Greetings From Janeland

by Candace Walsh

  I had to smash it and burn it to the ground and stand in the wreckage, and I had no idea how to do it honestly.

  So I did it the only way I knew—fast and hard and without much integrity but with a hell of a lot of collateral damage.

  It took me years to unpack the guilty weight of our undoing. I carried it all. Because it was all mine.

  How do you heal pain that was your own creation?

  In the end, it’s the words that have always saved me.

  There is a belief, in our world, that a chosen grief is not a valid grief.

  Grief. It and the small subset of words around it are the dominion of those whose loss was thrust upon them via some external force. I had the gall to try to claim as my own a thing that was reserved for those from whom something had been taken or ripped or stolen.

  Because I had chosen to break my life, my family, my home, in search of my own truth, my right to also deeply grieve that end of past and present and future was not mine.

  Perhaps I believe this too.

  How can you tell your story when you feel like you’re stealing words that you don’t deserve to use? What was the ending point? When was it over?

  I remember the life we shared, and the love, steadfast and true. I know the kiss I placed on the top of our newly born daughter’s head, brand new to this Earth. I know the home we made of each other’s body and the exact feel of his hand in mine.

  And I know the life I live now, in the aftermath. I know the hard-earned integrity and the truth that is carved deep into my bones. I know the bliss of bodily surrender in a way that I never could have imagined. I know what it is to own my own desire—the heat and salt and sweat of it.

  But the section in between is a blur. It stands outside of all the rest, fuzzy-edged and spinning still.

  Do I wish I had paid more attention to the end? Yes. I wish I had known—don’t we always wish we had warning before devastation? Isn’t it human to want to record and replay and remember exactly what was?

  If only someone had whispered, take the time to notice the specifics of your leaving. Pay exquisite attention to the details of what this life has been. One day you will search your mind for the details.

  If only I had known what was to come.

  It’s strange now, that I remember so little about those final months.

  It’s funny, isn’t it, how seldom we know the last things are the last?

  The real grief came later—after the exhilaration and the adrenaline and the meeting of this new self. After the experimentation and the thrill and the unpacking of a life reborn.

  The real grief came in the quiet that remained after the wreckage. When everything looked tidy and cleaned and done.

  That is when the tears would come late at night and steal me from bed. That is when I would find my wedding album and play the song and sit and cry.

  That is when I began to understand that I could have done a thing that was the right thing and the wrong thing, all at once. When I began to learn that right and wrong are small words that don’t even come close to what is.

  It seems that you can know, deeply, that this was the inevitable choice. The one that led to truth and wholeness. A road that had to be traveled. And still ache for what was before.

  Sometimes there are no choices that do not involve deep loss and deep grief and deep guilt. Some choices are just that—deep. And all you can do is live them through, with as much bravery and truth as you can muster. Even when there isn’t much to pull from. Even when the ache beats steadier than your own heart.

  Because sometimes what has been gained and what has been lost tangle, sweet and sticky painful, all twirled together and impossible to separate.

  Sometimes this is the complicated and painful path to wholeness.

  Christmas morning, almost a decade later.

  This is not my house. I’ve spent the night on an air mattress, next to her—the woman I love.

  We are in his house—the man I once married in that white country church. The house he shares with this partner.

  And we get up and make breakfast in our pajamas. Sharing the duties and navigating the kitchen as if we always do. And we eat the traditional Swedish Tea Ring, made from my mother’s recipe, our hands sticky with cinnamon and dried fruit and icing. We record the kids reacting to the mountain of presents that come with two households consolidating on one day.

  We give them this. The only thing they really want. All of us all here together. Grace and pain intermingled in ways that can never be untangled.

  This, it turns out, is the new life we have built.

  And this is not to paint too pretty a picture—to tie this essay with a bow and promise a new sort of happily ever after. But this is to show you the karma of this love. This is to show you that good things can still be made. This is to promise you that you do not have to carry the guilt of what you have done forever.

  Where you go, I will go. Where you stay I will stay.

  Sometimes even promises broken remain true.

  Just One Look

  BY DARSHANA MAHTANI

  As an Indian daughter in Barbados, I was told who I was before I could figure it out for myself. My whole life was a preamble to marriage. How to budget for groceries, remove greasy stains from marble tables, make chai, entertain and dress accordingly, pay compliments, satisfy my husband, impress the in-laws, and, most importantly, listen without having an opinion—these were the important things to know. It didn’t matter to my parents if I was educated or not. But they allowed me to go to community college, to pass the time before I came of age to marry.

  There was so much pressure on young Indian girls in the community to be worthy. We had to catch a potential husband’s interest with just one look. That’s how the men would choose us: with just one look. That’s how my father chose my mother and how my grandfather chose my grandmother. Being the eldest granddaughter of both families, I was first in line to marry. I was the example, a role model to my younger brothers and cousins, expected to learn and love that one day a man would swap me for a dowry and depend on me to manage his home and family.

  I first heard of this tradition at age six, when my mother caught me stealing a second ice cream sandwich from the freezer.

