by Gabby Rivera
I sat on the porch with her package on my lap and caught myself. Two girls wanted to get with me and have my attention and be sweet to me. This was a never-before-seen-in-real-life situation for me. Two brilliant, foxy girls. One curious, chubby Juliet. Besides, I’d been craving Lainie’s attention this whole time and here it was. So what if I had someone else’s kiss on my cheek? I walked into the quiet darkness of Harlowe’s home smiling, ready to take in Lainie’s words and hopefully listen to a love-filled feminist power lesbian mix tape.
* * *
Dear Juliet,
There are five crumpled pieces of paper on my desk. I’m hoping this won’t be the sixth. I need to get through this. You deserve it.
I know I’ve been a little cold and distant. I’ve been dodging you, my parents, other friends. All that matters is this internship and our politicians and their campaigns. Nothing and no one else matters.
That’s a lie. Sarah matters. Sarah is a girl from Texas that I met at the White House.
Wait let me start over. Can I start over?
Before I tell you about Sarah, you have to know that my heart’s been yours since the second you walked into Dr. Jean’s Women’s Studies class. I loved you from that moment, Juliet.
You need to know that I ignored Sarah at first.
You need to know that I tried to fight my feelings for her.
You need to know that I never for a second thought that this feminist, power-lesbian mix tape would become a breakup CD.
I love you, Juliet, but I haven’t been honest with you.
I’ve been seeing Sarah and I’m in love. She’s the one I want my parents to meet as my girlfriend because I think she’s my forever person.
I never meant to hurt you, Juliet. Never ever.
I’m so sorry. I hope we can still be friends.
See you in September,
Lainie
14. Operation: Wallow In My Sadness Forever
To love another woman is to streak naked across the sky, swallow the sun in one bite, and live aflame. To love another woman is to look at yourself in the mirror and determine that you are worthy of the galaxy and its fury. To love another woman is to love yourself more than you love her.
Raging Flower
* * *
My first breakup. I drowned in pictures of her, in the replays of our last night together, and in every note of that fucking awful mix tape she made me and the one I never got a chance to send to her. Lainie was in love with another girl. Sarah. Sarah. Sarah. She’d tried to fight her feelings, so shit was strong between them. All I saw in my head was what I imagined Sarah to be. Probably white, straight hair, blond, perfectly feminine. Everything I wasn’t. Everything I’d ever hated about myself came out of my pores. Sarah was going to meet Lainie’s parents as her girlfriend, no wait, excuse me: her forever person. I wasn’t good enough. Thick-bodied, bespectacled, cautious, overtly Puerto Rican and brown-skinned, book-nerd, daydreamer. Were all these elements the sum of why Lainie refused to bring me home for real? Why she fucked me in the dark and in the back of her mom’s car but never brought me to the table as more than a school friend? Why she had a fucking new girlfriend named Sarah take my place?
For three full days, I hid in Harlowe’s home, under blankets in the attic. No library. No showering. Cell phone off. My stomach ejected most of what I put into it, which was almost nothing. I cried during the day while Harlowe and Maxine moved about the house as usual. They checked in on me, asked what I needed, and left when I needed to be alone. I cried at night when it was just me and the attic and all my thoughts. My Discman spun her mix CD and then mine and then hers again. When I wasn’t crying or trying not to dry heave, I wrote and re-wrote response letters to Lainie. I crumpled them. I tore them to bits. In my dreams, I lit them on fire.
I didn’t have a girlfriend anymore. Nothing was going to change that. And by putting her parent’s address on the breakup package, Lainie blocked me from responding. She made sure I couldn’t invade her magical little safe haven Democratic bullshit internship. She made sure that no part of me could drop in on her and her forever person. Every time I thought of that phrase, I gagged a little and wanted to punch them both. “Forever person.” I wanted to scream at Lainie and tell her to go fuck herself and ask her how she even dared to include that cutesy hyperbolic shit in a breakup letter to me. What a self-important, miserable, cheating-ass human being. How could she do me like that?
