Juliet Takes a Breath

by Gabby Rivera

  * * *

  At Harlowe’s, I paced around the attic for about half an hour practicing what I’d say to Kira over the phone. I wasn’t cool enough to call and say, “Hey, girl, come to this cool feminist reading with me.” Was I? Did I need to apologize for not calling after she drove me home that night or just pretend like all that had happened during a rift in the space time continuum and didn’t need to be accounted for? My boobs started to sweat. A first, second and third text message came from Lainie during that time and I ignored them all.

  I dialed Kira’s number praying it’d go to voicemail. She picked up right away.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  “Hi, um, Kira? This is Juliet, the girl from the library. You gave me a ride home once…”

  “Hi, Juliet. I was wondering if you’d ever call.”

  “Yeah, I just… things kinda like...”

  “Don’t worry about it. When’s your birthday?”

  “My birthday?”

  “Yeah, you know, so I can astrologically check you out.”

  “Oh, okay cool. September 6, 1983.”

  “Virgo. I fucking love Virgos. We’re not a match at all. Gemini’s and Virgos are pretty much guaranteed to blow stuff up lovewise. But you’re super cute so, I mean, hi, let’s keep talking. You called me.”

  She made me laugh.

  “Yes, I did,” I said, “I was wondering if you’d want to go with me to Harlowe Brisbane’s reading at Powell’s tomorrow night. I know it’s last minute but…”

  “But I’m already going with friends which means you’ll get to meet them all and it’ll be totally fine. Maybe you want to come out for stargazing with us afterwards?”

  “Stargazing?” I asked. Her hippie cute astrology thing caught me off guard and I liked it.

  “Yeah, like lay out along the bluffs and watch the sky move, trace the constellations,” she said.

  “Yes, I’m down,” I replied.

  “Sweet, see you tomorrow night.”

  She hung up with a soft click. My cheeks were on fire. I flopped on the mattress with a huge grin on my face. Kira worked that conversation like no one I’d ever talked to before. I thought I had game. Nope. I had a belly full of nerves and an array of nerdy pickup lines that never made it out of my head. Kira just moved with the flow of conversation. She asked me to hang out with her friends too, like ugh, I didn’t even know I needed that until she said it. Lainie texted again. I didn’t answer. Thoughts of Kira, her lips, and the two of us on her bike filled my daydreams. They pulled me out of this tense emotional place with Lainie. Everything was going to be okay.

  17. A Reading from the Book of White Lady Feminism

  Blood is literal. Blood is spiritual. Blood connects through birth, through chaos, and through intimacy. Embrace the stories of your sisters. Listen with hearts open and offer affirmations. Never assume their struggle. Never consume their truths. Do not let the assimilationist nature of the patriarchy infiltrate the sacred bonds of blood.

  Raging Flower

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Harlowe, Maxine, and I focused on preparations for Harlowe’s reading. Powell’s already had boxes of books. I was put in charge of the merchandise. There were Raging Flower stickers, limited edition Raging Flower period pads, Raging Flower patches, and three different types of T-shirts. Everything needed to be loaded into the pickup truck.

  Harlowe moved around the house, from the attic to the living room and back. She read excerpts from Raging Flower out loud. As she wove her way through the hall and over the couch, she moved random items out of place. I stopped to watch her. This was something I hadn’t seen her do. I just thought her house was possessed, I mean, if anyone’s house was bewitched, it’d be Harlowe’s. But no, not witchcraft, just Harlowe being Harlowe. Maxine stood by me. Together we watched her move.

  “That’s how you know she’s nervous,” Maxine said.

  We moved from the house to the porch. Maxine helped me label and load boxes of merchandise into the pickup. The neighborhood fluttered around us. An elderly lesbian couple walked their massive wolf-dog. People stopped as they strolled to say “Hello.” Everyone who stopped received a solid hug and the most sincere inquiry about their well-being. We moved slow and talked to everyone. Neither one of us wanted to be in the middle of Harlowe’s whirlwind of preparation and anxiety. With all of the merch packed up and ready, we took Maxine’s matte black pickup to Powell’s. There was only an hour left ’til showtime.