  “Dolly,” she said in a gravely serious tone I’d never quite heard before, “I am taking this away for your own good. When you grow up and we must find you a husband, you will thank me for this.” She removed the ice-cream sandwich from my sticky hands and threw it in the garbage.

  After this incident, she put a lock on the pantry and bought a fridge so tall the freezer was completely out of reach. Something inside me snapped that day. Over the next four years, I became rebellious, resentful of my mother, and mouthed off about not wanting to get married. Having a husband equaled no more ice-cream sandwiches. And I really liked ice-cream sandwiches.

  Over the phone, my mother mentioned my uncontrollable rebellion to my grandfather. The next thing I knew, when I was ten years old, they sent me to live with my grandparents in the south of Chile.

  The last words my mother said to me when she dropped me off at the airport: “It’s for your own good. You will thank me one day, trust me. When you get married, this will all make sense.”

  My grandfather was a serious man. He had no patience for mistakes, hesitation, doubt, or fear.

  Basically, he had no patience for me.

  My mother promised I would be staying there only a couple of months, returning home after summer vacation. But it turned out that three months wasn’t enough to transform me into a beautiful, elegant swan worthy of a prince. I was still an opinionated duckling, tripping over my own two feet, so I spent five more years living there. I made new friends, learned Spanish, and watched my grandmother die of cancer. I went home when the family felt confident that I had reformed. They instructed me to wait until they found a suitable family for me to marry into. As I waited, I begged them to let me go to school. After one year of begging, they finally sai
d yes, and I proudly became one of the first girls in my community to go to college.

  It was there that I met Chloe.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch the girl with tattoos walk into class and take her seat. She scouted the room. Then she looked at me.

  “Is someone sitting here?” she asked pointing, to the seat next to me.

  “No,” I blurted out.

  She smiled.

  “Wow, we’ve got some sexy ladies this year,” I heard a tall, large, dark boy say from the back of the class.

  She was definitely sexy. Her skin was the color of burnt caramel. Her hazel eyes pierced me. My heart was in a hurricane; I felt magnetically pulled to her. I needed to be near her, to hold her. The expressions she made, how her laugh filled up the room . . . everything about her drove me crazy.

  I caught her noticing my long, black, curly hair.

  “You’re so lucky. We have to pay real money to get our hair to look like yours,” she said, running her fingers through a few loose strands, lighting a flame. The fire started to course through my entire body.

  “This is a 100% pure-breed Indian. She’s the example of good genes!” she said to the class, looking at me with a smile.

  I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. I hesitantly shot her a smile.

  “So what’s your major?” she asked.

  “Management.”

  “Really? That’s a shocker,” she said sarcastically with a grin.

  “Why?”

  “It’s what all you Indians study, isn’t it?”

  It hurt that she looked at me and saw a stereotype.

  “Maybe, but I’m not like any other Indian girl you know. What’s your major?”

  “Marketing.”

  “Oh.” Now I was surprised. She didn’t seem the type to go to college and study something safe.

  “Yeah, so we have a bunch of classes together except I’ve got extra marketing stuff.”

  “Cool.”

  “I’m Chloe, by the way.”

  “I’m Dolly.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “What?”

  “Your Indian name.”

  “It’s hard to pronounce.”

  “Try me,” she insisted. “Darshana.”

  “Darshana,” she repeated, trying to see if she could pronounce it correctly.

  I loved hearing my name coming from her lips.

  By the end of the day, we were partners for a project and she had a permanent seat next to mine in class. We became inseparable. I’d sneak out my bedroom window in the middle of the night to pick her up. We’d go to a twenty-four-hour diner, sit at a bar, order hard drinks, bitch about boys, and ogle football or basketball players. We’d munch on nachos while discussing her latest affair or boy crush. Sometimes we’d weigh in on the news and how fucked up the world had become. We dreamt of creating our own world. We called it our utopia.

  Then, it happened. Somewhere between the thrill of designing our new world, the sweet aroma of her perfume, and the burning taste of tequila, I realized that I no longer just liked this girl. I loved this woman. Wholeheartedly. I felt unmoored, with just her hand to keep me from drifting. She had become my everything.

  Chloe was my best friend for nine years. In those nine years, I concluded that I was, absolutely, unequivocally and without a shadow of a doubt, gay. I did all the tests online. Google was tired of the million variations of “How do you know if you’re a lesbian?” that I typed in. I was stuck. I couldn’t confess my feelings to Chloe, and I couldn’t tell my parents. Should I accept the unacceptable reality—that I would never be happy?

  I had only one option that would save my parents the shame of having a daughter like me, and save me the pain of losing them or living a joyless life. I had to do it before I changed my mind.

  One afternoon, I started to climb the wrought-iron gate of our porch, stumbling a few times until I made it onto the roof. I walked to the edge of the roof and looked down at the pavement. I would close my eyes and take one more step. Hesitation kicked in . . .

  What if I lived?

  I sat on the ledge to reevaluate. I couldn’t stand a day more of hurting the people I loved. What’s the point of a life like this? They will be better off. I was doing the right thing. I stood again.

