When my youngest sister was six a boy in her class hit her
in the face; leaving behind an ugly black stain like spilled ink on her tiny
cheek. My questions of wonder and concern were answered only by giggles and silliness,
leaving me only to reason it had happened by her own mischievous hand.
Not an
hour later, the boy’s mother called me to apologize on his behalf.
I crawled into her bed that night and held her close, to ask
her why she hadn’t told me the truth. She said, in all seriousness, that they
liked each other and so it was okay that he hit her.
I swallowed my fear – like acid that burned my throat – scorching
my words; settling them curled in a smoking mess at the pit of my stomach.
As she nestled her head of soft tangled hair into my chest,
I remembered the first time a boy hit me; and how the teachers – with lines of
laughter crinkling their eyes, smiled – and said that it was because he liked
me.
So when I was seventeen and my boyfriend gave me my first
set of bruises, I thought it was because he liked me. When he threw his angry
fists at my body, I’d been told they were hand-written love letters that he was
sending me. Counting my breaths and tallying my sins and shattered bones. They
had taught me that aggression translated into affection in the language of love;
and all of those songs about love being a battlefield made sense to me for the
first time.
Boys will be boys.
And all is fair in
love and war.
I was taught to speak in apologies and broken teeth; to
start every sentence with “I’m sorry” and to end every sentence with a mouthful
of blood and shame.
I wish I had told her then, what I know now.
I wanted to tell her that she doesn’t have to be soft; that
she doesn’t have to be the delicate flower with the ethereal smile, quiet and
flowing on small feet from room to room with grace and poise.
I wanted to look into
her eyes and tell her that she can be an ocean rushing without means of
stopping toward a cliff-side, that she can be a roaring wind barreling across the
entirety – shaking everything in its wake, that she can be as wide and loud as
a lightning storm. That there is a universe inside of herself, wanting to be
explored – and that she can stand on her own.
I wanted to tell her that when she finds someone that is
sufficient enough to deserve her; he should be in constant amazement that he is
hers. He should think about how it is him alone who gets to kiss her each night,
when the lights are off as the city sleeps. He should be one to stop, in the
middle of the day, to imagine her laughter and allow his heart to skip a beat.
He should find himself awed that out of all of the men wiping their feet at her
door, she chose him to let inside.
That this is the way everyone is meant to be loved – the way
someone might stare slack jawed at the sun setting. Because you are a pink blue
red and orange sky at 5:30 pm in January that makes you pull over the car and
get out just so you can make sure what you are seeing is real. That love is not
frantic or hard, but gentle and exciting; the kind of thing that you keep
running your hands over because you can’t believe it is everything you dreamed
of and never thought you’d get.
I wanted my little six year old sister to know that love
shouldn’t exist hidden under make-up and excuses. That love should exist where
the world can see it; in the smile so wide it hurts; in the strength
of her footsteps and the way her laugh becomes a song.
of her footsteps and the way her laugh becomes a song.
And I wanted my sister to know she deserves that;
And the person she should always love the fiercest
Is herself.
Is herself.
~C
