Instruments
As my grandmother waits for my grandfather to return home from late night drinking, she prays to the virgin Mary for guidance. She used to tell me that men have blurry eyes when drunk, but each night, she still prays as if there was no alcohol too strong for men to find their path home. Even after 2 years that my grandfather has been long dead- with trembling hands- she still clutches rosary beads, pretending they were her husband’s fingers. Hoping that, somehow, he’d still find his way back home. My cousin- even after 3 police station complaints of domestic violence, 3 black eyes and 3 runaway episodes- still manages to put the food she cooks on her husband’s dinner table. With every dish she cooks for him, she hollows herself a little deeper, and as she watches her husband bloat his stomach round with beer—I watch her grow thin.
Witnessing this history of submission among the women of my family, I invented a game I grew up playing by myself: Every time I’d see a man or a boy come my way, I’d rename him with the first planet that comes to my mind. This game became my favorite; it made me look at my environment quite differently as if looking at the sky through a telescope, convinced that each man has his own gravity- that even after all the nights you spend lying with the stench of alcohol under the sheets beside you in bed, who forgets your name while still barely conscious, and vomits in the morning—the woman, still gravitates back to the man. I began seeing men as planets now. Playing this game, I rendered myself an excellent judge of character: This man is wearing red, so I’ll call him Mars. This boy is the fifth person standing in line from the bathroom stall, so I think he’s Jupiter. This guy is pretty hot, so I guess I’ll call him Mercury. This man is really, really big so he’s probably… Uranus.
And this boy… this boy with skinny legs, and bony arms, with his back hunched over, and his glasses barely fitting his nose bridge...When they talk about outer space in class, I picture him. Being around him is being in a vacuum space, even after all our lives practicing our mastery of language, I still couldn’t spit the words I would have wanted to say to him. I didn’t know it was possible that all the brilliance of the universe could be contained in such a lanky body, but I started to believe in divinity again, because mere accidents or explosions can’t create someone that angelic- I could see a halo right around him, the swirls of the milky way had nothing on his eyes! So his name.. must be Saturn.
Every time Saturn hugs me, he’d always apologize before he had even hugged me that he’d impale me with his bones. When I hug him, I’d always apologize that I’d impale him with too much of my love.
The women in my family taught me that you can never give too much love, never give too much affection, so I let Saturn use me as a stethoscope, wrap me tight around his chest, amplify the beats of his heart, remind himself that he is still alive. I let Saturn use me as a knife- to slice reality in half for him, remind himself that he is real.
I guess this went on for so long that we forget that sometimes, people aren’t wired to be used as instruments. When Saturn holds my hand, it started feeling like he was reaching for a beer bottle. When he reached for my body, it felt like he was strumming my ribcage pretending it were guitar strings. The halo floating above his head started feeling more like a handcuff, than a promise. I’ve been used for so many things other what I should be, that I felt so alien, that I forget that I am human too.
When I asked Saturn “What if I become someone else other than you want me to?” He answered he’ll never leave me still. I guess what he meant by that is the thought of us being together will never leave my mind, never let me sleep at night; I will never move on from him, and I thought this-- this is the curse he has cast upon me.
Saturn and I.. don’t speak anymore. But until now, my voice still molds itself into the shape of his jaw. Until now, I still look for stars to wish upon for him to come back. Until now, it still feels like I’m only using myself to fill the space he had left empty- I would have chosen over anything- and this gets terribly unbearable that it is hard to look at myself without bumping into a memory of him, or feeling my skin without remembering that his skin touched mine once.
But I am tired of being consumed just so someone else could feel nourished. I am done looking at telescopes wishing they were gun barrels. Done looking at the skies, searching for constellations that spell your name I am tired of pretending to be a shape that you could fit in whatever space you want me too, my edges not quite smooth enough to fit your black hole like a weighing scale that you could step on to know how much he weighs in this world I am not the elevator that you shut off to get to somewhere else.
Saturn, this is not me choosing not to love you anymore. I am not the one who gave up. This is me finally choosing to fill the void you left with my own love. I am not an instrument and I will no longer let myself be used by someone who did not stay.