  “Tonight is Harlowe’s night to do what she does best. Rage against the patriarchy and talk to women about how we’re all spiritually bonded,” Maxine said.

  “Do you think we’re all spiritually bonded?” I asked. She and Zaira seemed to be.

  “Oh, Juliet, I think a lot of things. Like how it’s hard for me to feel any sort of bond to white people in general and yet I’m in a relationship with a white feminist.”

  “Sure must bring up a lot of feelings, especially when she challenges you on stuff like with that whole flier thing,” I said.

  “I didn’t mention this before but I’m on that 9/11 panel,” Maxine replied. “Black Womanists United reached out to me for my theological perspective. I’ve been working with a colleague from Iran to present connections between U.S. Anti-Blackness and Islamophobia.”

  “Maxine, that’s deep. That hit me right in the chest. Is it a secret that you were working on this?”

  “Not a secret, just complicated. Zaira’s the head of the BWU. We’ve been spending more time together, figuring out the panel, and getting closer in other ways. Working with her is exhilarating. I just have to find the space to tell Harlowe.”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I replied. “I mean, I don’t know much about relationships but it seems like telling hard truths is easier than dealing with a bunch of stupid lies or radio silence.”

  “Exactly. Tonight’s not for that though. It’s all about Raging Flower and Harlowe Brisbane, the feminist phenomenon. I wish we’d be able to get as big a crowd for this 9/11 talk as Harlowe’s going to get for her reading. It’s interesting to see what other white feminists really care about, you know?”

  I didn’t know. I was curious about Maxine’s upcoming talk. I wanted to know more about her relationship with Zaira. Maxine’s not-secret filled the space between us. It bonded us. Maxine guided the conversation and asked me about 9/11, how I was affected and what I understood of the current political climate. In a rush of thoughts, I shared my feelings. The term “anti-blackness” was new to me; so was the concept of Islamophobia. We were coming up on the one-year anniversary of 9/11. The news made it seem like bombs and terrorists hid around every corner. 9/11 took my Uncle Louis and my neighbor Jameka Watkins. She worked at Windows of the World and Uncle Louis had been a firefighter with the FDNY for 15 years. Titi Wepa spent months at Ground Zero as a first-responder. Her uniform, covered in dust, ash, and the cremated remains of strangers and loved ones, hung untouched in her closet.

  By the time we pulled up to Powell’s, we’d swapped 9/11 stories and moved on to breakups and casual date-type things with librarians. I spilled my guts left and right. We dropped off the boxes of merch with Samara. Maxine and Samara exchanged polite words but there weren’t any hugs or smiles between them. I wondered what kind of beef they had or if I was so used to Portland people hugging each other with their entire spiritual selves that anything less affectionate seemed off.

  The space for the reading was huge. There were about a hundred empty seats and one podium set up for Harlowe. My stomach fluttered; I was excited. The rush of geeky nerves I had when I first read Raging Flower flooded my body. This shit was gonna be cool and I got to be a part of it.

  Harlowe landed about a half hour after we did. She was ushered into a room in the back. People started trickling in and soon Powell’s was packed with humans. At last count, about 75 weirdos sat and waited for Harlowe Brisbane to preach her pussy magic. People continued to file in through the door and make their way to
the reading area. Some of them posed for pictures with the cut-out of her in the walkway. I slipped out and found Harlowe in her holding room, pacing. Her frailty endeared her to me more. Like look, even one of the people I admire most in the whole world gets scared sometimes.

  “I should have warned you, Juliet. I’m the queen of stage fright. The universe sure loves to humble me,” she said. Harlowe fidgeted. “In my guts, Juliet, I know it’s going to be fine but then I get freaked out and I feel like that “crazy lady” all over again. The one that 50 publishers denied, the one that some bloggers have called “a raging feminazi” and I doubt myself. Maybe everyone is just here to watch the spectacle, to say, “I saw the Pussy Lady. What a crazy bitch she is.” Maybe they’re not in it for the struggle, to take down the patriarchy, to be my blood sisters. Maybe they’re all just here to laugh and point.”

