Things to Do When You're Goth in the Country

by Chavisa Woods

  “No, jeez. I don’t know why I came here.” I let out a long sigh. “Can I have a glass of milk? My throat’s dry.” She nodded and opened the fridge. “It’s not me. It’s Palestine and Israel, okay? I don’t know if you know, but they’re fighting right now.”

  She put the milk back in the fridge. “Don’t patronize me, Sheldon. I know about Israel and Palestine. I keep up on current events too, you know.”

  She leaned down and handed me the glass of milk. As she did, her gaze was caught, and she stood, tilting her head and watching closely, little sounds coming from her, little “ohhh’s” and “oh dear’s.” “Mmmmm. Well, would you look at that?” I sipped my milk and hunched my shoulders. Her eyes sparkled, transfixed as she watched. “Have you tried shampooing?” she asked in a whisper.

  Two days later, I went on CNN. They actually paid me to be one of those talking heads (I guess that term has a new meaning for me) in the split-screen boxes. It’s crazy how they do it. You’re not actually in the room with anyone you’re talking to. They just sit you in front of a screen, mic you, and put a little headphone in your ear. Then suddenly you hear a bunch of people who are also on the screen in front of you shouting in your ear. It was really awful for me, because their shouting was competing with the ruckus on my head.

  The interview consisted of me, a rabbi, an Israeli spokes-woman, a male Palestinian professor living in the US, and a Barbie-blond female moderator. When the sound came on they were all in the middle of shouting at each other. The Palestinian professor was pounding his fist, saying that Israel fired first and broke the treaty. The Israeli spokeswoman shouted back, very flustered, her sentences breaking. “If Israel hadn’t started firing first in this case . . . you know, Israel had security reasons. There is no deal not to retaliate. Israel always reserves the right to go in and attack if there are real security breaches, and there were.”

  The Palestinian shouted, “What are the breaches that merit this level of response?”

  The spokeswoman became breathlessly upset. “Hezbollah has been firing rockets for several weeks into Israel! And we believe a team of Hamas fighters were digging a tunnel to kidnap Israeli soldiers.”

  “AND YOU ASSASSINATED THEM!” the Palestinian professor hollered back. “You have not even any proof that is what they were doing! It was a tunnel for smuggling food. They were smuggling FOOD!”

  “Okay, okay,” the moderator interrupted. “We are being joined now by a special guest, Sheldon Peters, also known as the Gazahawk Man. Mr. Peters, maybe you can help us clear some things up. Yours is a very exceptional situation. For those of you who don’t know, what seems to be a flesh-and-blood animated replica of a section of the Gaza Strip has grown on your head. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Can we get a close-up on that, Larry?”

  The camera zoomed in, cutting away from the other guests, and I saw, magnified on the screen, the wall, the people, the houses and trees, and all the things happening in the little world on my head. The camera pulled back. All the guests were squinting dumbfounded into their screens. The Barbie moderator was still smiling, unfazed. “Which section, exactly, of the barrier wall were we just looking at?”

  “Well. I’m not sure exactly, but I’ve been told it’s definitely on the Palestine-Israel border, and I think it’s somewhere near the town of Kahna.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, because it’s a stone section, not the wire fence, and also some of the recent events in that area sync up with what has been happening on my head.”

  “So the events in this section of the barrier happen in real time on your head?”

  “Yes, that seems to be the case.”

  “So maybe you can tell us once and for all,” the moderator continued, “who fired first?”

  “This is irrelevant,” the rabbi shouted, waving his arms. “This is not a political matter. This is a personal, spiritual phenomenon!”

  I held my hand up. “I don’t know. It didn’t happen until two days after the siege started.”

  Everyone except the moderator nodded and looked relieved. She leaned in and clasped her hands in front of her. She seemed to shine with clean white makeup and polished hair. “Can you speak just from your personal experience, Mr. Peters, and tell us who you feel is at fault here?”

  “This is ridiculous,” the Israeli spokeswoman said, leaning back and almost laughing. “One person’s experience of having the Gaza Strip on his head for a couple of weeks cannot define centuries of history and struggle.”

