Eve, I’m Falling

By Anna Yarrow

Wind. Wind. Be transparent as wind, be as possible and relentless and dangerous, be what moves things forward without needing to leave a mark, be part of this collection of molecules that begins somewhere unknown and can’t help but keep rising. Rising. Rising. Rising.

–Eve Ensler, In the Body of the World

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eve, I’m falling.

I attended your talk last week, and afterwards you hugged me and gave me a high-five, and said, “Way to go!” I spent the next day in bed, hiding under the covers, reading your new book. I read with my silence, my tears, my horror. I swallowed it whole.

I feel it digesting. An oracle. A wailing-wall.

You wrote about V-day, and One Billion Rising—women around the globe, dancing to end violence.

I confess: I was at the State Capitol on V-day, but I didn’t dance. I didn’t hold a sign, or march in the parade.

I didn’t shout, “Vagina!”

I was mute. Alone in the crowd.

Falling.

A snaky voice in my mind whispered, isn’t it normal for men to rape? to be violent? isn’t that what women/vaginas are for? wives submit to your husbands. children obey your parents.

You said that next V-day will be Two Billion Rising—women around the globe, streaming to court houses and police stations, to ‘press charges’ against their rapists and abusers.

Snapshot: Tall stranger. Tiny girl. Dark. Blond. Alley. Hands. Going. Away. Where? 

Faceless. Phantom.

Real or imagined?

Video: Authority stands in my bedroom doorway—sleazy eyes and tight jaw. Says, “I spanked you because I love you. Because God told me to.”  I live by spanking-time, an internal calendar . . . how long since the last correction?  Gangly eleven-year-old, draped across his lap.  Wooden spoon denting red ovals on my buttocks.

Someone told me that when I dream, all the characters are facets of myself. That’s what I’m afraid of.

I dream I am hermaphrodite. And wake, with something missing. My power. My Godhead.

My sexual fantasies: brutal.  Coercion.  Surrender.  Ecstasy.

My mothers and fathers dance inside me, shouting, “Shhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Falling.

Wind, molecules, words—catch me.

Hold me. 

 

 

Anna Yarrow lives in Santa Fe.  

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