There is a poem by a dead comrade from my Motha Land dedicated to us, Russian broads. It goes like this:
“She will stop a galloping horse and walk into a burning house.”
We are like that, the broads in my motha’s family: Never the tall or skinny supermodel types, we’ve been known to have smaller frames, upon which some have packed on curves, especially after carrying their firstborns. For a couple of centuries, since a gypsy entered our family and genes, we’ve been strutting closer to the ground; and, as in the case of my motha’, have learned to sway our hips with enough gusto and sex to keep us better balanced in our short bodies.
But you would never call us “small.” Even these days, most of my comrades are confused when I climb off my Femme Nikita heels and start standing a lil’ bit over five feet tall.
“You’re so short?!” they say with a sincere wonderment.
“It’s my ego,” I’ve learned to explain. “It makes up for my height.”
From what I’ve overheard of the fam’s mysterious history, the broads of my motha’s clan have always had some serious temper on them. Blame in on the Romani blood, but these wild cats have been known to intimidate their husbands and children into life-long submission — and heart-altering love — while getting shit done with the assistance of their famed sexuality. Oh, yes, siree! Hot-blooded, stubborn and messy-headed, these creatures have granted me their fearless make-up. Especially when going through hell — when right in the very midst of it — we aren’t the ones to show fear. And only when alone or in the arms of a man privileged to have tamed us into quietness for a while do we become the scared little girls every woman should be allowed to be.
All this preface to say: I don’t need help! Whenever lugging heavy loads in life, I don’t ask for assistance. I can handle it on my own, thank you:
“Pleeze, dan’t khelp me!” I always shoosh away my comrades’ helping hands, in my motha’s thick Russian accent; and while I proceed with my stubborn struggle, I watch their beloved faces crack-up in recognition of my authenticity. “Yourr velkom!”
Yesterday, after the expiration of the bloody tax deadline, I’ve finally ventured out to my local post-office with a couple of accumulated care-packages for my beloveds on the East Coast. Typical to LA-LA’s fashion, this particular USPS location didn’t come with customer parking (shocker!); and after circling the neighborhood and deconstructing its street cleaning signs for nearly half an hour, I finally squeezed into a slot between the tank of a Hummer and a clogged-up sewage drain, about five blocks away from my destination. Other than the reek that surrounded my car and reminded me of my Motha Russia’s cow fields, I didn’t mind the walk. So, off I went, balancing in a newer pair of Femme Nikita heels in my best runway walk, while lugging my boxes.
Needless to mention, no man has offered to help. Actually, there is a need to mention that. I know the lovely creatures of my gender have made strides in pursuit of their equality; but until we are genetically predisposed to pack on muscles equal to those of men, chivalry should NOT be off the table. Fuckin’ pussies! Ball-less weaklings! Call themselves “men”…
Oh, sorry. Where was I? What did I tell ya: I’ve got quite a temper on me!
Actually, there was one creature who seemed to empathize with my load: a drunk homeless man who took a break from vomiting out his morning meal, wiped-off the foaming saliva off his crooked, toothless mouth and slurred out:
“Getchaself a cart!”
Thanks, buddy — for this life-changing piece of advice.
Still, I remained un-phased. But the weight of the load must’ve had some effect on my face; because by the time I reached the damn post-office, a Russian compatriot, who was meditating outside with a cigarette in his right hand, said:
“OH. SHIT,” — and hurried to open the door for me.
Inside, it would’ve been a normal occurrence of events — unworthy of my rant blog — if it weren’t a handful of construction workers holding hostage one of the windows for the entire duration of my waiting in line, then my lugging struggles to the window, then what had to be a somewhat amusing attempt to lift these fuckers onto my clerk’s counter.
I’ve been a woman for long enough to know when I’m being stared at. With every follicle on my skin, I can usually feel a stranger’s eyes on me; and despite all of my temperamental huffing and puffing at the window, I knew the brothers were watching me. So: I shot ‘em my askance look.
There was a beauty in their dirty faces, an unexpected type, and it caught me off-guard. In mismatching overalls and torn-up frocks, with unbrushed locks of hair or long strands of dreadlocks, they had to be independent contractors on their way back from building a stage at Coachella. Or something like that. And despite the heat of my temper affecting my better reason, I immediately wanted to know their story. But still too pissy to soften up, I barely nodded in their direction and pretended to be consumed with comprehending the shipping rates my clerk’s mouth was now spewing out.
On my strut toward the exit and past the still staring brothers, I felt an extra spring in my step: I just did that, my comrades, all on my own! And now I was heading back out — to hustle and survive! — while looking pretty damn good for a broad who hasn’t rested since the beginning of the year.
With the corner of my eye, I sensed one of the workers jamming his elbow into his colleague’s ribcage; and he, in response, slid off his camouflage cap and with enough selfless innocence to make me wanna adopt him said:
It was merely impossible, my darlings, to keep putting on my front without tearing up. I nodded and thanked him, all kinda off the cuff. Yet, I could feel my heart skipping a beat. And in that moment, unmarred by the man’s further pursuit of my name or phone number; in that moment that a woman can never expect a life to grant her — not in this day and age! — I knew that the struggle of self-possession and the high price of independence have been worth it; even if — just for that moment.