  She slid down the wall to the floor. I sat down next to her.

  “Well, then, fuck them. Right?”

  “Right, fuck them,” she said. Harlowe laughed. “You’re good, you know? It’s been good having you here. I’ve got so much love for you, Juliet.”

  “I love you too. But you’ve got shit to do,” I said. “There’s a room full of lesbians with hairy legs, tattooed feminists breastfeeding their babies, and lots of other hippie-ass people waiting for you to speak. So, let’s go and I’ll bill you later for this very special white-lady pep talk, okay?”

  She laughed. Her hands shook slightly from jitters. We found the bathroom. Harlowe splashed cold water on her face, took a few deep breaths. She smoothed down her red cowlick. The Pussy Lady was ready. We moved to the reading area and waited in the back. I scanned the crowd and saw Kira with her friends. She waved me over, smiling.

  “If that’s the hot librarian, you better go,” Harlowe said. She nudged me on the shoulder.

  I ran over and sat next to Kira. Samara stepped up to the microphone. She introduced Harlowe to much applause; someone even let out a Xena warrior call. It had begun.

  Harlowe stood at the front of the room, mic curved towards her mouth. She waited for the room to quiet down and then asked for a moment of silence to honor survivors of sexual abuse. The energy among us all heaved inward like a brick to the chest. All eyes were on Harlowe. Harlowe stepped away from the microphone, bowed her head. For two minutes, we were still. The woman next to me wept, black mascara ran down her face. She wasn’t the only one. She asked us if we’d been terrorized because of our bodies. Had we ever been made to feel abnormal or unwanted because our flesh and bones were different? In what ways had the world and our families abandoned and betrayed us?

  She promised that her questions weren’t intended to invade our personal lives.

  Harlowe had me.

  I remembered the time Dominic Pusco felt me up at Murray’s Ice-Skating Rink. He’d pushed his hands down my pants and told me to keep them warm and to stay quiet. Ketchup stained the edges of his mouth; he smelled like French fries and sweat. But I’d wanted to be his Valentine so I didn’t stop him and I kept my mouth shut.

  Harlowe asked that we release the burden of those memories into this shared space. She asked us to find strength in the energy of our sisters and trust that together we could heal. Harlowe offered her vulnerability to the room without question. She opened with the chapter about Teddy, her mother’s boyfriend, the one who jerked off outside the bathroom whenever she showered, the one who tried to do the same thing while she slept. Harlowe told us about the night she snapped a picture of him in her bedroom. The flash freaked him out. She had just turned 16 and told him she’d chop it off next time if he did it again. Other men wouldn’t be so easily intimidated; Harlowe spared no details of later instances of sexual violence.

  But it wasn’t sexual abuse that encouraged her to reclaim her body and investigate her vagina. Harlowe smoothed down her cowlick.

  “I’m not going to connect sexual trauma with feminism,” she said. “That’s not my deal. The whole “damaged woman becomes a lesbian and a feminist” trope doesn’t work for me. The patriarchy A.K.S. The He-Man Woman Hater’s Club created it because they don’t want us to be taken seriously. They don’t want us to have access to the divine knowledge our bodies possess. They fear our power. So no, we aren’t damaged. We have suffered from the brutality of an inherently violent system that favors maleness over womanhood. We’ve been victimized but that doesn’t make us all victims. We’re not the outcomes of what men have done to us. I refuse to be reduced to that.

  “My curiosity about my body and my spiritual power exists because it is mine. My womanhood awed me. The women in my life made me drop to my knees in revelry. And many of us move in this world with the beauty and courage to write our stories on the backs of napkins and at the edges of our sanity so that others may find strength in our words and know that our lives belong to us, not a husband or a father. We build countries, slay dragons. I will always be awed by women who are strong enough to walk down the damn street. I’m here because of all of you. I’m writing this book because of my undying love for my sisters. I’ve chosen to learn everything I can about our bodies, our brilliant but often-erased ansisters, and our divine, goddess spirituality so that I can share it and so we can all learn from each other. May we come together, own our power, and breathe a little freer.”