  “I have to agree with her there,” the Palestinian professor interjected.

  “Well I’m glad you two can finally agree on something. But it’s Mr. Peters’s turn to speak and I think the world is interested in hearing his side.” The moderator nodded to me, “Please go on, Mr. Peters.”

  “Well, I don’t know who’s to blame, but I know it’s definitely much more itchy on the Palestinian side of my head.”

  “What does that mean, it’s itchy?” the rabbi asked.

  “It’s more itchy because there are a lot more people in a very small space. And mostly all the gunshots and bombs are on that side, I mean, landing on that side, you know. Like, all the bombs are going to that side.”

  “Is it affecting your health?” the moderator asked. “Do you think you have any symptoms of traumatic stress disorder?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “The fact is, on the twenty-fifth, Israel fired fifty missiles into Palestine,” the professor said, leaning in. “Mr. Peters, can you account for disparities in casualties?”

  “Oh yes. There was a cluster bomb fired into Palestine the other night. I felt that. And there were at least twelve casualties from it.”

  “You see!” the professor continued. “And how many casualties from Palestine total have you . . . experienced?”

  “It’s hard to say. More than sixty.”

  “Just on this section of the barrier, and just in a matter of weeks!” he went on. “And Mr. Peters, how many Israeli casualties have you experienced?”

  “Two. They both appeared to be soldiers.”

  “The fact that there aren’t casualties in Israel shouldn’t be held against us,” the spokeswoman said emphatically. “There are thousands of Israelis living in bomb shelters all over Israel right now. We’re being held hostage in our own homes. It doesn’t speak against us that more of us aren’t dying, does it?” She was completely outraged with me.

  “Mr. Peters, do you have any knowledge of the tunnel that was allegedly dug from Palestine into Israel?” the moderator asked.

  “No. It’s only what’s happening above ground . . . on my head.”

  The moderator tapped her pen thoughtfully.

  “I have a question for him,” the rabbi said. “How can you be sure of the exact number of casualties and if they are soldiers? It appears very small.” He squinted toward the screen. “It would be hard to know for certain, wouldn’t it? Where are you getting this estimate?”

  “That’s a good point. It’s very small. It would be difficult to count the number of dead or wounded without a magnifying glass. Do you check and watch it closely every day?” the professor asked.

  “No. Ummmm. No. Not exactly.”

  “You see. There’s no way to justify his statements,” the rabbi said, waving his hand as if swatting a fly from the room.

  “No . . . It’s not like that,” I said softly, my voice cracking.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Peters. You’re going to have to speak up,” the moderator told me. “It’s not like what?”

  Everybody waited. “It’s . . . well.” My mouth felt dry. I swallowed hard and went on. “I know the number for sure because, when they die, see . . .” It was hard to say.

  “Yes, go on.”

  “When they die, they . . . they fall out. They fall off my head. The bodies, when they’re dead, they fall.”

  For the first time everyone was completely silent. T
he moderator didn’t look so shiny right then. “Ohhhhhhh,” she whispered. The Palestinian professor swallowed hard and nodded. The other two sat very still. The moderator regained her glistening smile, turned to the camera, and segued into a commercial break.

  I did a couple more interviews like that, acting as a commentator. I didn’t like it, but the money was good. I was also asked to go on these daytime talk shows. The only one I said yes to was Oprah. I was getting kind of tired of the exposure, but who says no to Oprah? I had always thought if I was on Oprah, or doing TV interviews, it would be to talk about being trans. In a way, this has helped with that. Now, the last thing on anyone’s mind is my gender. I’m just a man. That’s like one of the least interesting things about me. Even Oprah only brought it up for a second. It was like, “So, Sheldon isn’t your original name, is it? You were born a woman, and you transgendered. Is that the right term? Okay. And one day recently, you woke up with the Gaza Strip on your head? Is that right?” And that’s all she really said about it.

