CNF: Cleanliness…

In fact, I think, from the twisted look on her face that she tries so desperately to hide that she is disgusted by me, in this moment, and by this.

 

Cleanliness is next to godliness. Or so they say. I loved taking showers, and I’m sure, had I been given the opportunity, I would’ve loved taking baths. My brother, however, did not.

It was as if dirt was his best friend, letting it stick to him like glue, hanging out on his clothes, clinging with every step. You might even say I grew more and more diligent about being clean solely because he wasn’t. 

Standing in the shower, letting the water run over my skin, cleaning me of doubt, fear, and shame. Cleaning me of the stink of expectations, of pressure, of stress. Cleaning me of abandonment, neglect, and what that child therapist said: anger. 

At first, there was nothing to stop me from staying in and taking all the time in the world. However, as you’ve seen, that’s now how my life works. Due to situations I’ll tell you about later, I still rush through showers, even now, as an adult.

***

I stood there, knees shaking no matter how tight I tried to hold them together. I didn’t want her to smell me. I did my job. I went under the water. I took my allotted time and made sure the liquid was so hot that it melted any bacteria away. It was like lava, burning my skin until I was sure I’d only be boiled bones.

She stood before me, waiting for me to drop my towel. I fidget, clutching the towel around my bony body. “I promise, I took a shower. I did,” I reassure her but she doesn’t believe me.

My adoptive mom has told her all these stories. Stories about dirty bodies, “fonk” so strong it stinks up the car, underarms caked in sweat. I want to say ‘it’s not me, it’s him,’ but I know I can’t tattle on my brother. Despite his continuous attempts to break my will, to remind me that I wasn’t ‘really’ his biological sister – that I was a dumpster baby no one wanted and no one could love – I stuck by him always. That’s what you do, when blood is thicker than adoption papers.

 I try to appear innocent although the mischievous look (that, now, I often see in my own baby daughter) is a permanent fixture on my face. I hope to buy a few more moments. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray someone will need her somewhere else in the house and she’ll have to go deal with it right away. It had never happened before but a young girl could dream.

“Let me smell,” with one long fingered hand she pulls up my right arm and inhales deeply. I imagine Yzma, with her bug eyes and stick-like lashes, scouring down at me. Repeating the same on the other side, she seems satisfied. This, I’m used to. This, I don’t mind. But then out comes two fingers that she uses to swipe between my little girl legs. 

Not in a sexual way, there’s nothing gratifying about this. With my lack of pubic hair, my ugly face – too out of proportion to be found beautiful, with my scarred knee and ankle from a rebellious bike ride, with my scarred head from cigarette burns; no, there’s nothing appealing about me. In fact, I think, from the twisted look on her face, that she tries so desperately to hide that she is disgusted by me, in this moment, and by this. Maybe even a little disgusted by herself. She brings her hand up to her nose and sniffs. “Good,” she says, dismissing me with a single wave.

All of this was pointless. Every single time she smelled me, swiping with stiff fingers, I’ve come up clean. No back alley, dirty water, soiled diaper smell coming from me. But I’m shaken, every time. I wonder ‘is this foreshadowing?’ Although, with my young-girl mind, I don’t know what foreshadowing is yet, or how important it is to the rest of my story; I mean, my life.

*** 

I teeter back to my room on nervous legs. My brother had been standing outside the room and we avoid each other’s eyes because I know what comes next. It’s his turn and I know he’ll fail. He’s the one who started this.

First, what with terrifying me so badly that I couldn’t wash my hair in the shower, and second my adverse reaction to unlocked doors. Back home, there were two doors going into the upstairs bathroom. Both doors locked but one always opened regardless. My brother thought it was the funniest thing ever, sneaking into the restroom, throwing back the curtain and screaming at the top of his lungs, poking and prodding at my body. He couldn’t hold back his laughter, giggling at my gangly legs. Legs that would never be long enough to make me a model.