  That section of Raging Flower was my favorite. Hearing her read it made my heart burst open. In that moment, I loved Harlowe Brisbane. Loved her like family. Loved her in that forever way. I felt bold and ready to write down my own story. Brave and full of stupid cute butterflies, I reached for Kira’s hand and held it. She shifted closer to me.

  Harlowe read about the time she grabbed a flashlight and a mirror, smoked a lot of weed, and explored her pussy. She was 23 and had never looked at her vulva. She spent an entire evening spreading the folds of her flesh, noted color and density of hair. She liked it so much she did it again on her period. And that was her catalyst into pussy obsession.

  The entire room laughed. A collective orgasm teased out of us by Harlowe Brisbane. Raging Flower live reinforced the dedication of my discipleship. Harlowe moved past the personal and read sections that built the foundation of the cult-like worship that followed her. She asked us to reflect on the first woman we’d entered into community with. It’s assumed that mothers are the first but in this world nothing is promised, not even a mother’s love. So who was that first woman? Who were our blood sisters? Could we count them on our hands? See their faces in our daydreams? Did we honor our bodies, our spiritual selves, and harness our energies to envision a future centered around us? We were creatures in sync with the moon, after all.

  The final section Harlowe read was a reminder that the fight never ends. Every day that we exist on this planet the forces of white men in power are aimed at policing women’s bodies and subjugating our identities to make us feel lesser than, to control us through physical and economic annihilation. These acts of violence are experienced by trans women and women of color at higher rates. Harlowe urged her fellow white women to remember this and to never forget the vast amount of privilege they experience because of whiteness. It is the duty of white women to stand in solidarity with queer, trans, women of color, listen to their needs and make sure that feminism and sisterhood brings all of our voices together.

  Pussy Power Forever!

  Another round of wild applause erupted for Harlowe. She asked if anyone had any questions. Most of the questions were from wide-eyed fan girls. “Oh Harlowe, I love you, how did you get the idea to write Raging Flower?” “Hi, Harlowe, I was wondering if you had any suggestions for new writers?” “Hi, so I love that you use the word ‘pussy’ so much in Raging Flower, was it weird at first?” They hit all of the basics.

  Zaira had arrived and sat next to Maxine without me noticing. Before I could say hello to her, she stood up to ask Harlowe a question.

  “Harlowe, do you really think that tacking on a message of unity and solidarity for queer and trans women of color a
t the end of Raging Flower was powerful enough to make a difference? As if a few sentences were enough to bridge the disparity among women who experience oppression due to their multiple intersectionalities and women who don’t have to navigate those intersectionalities? Do you think that this message is enough to rally non-white women to your particular brand of feminism? To be your blood sisters?”

  The room stayed silent. All eyes on Zaira. Regal. Poised. Gold dress cinched at the waist with a silver belt, Zaira’s intensity and grace manifested through her every pore. I stared at her, mesmerized.

  Harlowe cleared her throat.

  “I believe in my heart that we can all be blood sisters. Raging Flower isn’t perfect by any means, but I believe it’s good start. It was for me. It’s the beginning of my journey into a more politicized woman-centric consciousness, and I wanted to share that. Do I think that queer and trans women of color will read my work and feel like they see themselves in my words? Not necessarily, but some will and do. I mean, I know someone right now sitting in this room who is a testament to this, someone who isn’t white, who grew up in the ghetto, dodging bullets and crackheads, someone who is lesbian and Latina and fought for her whole life to make it out of the Bronx alive and to get an education. She grew up in poverty and without any privilege. No support from her family, especially after coming out, and that person is here today. That person is Juliet Milagros Palante, my assistant and friend who came all the way from the Bronx to be here with me and to learn how to be a better feminist and all of that is because of Raging Flower because anyone can see themselves in that work. Juliet is the proof. Juliet, can you stand up for everyone, please?”

  Zaira, looked over at me, her eyes wide, almost apologetic. People turned their heads, poked past mohawks to see who Harlowe was referring to. What did that poor child raised in the violent ghetto look like? I was curious myself. Was that who I was to Harlowe?