  In the middle of the second month, the whole thing was driving me crazy. I hadn’t yet learned to live with it like I have now. The fighting was still pretty intense. I felt desperate for some peace, so I went on the news one last time and made a statement that I wished to meet with the president in person. He said yes. I guess it was a good PR move. I actually got a ten-minute meeting with him in private. I thought maybe I could show him the direness of the situation.

  Kim prepped me before the meeting. I hadn’t been sure what to ask for, but we decided that I was going to ask that he stop funding the Israeli military. I took a very special gift for him that I kept tucked in my shirt pocket.

  I couldn’t get through the metal detector without it beeping, obviously, so they patted me down and metal-detected me all over with a handheld device. Four Secret Service officers led me into the Oval Office. The president stood and shook my hand. He directed me to sit in the chair across from his desk. The presidential seal is really intimidating, and whether you want to be or not, you can’t help but be intimidated by the president. Kim had warned me, “Don’t let him intimidate you,” so I tried to push through it. Luckily, he was obviously intimidated by me too. That day, there was a lot of machine gun fire on my head, and even though he’s always really cool, I could make out his right eyebrow twitching each time the sound of little pops emanated from my neckline. “That’s near the checkpoint,” I told him. “There are some activists there today hammering at the wall.”

  “I see. Yours is a very exceptional situation,” he told me. He’s a very earnest man, not only on television, but even in person. His calm, earnest manner seems very sincere, but there is something infuriatingly impenetrable about it as well. “I just want to start by expressing my deep sorrow that a civilian has had to experience these types of . . . upheavals.”

  “You mean an American civilian.” I was proud of myself for starting strong, like Kim said to do.

  “Look, let me be clear.” He knocked on his desk. “I do not support the level of the recent retaliation of the Israeli government. I condemn the killing of innocent civilians. I am doing everything in my power to ensure that peace has a chance to re-emerge.”

  “Then are you going to defund the Israeli military, at least momentarily? Can you make sure that US money isn’t going toward weapons like cluster bombs?” Sure, Kim had coached me a little, but I meant it. This was my only chance to talk to someone who might be able to give me some peace finally.

  I don’t remember exactly what he said then, because he talked for several minutes. He said something about Gandhi being a good man, and that he was trying to continue to foster a nation where people like Gandhi could exist, and he loved Gandhi, but he’s not Gandhi, he’s the president of the United States, and the issues are complex.

  I was very frustrated by the whole thing. I told him that I wasn’t going to pay my taxes until the US stopped providing the weapons that were being fired on my head.

  He told me again that mine was obviously an exceptional situation and that he wasn’t quite sure what the legal implications were, but that I would most likely still face an audit if I chose to do that.

  I stood up and bent down, shaking my head and pointing to it. “You would find a way to stop this if you were me,” I shouted. “This should have happened to you, not me. This is on your head more than mine.” He leaned back, clasping his hands in front of him.

  A Secret Service officer stepped up and took hold of my shoulder. “Sir, you’re going to have to calm down or I will remove you.”

  The president lifted his hand. “It’s okay,” he said. “I can understand why you are so upset.” We stared at each other for a second, not saying anything.

  I turned to the Secret Service officer. “I have something to give him, okay? I’m going to get it out of my shirt pocket now.” I didn’t want them to think I was pulling out a weapon. “Mr. President, I have something for you.” My mouth went dry as I reached into my front pocket. The Secret Service guy was watching very carefully, standing shoulder to shoulder with me. I held out my cupped hand. “I hope you’ll take her, and keep her as a reminder.” The president looked from the officer to me, wonder crossing his face. I waited. He held out his open palm below mine. I dropped her in. It wasn’t a bomb, but it almost might as well have been. Amazing how something so tiny can have such an effect. But I guess a corpse is a corpse, no matter how small.

  His hand trembled as he cradled her. His mouth fell open and his face paled. He slumped. The Secret Service officers did not react, but I saw one them looking. “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. She’s just a kid who fell out of my head a few days ago. I don’t know her name.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Peters, for illuminating the full weight of your situation. I appreciate it.” He nodded at the officer next to me. “Would you please show Mr. Peters to the lawn.”

