I am at a rehearsal last night, and I’m thinking:
“I don’t want to be heavy anymore.”
Now, I don’t mean my physicality here: I’ve got a pretty compact bod on me — always have had — and I’ve always been light on my feet.
I seem to have inherited the smallest features from both sides of the family: My motha’s people run quite low to the ground in their height; and dad’s tribe, although quite tall, is nearly transparently thin.
And then, my head’s rarely in the right place: It’s always wanting to be elsewhere. So, the restlessness of the mind adds to the activeness of the bod, adds to the shedding of the weight. I’ve come to think that perhaps it’s all for the better, anyway: My size fits best into airplane seats and packed buses, New York subways and Moscow bread lines — and wherever else the mind urges the bod to fit itself in.
So, when I thought, “I don’t want to be heavy anymore,” I think I meant:
I don’t want to be dark.
Now, I don’t mean the color of my skin here: I’ve got a pretty dark complexion on me. Motha’s people — are fucking gypsies, so they are really more like Russian blacks. In my childhood, motha would have to keep me out of the sun — just so I would still resemble my father’s child a little bit more. Because his tribe — is quite light (although they’re quite heavy in their footsteps). And they’re nearly transparently thin.
It’s bad enough I traded in my father’s blue eyes over the course of the first year of my life. He came back from his military training in some bleak lands of Motha Russia to meet me at the hospital. I was only a couple days old.
“He’s got my eyes!” he said before the doctor had a chance to explain to him that I was actually born a girl.
Whether or not ultrasound existed back then in Motha Russia, motha chose to rely on the old school witchcraft of her people when predicting my future sex. Surprise, surprise: That shit didn’t work, and dad was now cradling a blue-eyed brunette of a nearly black complexion in his arms.
“Well… At least she’s got my eyes.”
With quite a blow to his dreams of the first son, dad left again for some other bleak lands of Motha Russia: He was always light enough to move. (But we, Russians, often tend to have heavy footsteps: We love to step on others’ toes; so if we aren’t playing war — we seem to be always training for it.)
Anyway. When dad returned home, half a year later, he found his newborn with eyes so black, he could see his own reflection in them.
“He… she — don’t got my eyes no more!”
So, when I said, “I don’t want to be dark anymore,” I think I meant:
I don’t want to be perpetually difficult on my loves.
Now, I do seem to be easier on my friends: Over the course of our loves, they’ve gotten used to the restlessness of my mind that adds to the activeness of my dark, compact bod (that adds to the weightlessness of my footsteps). From all the distant corners of the world, however bleak or perfectly civilized, my loves receive messages of my journeys: The messages of wanting to belong — if only I would stop moving for long enough.
But then again: My friends don’t have to live with me. They don’t see me pacing my living quarters at night, as if needing more room. They don’t witness my restlessness accumulate as surely as the hours in each day — until I finally decide to move again, to whatever bleak or perfectly civilized corner of the world.
My loves, however: My loves are constantly subjected to the restlessness of the mind that adds to the activeness of the bod, that adds to the shedding of the weight, that adds to the weightlessness of the footsteps.
Just ask my family:
My motha’s people — are fucking gypsies. Yet, for at least two generations before mine, they’ve given up on moving, only following the call of some bleak lands. Over a century ago, they’ve settled on the East Coast of Motha Russia, much less civilized, unconquered: The lands that were waiting to be discovered by the more unsettled hearts. Over the course of the last few centuries, it was populated by the subversive many and the courageous few. There, the Russian blacks of my motha’s people found their home.
That’s, of course, until I came along: A blue-eyed brunette that swapped her father’s eyes for a pair of those, black enough to serve as mirrors for her loves. And as soon as I was old enough to obey the restlessness of the mind, I would follow the call of my gypsy complexion.
Because my motha’s people may have given up on moving, but they haven’t settled, I decided. Not yet. Perhaps, not until I myself birth a child in some bleak or perfect civilized corner of the world — and I see my own reflection in his or her black eyes.
So, when the other night, I thought, “I don’t want to be heavy anymore,” I think I meant:
I don’t want to negate myself the joy of freedom.
Only courage should elate my heart, from now on: the courage of following my gypsy complexion and the heart that never settles for anything less than love.
And when I do love, I don’t want to deny my loves — the utter joy of my freer self.