  As I shifted my weight forward, my dad’s car drove into the garage downstairs. They saw me. Shameful. If I jumped, they’d rush me to the hospital and I would probably survive—maybe suffer a broken leg. I did not want to survive. I climbed down from the roof, feigned illness, and went to bed.

  The next day I didn’t have the energy to leave my bed or draw the curtains. I skipped school and ignored all calls. My parents thought I had the flu. No one seemed to notice but Chloe. She left me a dozen messages. She wasn’t allowed to visit my house because my mother considered her a bad influence, something to do with her tattoos and black skin, but she came anyway. I didn’t answer the door. Everything hurt. I spent an entire week like this before I went back into the world.

  My twenty-fifth birthday was in two weeks; I was two years past the ideal marriageable age. My birthday was my mother’s opportunity to remind people that I was out there, ready and waiting to be picked. She wanted to throw me a big party, but I didn’t feel up to it. Chloe begged me to have dinner with her, even though I told her I didn’t want to celebrate. But she had a way of changing my mind. That night, we went to my favorite restaurant. We even dressed up. Chloe wore a flowing floral dress and the necklace I’d given her for Christmas. She looked drop-dead gorgeous. We ordered everything on the menu, including the twelve bottles of different wines they had in stock. She showed me her new tattoo. Roman numerals on her ankle. II · XI · MCMLXXXVII. She’d tattooed my birthday onto her ankle. I started to laugh hysterically. I laughed and screamed until I cried on the floor. (I wish I could take it all back. Remembering it makes me feel so pathetic.) Chloe hugged me. She grabbed the last bottle of unopened wine and two glasses. She picked me up from the floor and literally carried me out to the beach. She poured the wine and started to roll a joint. There must have been some courage sprinkled in with the weed because suddenly, I became unafraid.

  “You’re amazing,” I said to her, looking straight into her eyes and meaning every word of it.

  She smiled, looking right back at me and said, “So are you, love.”

  “Thank you. I love my birthday and my gift. So much better than being at my mother’s party.”

  “Your mother must be pissed.”

  “I really don’t care. All she cares about is herself. Sorry about that embarrassing laugh-cry thing earlier.”

  “Chill. You sure you’re having a good time? Today is all about you,” she said with a smile.

  “Sweetie, I’m having a great time. The best, actually. There’s only one thing that would make today perfect.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kiss me.” I said firmly. No hesitation. No fear. No regret.

  She chuckled. “Where?” she finally asked.

  “You know where. Kiss my heart.” I made sure I put my feelings into it.

  She looked at me, reading me. In that moment, she knew I was saying words I’d never said before.

  “No,” she said, looking down at the sand.

  “Why not?” I implored.

  “Just because.”

  “Because why?” I pushed.

  “Dolly . . . ” she said condescendingly.

  “I need to hear you say it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please, Clo. Please. Just once. I need to hear you say it,” I repeated.

  “What do you want to hear?” she asked.

  “The truth. That you don’t love me the way I love you. You just see me as a friend. That you’re not interested,” I said in anger.

  “I can’t.” I felt her voice break.

  “For Christ’s sake, I fucking need you to. Once and for all. I need to unburden myself. It’s killing me. I’m dying.�
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  She hid her face in the palm of her hands and started to sob. I’d never seen her like this. Ever.

  “Hey . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forget I said anything, okay? I was being selfish. Please, just forget it. Please don’t cry,” I said as I tried to console her.

  “I can’t say that I don’t love you,” She blurted out in between the sobbing, “because I do. I love you deeply, D.”

  She regained composure and proceeded to give a confession that sunk me.

  “You don’t have a clue. I love you more than anyone in my entire life. I love you more than my fucking mother! You’re my everything, D. I’m scared, okay? I know how this ends. I will fuck this up. I will hurt you, and you will hate me. I couldn’t bear that. I can’t lose you. You mean too much to me.” I could feel the determination in her words. “You’re the only one I truly trust. What we have doesn’t exist on this planet anymore, it’s gone extinct. If we lose this, what hope is there?”

  I was paralyzed. Speechless.

  “A couple lives together, right? Do you see your mother and father just letting you come live with me?”

  I loved the sound of that. A home created by the two of us.

  “I don’t care what they think. Let’s just do it,” I said firmly.

  “Yeah, right. What about your family? What are you going to tell them? What if they ship you off to India to get married? How am I going to find you?”

  I always pictured Chloe crashing my wedding and confessing her love to me just before I took that third trip around the fire and promised myself to some man.

  “Babe, we love each other, right? It’s not going to be easy but I love you so much. . .”

  “What about Troy? He’s your boyfriend.” Chloe said.

  “Troy? Come on. He’s a friend.”

  “He’s in love with you.”

  “Yes, but I’m in love with you. He thinks I could be ‘the one,’ and he’s scared because he knows my parents will choose my husband. He thinks that’s set in stone. Plus, I hated kissing him. I just hated it. He tasted like salt. I think I wanted to make you jealous the way Dario makes me.”