I’d scream until I cried, then cry until I was numb. He didn’t understand but here I am, yet again, making excuses for him. I’m sure he wasn’t aware of all that had happened to me. All that had been done. I would never tell him. He already blamed me for all that had gone wrong, for us being in foster care in the first place – although I’d only been two or three when we were taken – and I’d never give him another reason to think me less than. So, what started as a playful game, became a terrifying world.

There I was teetering into my tiny room while he was behind closed doors, being checked for smells. I didn’t think there was more being done, if there was, he never acted as such and wouldn’t tell me even if I asked. But I feared for him and his fragile mind. (I was sure he was stronger than I thought but I couldn’t run the risk of telling him everything).

When I reached my weekend bed, I slid under the covers and I thought of flowers, big black flowers that could be painted on a yellow wall in rebellion. I thought of tiny boxes filled with secrets and heartfelt memories. I thought of times when my body was my own. When was that? I try hard to remember.

And not just in this, I lie in bed and wish my body was my own-  away from the Hims with friends that want to take me for ice cream (if that ever actually happened, or if it was a culmination of abuse that my young mind strung together like a movie), from foster sisters with things they want to stick in soft places, from eyes that wonder because I’m too young to really understand but old enough to know they’re looking, and from fingers looking for nonexistent smells.

So I’m sullied and clean. Washed and seared. My skin is pristine but crawls. I knew she meant well, at least that’s what I told myself, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she would do what she did if she knows what’d been done: to me.     

 

WANTED AD: Black Woman Best Friend

Wanted: Black Woman Best Friend

African American Woman in her late 20s seeking African American Woman in her late 20s who is also seeking an African American Woman in her late 20s as a BEST FRIEND. 

BEST FRIEND wanted for the following activities:
Hanging out and doing weird things like going to the museum, library, and other things that get us out of the house and away from our partners and babies. 

Discovering new cafes so we can pretend to be coffee and tea snobs, and take photos in different places to feel well traveled because at this time in our lives we don’t have enough money to travel but then again, maybe we could if we rearranged our priorities that we are too lazy to rearrange. 

Going shopping, but not spending too much money. Window Shopping skills a plus. The ability to try on clothes as if on the runway and tell-it-like-it-is when we try on something unflattering for our body type.

Willing to watch movies of all kinds, action movies to fight our inner aggressors, romance to get us teary eyed and sappy, scary movies to get our adrenaline pumping, drama for the EXTRA in both of us, cartoons for our inner child, and documentaries so we can be inspired to change our lives.

Gym rat buddies: Yoga and working out, but not too aggressive because sometimes I lack the motivation, or the self control, or I want to throw a pity party, or I just want to be fat for a weekend. Weight loss goals preferred.

Mom Friends: Babies around the same age preferred. Our littles can grow up together and be best friends or date each other or feel like they’re siblings or go to high school together, and then college, and then become successful together. Ages preferred: 9 months or maybe a year or maybe 3 years or hell, any age. 

Single ok but in-a-relationship preferred. Our partners can come to some of our events and pretend like they like each other, or maybe really like each other, or maybe become friends and we don’t feel so bad about leaving the kiddos with them while we go out to do all the things black mom friends like to do. What do they like to do? Suggestions preferred. Addendum: If single, knowledge of Stop-Me-When-I’m-Gushy preferred

Love for NOISE required. Willing to listen to non-stop chatter about books, writing, all things creative but also willing to say ‘shut up, you’re talking to much’ when needed.

Introvert or Extrovert allowed but fellow chatterbox preferred. Willing to chat for hours about random things, one converse flowing into another flowing into another and forgetting how we got there.

Preferably from America as similar experiences with the world makes for great camaraderie. Foreign Black friends also welcome, as opposing experiences with the world make for great camaraderie. The understanding that Black is our culture but it is not all that we are and willing to talk about this but also other topics. 

Political aspirations: The ability to chat about politics at the appropriate time but not all the time, or even some of the time. Actually as LITTLE time as possible. Knowledge of The-Right-Place-And-Time required.

Schedule:
Willing to meet up for events and activities. Not every day but more than once a month. Willing to text or message. Not every day but more than once a week.