues along the difficult path he has set for himself, we have no choice but to release him lest he tarnish our exemplary record.
We of the board are perplexed at Julian’s poor performance. His admission examination scores were exceedingly high in both math and languages, hence our enthusiasm to have him as a student. His performance has since been a disappointment. Many of our faculty has remarked that he stares out the window during lecture and is more interested in catching insects during recess than socializing with the other students. I suggest you speak with him about this behavior. It is not normal and he cannot carry on in this manner, especially in our school. If he wishes to graduate, he simply must comply. He is his own worst enemy at this point and only he can save himself.
We here at Ateneo hope that this repeat year will be Julian’s chance to prove to us why he should be here.
For Julian to become an Ateneo Man will bring honor to your family and our establishment. Please make full use of this second chance.
Yours in Christ,
Fr. Aries Rocha, S.J.,S.T.B.,M.S.,Ph.D.
Dean of Students
Ateneo De Manila
July 26, 2011
1:43 am
Dear Jill,
Do you still use this email address? All things are well with me. I hope the same for you.
Miles
It was a feeler message. Though he missed Jill, he wanted her to show the first flinch of emotion. It had been over a year since his last call. After months of adoring correspondence, Miles, succumbing to his characteristic ennui with Jill’s emotional consistency, called her one evening and flatly said, “We’re not to contact one another any longer. I’m done.” He wasn’t accustomed to explaining himself in any situation. People often gave him a pass on account of his superficial charm and he hoped Jill, like the others, would forgive him the dismissal.
***
Jill read these sparse lines and noted their restrained neutrality against the snow white backdrop of her gmail screen. She bristled. “That bastard. He ends things abruptly and thinks three crap sentences is a peace offering? Fuck that.”
At one point, she thought she loved him. He was a boy-in-man, a dreamy idealist, intoxicatingly sensitive. Now, looking back through bitter lenses, he was a pandering dullard who relished her heartfelt attentions. The bile welling up in her thought balloon turned cold and encrusted its rim with shard-like icicles. She sat up straight in her chair and fired three lines back.
July 26, 2011
10:38 pm
Miles:
I do still use this email address. Lose it. Bore someone else with this inquiry.
Jill