  I was escorted out. Twenty minutes later I met the president on the lawn. The press took pictures of us shaking hands. The headlines read GAZAHAWK MAN AND PREZ TALK PEACE.

  That’s it. It’s been more than a year now. Nothing has really changed. I got some gallery offers. Maybe I’ll do a show. Only, I haven’t produced any new work for a while. Somehow I have a feeling that won’t matter. It’s not about the work anyway. Now I’m known, I have a name, a public identity.

  My mom sends me new shampoos every week. Kim still comes around. But we’re just friends. I think she’s more intrigued by my head than she is by me. Mostly, I keep to myself. I spend a lot of time looking in the mirror. Maybe I’ll start sketching some self-portraits. I always thought that kind of thing was indulgent, but now I’m more than myself. Maybe I always was. I can do sketches close up and far away. It wouldn’t just be me I was sketching. It’s all there, on me, part of me, falling from me.

  REVELATIONS

  “This word from the Lord has come to us. It has come as a gift, and we shouldn’t fear it.”

  “No, we won’t fear it,” was repeated in murmurs, which spread through the small congregation. Sarah sat in the fourth pew from the front, her Bible resting open on her lap. She shook her head no, along with the rest of them, and clenched her hands, looking solemnly forward as Pastor Rick continued.

  “Now, this word has come to us because therein lies something we must learn. And this is greater than us, as men with men’s intellects, can know by our own means and ways. My wife, Tracy,” the pastor gestured to his wife, who sat in the front pew, “has received tidings from her prayers before. When she came to me, I prayed upon it, and the Lord told to me as well that, indeed, what she is said be the truth.” The pastor was an uneducated man in his late fifties who had been raised on a farm, and began preaching at local churches just out of high school. When he stood at the pulpit, he spoke more formally than was natural for him, but which he felt was most befitting of a pastor. The result was an awkward combination of rural colloquia and grammatically incorrect, albeit somewhat biblical-sounding English
. “And I hope you all will pray upon this matter also, as we have, and therefore come to know what for it is that we have come to know we must come to find it out.”

  Sarah had prayed on it, and she feared it was her they were seeking to find out. God didn’t speak so clearly to her as He did to her pastor and his wife. For her, God was a voice that came from a distance, through a thick fog, and it was difficult to differentiate His voice from her own. It was difficult to be sure that she wasn’t talking to herself. And therein lay the horrible evidence of her sinful heart. It was her confident, boasting nature, she thought, that even now, at the age of seventy-three, was her ultimate downfall, and God help her, possibly even the downfall of the entire congregation. It was her love of herself, her vain and willful arrogance that had led to this.

  Edmund raised his hand and stood. “Brother Rick, I have a testimony,” he bellowed. Edmund stood large, his broad stomach leading the way through his blue jean overalls and red flannel shirt, some version of which he was always wearing. He had been a cow farmer his entire life, and had come to the church ten years ago at the age of thirty-seven after his wife left him and took the children due to repeated bouts of rage brought on by years of angry drinking. “I’ve prayed on this as well, all week since Sunday when you first told us what your wife had heard from God. And through prayer, I also know what you said is true, though the Lord hasn’t yet seen fit to show me where this . . .” he searched for words, “darkness lies, or what form it’s taken. I also think you’re right. It’s in one of us, and we got to stamp it out.”

  “Amen,” Betty said softly, followed by Tracy and Rick.

  Pastor Rick held up his hand. “Now this is a blessing, so let’s not speak of this as a stamping out. This darkness that the Lord has shown us is here amongst us, and it could be residing within any one of us.” Sarah’s eyes scanned the congregation. The others were looking at one another as well. Rick placed his hand over his chest. “Edmund, this might come as a shock, but be not yourself surprised to think, it could be me, for all we know. I’m not free of sin. It could be you. Remember, ‘for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.’ We should not speak of this as a stamping out. Whomever it is harbors this darkness, they’ll need our help to shed it. They are one of us, and remember, ‘there but for grace go I.’”