At the end of my first appointment with Tesh she asked if I had any traumatic experiences as a kid, and this was very conversational so I very conversationally said something about how I don’t think they’re traumatic, maybe just formative. She told me, “oh, I definitely want to talk more about that next time.” And then for some reason I laughed. For some reason she laughed too. It was nice actually. In the picture on the screen, she was smiling, and from behind my laptop I could see the white afternoon light flitting through the side of my curtain. It was a gorgeous day outside. I got a sunburn later.
It’s weird talking about lateral religious trauma handed down by a family that wasn’t even my own. and I’m beyond it now, I’m fine with it all, I’m not that kid anymore, but I still know her. We haven’t lost touch. I see myself at eleven years old, so tan, all elbows and knees. I smell like chlorine. I’m weightless, I feel like I’m in an ocean, everything is fragile magic. At eleven years old I still loved being a girl in a way that’s inflected with a blurriness of childhood joy. From the shallow end I hear her talking to my mom, she has a loud voice that carries, it’s sticky, it clings to your ribcage, that St. Bernard accent coming through in flickers. She’s talking about my body, I realize. She sounds appalled. She says that from behind I don’t look eleven. I hear every word, but only hers, not my mother’s, and my adolescence splits into two at the three-foot end of the cross-gates pool; a before and after. And then I cover up my body for years.
At the lakefront, I climb the sprawled out oak tree with her son who is my best friend and she takes pictures of us. Moss and shadows, those houses on stilts, and my face is serious, she says she likes to photograph it like that, and whatever she asks for I give and give. I like her laugh, it’s just so big, loud as the rest of her, and how do I get more of it, what will make me deserving? She lets me ride shotgun on the way to get the photos developed. She talks to me the whole time, only me, and I’m like a daughter to her, she’s said that since I was nine years old, since she took me to church with her family and said, I’d like to see you saved. She makes me feel interesting and she makes me cry. The before intrudes upon the after. Giveth and taketh away, so on and so forth. She was the first person I knew who shot film, it’s the whole reason why I started. And I still have those photos. They’re black and white and beautiful, and I felt beautiful in them. I thought what I felt was love.
One night while I’m over at Pat’s place, smoking with him on the porch swing, his bother is drunk and says something to me about my legs. Do you know how to take a compliment? he asks, and I think I might be smiling when I cut my knuckles on his teeth. My rage was a gift. It was a channel, I was the gathering of many sharp points. And when his brother comes to the restaurant that I work at, that she owns, she pops the cap off the beer he orders even though he’s underage. I loved that bottle opener. Mounted to the counter above the sink so that you got the satisfying click of teeth pulling pleated metal, and again when the metal hits the sink. She says he likes me. I’m supposed to like that, but I’m not supposed to engage with it, just let it happen to me. She has no idea about my knuckles, and she doesn’t ask about them, and that’s because I’m at the age where girls get difficult but she never elaborates on why. I could tell her why. She’s talking about the bible study on wednesday, how I don’t go anymore, but I say I will because she’s a blow to my heart, I’m still sensitive to her rejection. I really only liked going just to play baseball in the street with the other kids while their parents picked apart verses. My parents don’t go to church. Those parents thought they were saving me. I just wanted a community. For a long time I won’t know that it’s not always like this; the dark living rooms, litanies of wrath, lists of who ends up in hell and who can claw their way up if they’re devoted enough, and the women only allowed to listen while the sweat collects on their faces. Do not be afraid, the bible says over and over. She asks in this cavalier way that isn’t really cavalier if I’m going to bring that girl with the black hair, with the black nails, with the black clothes. No, I’m not bringing her. I love her too much to bring her. “I think that girl is lost,” she says. “I don’t want her to get you lost,” she says. The pile of beer caps glitter wet under the overheads. Her husband watches from the cut-out window in the kitchen door, and he always looks angry when our eyes meet, and I can't for the life of me understand which part of me is the worst problem. but she’s smiling, and her smile is almost warm. Do not be afraid. Don’t flinch.