I called Ava and cried, like straight up wept into the phone when she said hello. She let me cry. Ava listened to all the sniffling and the wheezing and the cry/yelling I had in me. She didn’t even make any cracks about me deserving this because Lainie was white and no one told me to date a white girl. She didn’t do any of that. Ava listened to me as I read Lainie’s letter to her and the tracklist to the breakup mix tape. She offered good advice; she called it “self-care.” Ava told me that it was important to cry it out so that all the emotions didn’t creep up on me later and with more intensity. She made me promise to eat more food and take a shower if I could. We hung up only when I swore I’d take care of myself and call her again.
I smoked a little weed to try and clear the nausea out of my belly. I thought about calling Mom but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t need someone who wouldn’t understand why I was crying over a girl. The sun rose through the split in the curtain. I wasn’t sure what day of the week it was. It was another day of crying, not eating, and writing awful letters I was never going to send to Lainie. I fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion and dreamt of drowning in a river. The dream wouldn’t let me go. I slept until I hit mud and rocks, until the argument happening in real life shook me awake.
“Maxine, I want to make sure this conversation is grounded in respect and understanding,” Harlowe’s voice echoed up the attic stairs, “I’m not insecure about your love for Zaira, what makes me uncomfortable is how often you’ve been seeing her instead of spending time with me. We have specific nights for a reason.”
“I know, I want to apologize for disrespecting you, Harlowe. But you should know, and I’ve been wondering about how to tell you this, that my feelings for Zaira are bubbling to an irrepressible point. I’ve been a bit reckless in my actions but it’s all been fueled by love.”
My eyes snapped open. Still wrapped in blankets, I crept towards the steps to listen.
“So basically, you’re falling into goddess love with Zaira and you don’t know how to handle it?”
“I know how to handle myself, Harlowe. I just got a little carried away and careless with the arrangements of our relationship. I can recall a few moments when the same has happened to you.”
“Do not bring up Samara,” Harlowe’s voice grew shrill, “I’ve already apologized for Samara. It’s not fair for you to throw her in my face.”
“I wasn’t. I was merely reminding us both that we’ve been in situations where our passion for others has clouded our judgments.”
“Max, you don’t have to remind me of anything. And this conversation is about your fuck-up, not mine.”
I sat with my hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh. Their argument provided temporary relief from Operation: Wallow In My Sadness Forever. The way they argued was so civilized. I’d never heard two people speak to each other that way.
“I refuse to look at this as a fuck-up.”
“Well what else do you call it when you don’t show up for our night and you don’t even call and then I find out you were with her. What do you call that?”
I’d call that a fuck-up. But I didn’t get to hear what Maxine called it because they moved their conversation into another part of the house. I heard footsteps and a door shut tight, then the muffled sounds of two people continuing an argument. The flash of amusement felt from their exchange was gone before I could harness it. I didn’t want Harlowe and Maxine to break up or fight too much. It hurt my heart; I needed them to be an example of long-lasting adult lesbian love. Or something.
I stared up
at the ceiling. Same clothes. Same mattress. It was 5:00 p.m. I cried, alone; wished I was home. What would Lil’ Melvin be up to? I missed him never leaving my side when I was home from school. I wondered if he was okay. I remembered the brown paper bag Lil’ Melvin gave me at the airport. My eyes welled up again. I missed his chunky butt. I opened it. Inside the bag were two packages of Twix bars, a Yu-Gi-Oh! Beaver Warrior playing card, and a note. The description on the Beaver Warrior card read, “What this creature lacks in size it makes up for in defense when battling on the prairie.” Beaver Warrior. Just the name alone made me laugh. My baby brother had made his first gay joke and it was perfect. I opened his note:
Sister,
I’m 100% sure I’m pyrokinetic. Also, I’m about 78% positive that I’m a homosexual like you.
The force is strong between us.
