Left des hommes office in a foul mood, the sub-office girl acting out her pettier side, having a buyers’ remorse over a fifty pesos purchase of print material I made her pay. I took down the anti-feminist poster they hung at the boss’ door, a shameless suck-up to big daddy (big daddies, rather: there are two, the white man, and the wog) by some whore in the workplace. The office sec tried to stop me, nicely, the niceness almost succeeding in making me feel guilty. Weren’t they hospitable people by all means and by all appearances with a heap of grievance against my impudences? I rolled up the canvass poster, wanting to rip in the middle Nancy Smith’s womanhood, from the bottom up. It was an effort to stride briskly out of the office and into the asphalted road aboard my cousin’s ship-size leather shoes.
My cousin in the army stole my dyke shoes and replaced it with a second-hand which he rather grew tired of. Bastard, how I kept on cursing, all day long, having thanked the old couple his parents who were tasked to talk me into taking his shoes. May he slip on it, may it never fit, I kept on praying, missing his sister my friend and her gift of feet. Knowing I am once more broken-hearted, she sent me a brand new dyke shoes, the right oversize, and he is wearing them, my manhood stolen and strutted out. I can imagine him bragging to his pals in the army. It belongs to my commie cousin just home from cuba the ungrateful bitch who would not give. I know I should have not accepted it but my auntie, who was now 70 and a little shamefaced about crimes committed against daughters slaving it out in HK, was anxious not to be found out. So I pretended I didn’t know, for people after all are not supposed to care about dykes whose obsessions begin and end with shoes. Jealous they all are that the daughter sister would support my faith in my life and hers against all family advice and would still be sending something expensively special for me when graces for them dropped low since the day she found out.
I wore it anyway, like I take it all, all, the insults the injuries my friends and family alone can gift me with, because the way I live hurts, betrays them. Denies them the pleasure of making me take, take from them what they want to give me shove down my ass. Wearing the pair hurts, like one was walking on loose hinges. Then on my way to buy a ticket a downpour had me stranded. Water rose ankle-deep. The friend at the travel agency was close to screaming, am I paying for my ticket or not, am I flying or cancelling it altogether. I walked into the waters angry at the world always playing a bad joke at good good me. To my surprise, the cousin’s discarded shoes kept me dry. And Nancy Smith’s canvas poster, how helpful it made itself for me, like that was all the service she really owed every woman who didn’t like her little piece of mind: save their heads at least from getting wet in the rain that they may not die of pneumonia.
21 july 2011
sassy!
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