*M
Whoa. I read his note three more times, unable at first to absorb its message. Lil’ Melvin was gay too. We were both gay. And what the hell was a pyrokinetic? I ate those Twix bars like I’d never eaten chocolate before. Lil’ Melvin’s admission of gayness left me feeling excited but also uncertain. How would I be able to help him through any of it? I put the letter back in its envelope and cried a little bit more. The amount of things that I could handle in a day had been reached.
I crawled back into bed. Thoughts of Lainie making out with Sarah filled my brain. Sleep took me away, helped me hide from all the emotions I didn’t know how to handle. Before drifting off, I thought about all the promises I’d made to Ava about showering and self-care. Tomorrow. I would do all of those things tomorrow. I slept all night long without dreaming.
* * *
Harlowe shook me awake. The act wasn’t aggressive. Her hands felt secure on my shoulders. She asked me to sit up. She opened windows and let the easy pastel sunlight into the room.
“Today is a new day, Juliet. Today you will not lie in bed. Today we will take care of each other,” she said. Harlowe handed me a stack of pancakes. “They’re vegan.”
I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in the last few days. My stomach grumbled, hard. The pancakes smelled delicious, vegan or not. Whether they were made with hopes and dreams alone, they were glorious. Harlowe sat across from me. We ate together. I realized that Kira’s phone number was still legible across my forearm; sharpie ink was no joke. Harlowe saw it too.
“You’ve had an intense couple of days. I’m in a good place in my cycle and have so much room in my spirit to hear you. Not talking about a breakup can totally lead to a yeast infection,” she said.
“A breakup yeast infection to add to my breakup CD. This could be the best week ever,” I replied.
“I can cure yeasties but it’s better to let out the feelings before they throw off your pH balance, Juliet.”
The last thing I wanted to deal with was a yeast infection. I pulled Lainie’s letter out from under my pillow. There was nowhere else to start. It was one page long. I handed it over to Harlowe and felt how light it was. That crushed me even more. Was I not worth an Aaliyah-style four-page letter? Writing on both sides, pen pressed so hard against paper that the letter would feel textured and crumpled with pain? Was I not worth severity? Harlowe read her note and muttered an “oh fuck.”
“What?” I asked.
“‘She’s the one I want my parents to meet as my girlfriend because I think she’s my forever person,’” Harlowe read. Her brow furrowed as she rolled her eyes. “Adding that to a breakup letter is cruel and unnecessary. ‘Forever person’, jeez.”
“I know right!” I exclaimed and then started to cry, again.
I covered my face, embarrassed to cry so recklessly in front of Harlowe. Harlowe hugged me, pushed her forehead into mine. We met eyes.
“It’s going to be okay. All you have to do today is finish these pancakes and maybe take a shower,” she said.
I laughed against her shoulder. “Ok, I think I can do both of those things.”
I did what she said. Showering brought life into my lungs, running my hands over my body cleared away some of the sadness on my skin. I thought about my ovaries and how envisioning them different colors made the pain go away. The power and the ability to change the spiritual chemistry inside of myself energized me. I focused on the color violet; it felt warm and healing. As I showered, and dressed, I thought of the color violet. I didn’t cry. I didn’t think of Lainie. I chose faded black jeans, my hot pink “Bx Girl” T-shirt, and left my hair, loose, gelled, and curly. I wiped off the dirt from my Jordans until they gleamed. I put on some lip-gloss, eyeliner, and I was ready. Awake. Not crying.
I found Harlowe outside rummaging around in her truck.
“Look at you, all sorts of fresh and clean,” she said. She walked to the porch with a stack of papers and envelopes in her hands. “I have a meeting today. And all of this is bills and fan mail. Maybe you can help with some of it? I’m about eight months behind on replies and I like to respond to everyone and send out as many Raging Flower stickers as I can.”
“Works for me,” I replied. I reached out for the fan mail.
From the glove compartment, Harlowe retrieved a light purple bandana and handed it to me. “In case of tears or snot,” she said.
Violet. The bandana was violet.
“Can I say one more thing about this breakup?” I asked.
“Of course, you can, sweet girl child,” Harlowe replied. She sat next to me on the porch and ripped open old mail.
“She hasn’t even called me. It’s been four days. Maybe that means I should call her but I refuse. It feels like a set up. Is she waiting for me to call all freaked out and crying? Does she have some speech lined up? I don’t know. I hope she does. I hope that just like I’m here feeling all fucked up, that she’s there wondering why I haven’t responded. I refuse to give her that. I’m not going to let her hear me cry or feel the weight of my rage and sadness. If she thinks about me at all this summer, I’d rather it be with a question mark pressing down on her rib cage.”
I wiped away unwanted tears and snot with Harlowe’s violet bandana.
“And if she thinks about you all summer, she might just see what a foolish mistake she’s made and come running back with another mix tape. Or maybe for the rest of her life, you’ll be the one that got away and goddess, that’d be sweet,” Harlowe added.
That felt right to me. The idea of being Lainie’s biggest regret soothed my soul. Harlowe and I worked on the front porch. She went through her bills and I muddled through her fan mail. It didn’t disappoint. I read the best ones aloud.
Colleen—Denver, CO
Dearest Harlowe, Sweet Goddess of the Birth Canal,
I’ve tracked my menstrual cycle in accordance with Mother Moon. Celestial strength fills my every step. Thank you for connecting me to the inner chambers of my vulva and its link to the cosmos. Please come over for ginger tea if you’re ever in the Denver area.
Tidings and waves,
Colleen
P.S. I might legally change my name to Aysun which means moon water. Do you think that’s too much?
* * *
KC - Olympia, WA
Yo Harlowe,
I stopped cutting, which is fucking rad and super good for my spiritual growth. To celebrate my first year cut-free, I got this wicked Raging Flower tat. I broke up with my girlfriend because she wouldn’t read your book, which obviously means that we were so not fucking meant to be.
In Solidarity,
fellow pussy-loving dyke warrior,
KC
Polaroid Enclosed: Brown-skinned Filipina, shaved head, holding up her denim pants leg to reveal a massive tattoo of the cover of Raging Flower on her leg. Her free hand giving the middle finger.
* * *
Angela - Redwood Falls, MN
Harlowe,
My seven-year-old daughter now tells people she “has a pussy and is proud of it.” Just wanted to share!
XOXO,
Angela and Adele
* * *<
br />
Raging Flower stickers were giant sunflowers with the word “P*ssy” in hot pink written across the middle. I stuck them in all the self-addressed stamped envelopes from fans. Harlowe went through her bills with an American Spirit cigarette held in a straight line between her full lips.
Samara, a friend of Harlowe’s, stopped by to discuss the reading at Powell’s. Their conversation faded in and out of my attention. One minute it was about how eating different seeds affected menstruation and then it was about some composting debacle at their friends’ communist farm. It went on forever. I didn’t even notice that Samara had her arm around Harlowe’s shoulder until Maxine strolled up the walkway.
Harlowe disentangled herself from Samara. She rushed up to give Maxine a hug. Samara said hello and goodbye in an overly cheerful, awkward sort of way and walked off. Maxine hugged Harlowe but not body to body. It was one of those Christian side hugs. The energy was off and the not-speaking thing made my arms break out in goosebumps. Harlowe and Maxine went inside. They spoke in low rumbles. I kept my ass on the porch and worked through her fan mail. Their drama reminded me of my drama. My guts twisted up from missing Lainie and I still had Kira’s number on my forearm and wasn’t sure what I was going to do about any of it. So I let the day pass me by and found comfort in sleep.
15. Operation: Still Wallowing in My Sadness
… and in the middle of it all: all of the self-empowerment, all of the radical womanhood, all of the community-building. You will still feel wrecked. Allow yourself to be wrecked. Know that it is finite.
