Neon lights, flashily dressed prostitutes, broken glass on the streets, people sleeping in doorways, hard-faced men wandering around. The noises of the city, especially at night, were bewildering. We had left behind the sounds of roosters, dogs, coyotes, bobcats, owls, and crickets moving through the woods. Now we heard traffic. The police and ambulance sirens were the worst. That very first night in the big city, we were all huddled under the covers. We had never heard sirens before. I thought it was some sort of wild creature screaming.
The overt discrimination we encountered is what got to me the most. It became obvious that ethnic intolerance was a fact of life in California, even in the urbane and sophisticated world of San Francisco. Not only did African and Hispanic Americans feel the sting of racism, so did native Americans. A popular sign in restaurants in the 1950s read NO DOGS, NO INDIANS.
The “better life” the BIA had promised all of us was, in reality, life in a tough, urban ghetto. Many native people were unable to find jobs. Many endured a great deal of poverty, emotional suffering, substance abuse, and poor health because of leaving their homelands, families, and communities. They were exiles living far from their native lands. Urban Indian families banded together, built Indian centers, held picnics and powwows, and tried to form communities in the midst of large urban populations. Yet there was always and forever a persistent longing to go home.
Many families we met there were like us. They had come to the realization that the BIA’s promises were empty. We all seemed to have reached that same terrible conclusion—the government’s relocation program was a disaster that robbed us of our vitality and sense of place.
Although thousands of American Indians had been relocated, the relocation act’s goal of abolishing ties to tribal lands was never realized—thank goodness. Our traditional people would not abide by this federal interference. They continued grassroots efforts to unify the Cherokees and to resist the initiatives of the federal government to bring about total assimilation of the Cherokee people. A large percentage of native people who had been removed to urban areas ultimately moved back to their original homes.
Now a single mom with kids of my own, more and more, I found my eyes, too, turning away from the sea and the setting sun. I looked to the east, where the sun begins its daily journey. That was where I had to go … back to the land of my birth, back to the soil and trees my grandfather had touched, back to the animals and birds whose calls I had memorized as a girl when we packed our things and left on a westbound train so very long ago. The circle had to be completed. It was so simple, so easy.
I was going home.
After the sad suicide of Felicia’s friend, and without any idea of where I would work and just enough money to get to Oklahoma, we rented a U-Haul truck, packed all our belongings, and headed across country accompanied by our dog, a guinea pig, and lunches packed by our friends. We covered some of the same territory my family had traveled across twenty years before when we had been relocated by the federal government. When we arrived at my mother’s place, I had $20 to my name, no car, no job, and few, if any, prospects. But we were happy. We stored our belongings and stayed with relatives in a house without indoor plumbing. Quite a change from Oakland! In some ways, it must have been as strange for my daughters as when I went to San Francisco as a child. The girls had had some experience getting along with few amenities … but they were not prepared for such living on a daily basis.
At first, I had a difficult time getting a position. Whenever I went to the tribal headquarters to inquire about the various jobs being advertised, I was told that I was overqualified or, for some reason, just did not fit. Finally, I got fed up with hearing that, so I went right into the office and said, “I want to work! Whatever you have, please let me try it. I need to work!” Apparently that approach was effective. I got a low-level management job with the Cherokee Nation. At last I was home to stay.
wilma mankiller started her job at a time when there were no female executives at the Cherokee Nation, and there had never been an elected female deputy or principal chief. Six years later she was elected the first female Deputy Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation–and four years after that, she was elected to be the first female Principal Chief of this second-largest Native American Nation in the United States. This story contains both original material and adapted excerpts from Mankiller: A Chief and Her People by Wilma Mankiller and Michael Wallis. Copyright © 1993 by Wilma Mankiller and Michael Wallis. Reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Press, LLC.
Courage at the End
mireya herrera
“Mireya, pienso que llegó la hora. I think it’s almost time,” she said.
“Yo sé. I know,” I nodded, taking her thin hand.
“What will I say to them?” Her fingers squeezed around mine.
“What do you want to say? What do you need to say?” I asked. My throat tightened and I wondered, like always, what I could say that would help her. Por favor, Dios, help me to guide her.
The hospital room was so sterile, so cold. It smelled of disinfectant. No place to die. No place to say good-bye, to say last loving words, the most important words ever needed to be said, to three little kids about to begin such a difficult journey. They were about to be left to live their lives—their childhoods, adolescence, adulthoods—motherless.
“I won’t see them at their proms, or driving their first cars,” Lisa cried.
“I know.” I blinked. How long before my own tears flowed? How much of a professional distance did I need to maintain? I could cry later, on the way home, if I needed to. That always helped; a necessary release.
I am a social worker who for ten years has been leading support groups for women who are HIV positive or have AIDS. One of the hardest parts of my work, the thing that takes the most strength and compassion, is when a woman is at the end of her life and she asks me to help her find a way to say goodbye to her children.
Lisa (not her real name) was Latina, in her thirties, and mother of three—ages eleven, seven, and four. She had been in the hospital a lot during the last few months, so her ex-husband and her mother were caring for the kids. I had known Lisa for three years and we weren’t especially close, but she had attended my support group. Our primary contact now was by phone. She called during moments of anguish and distress. One evening she called from the hospital and asked me to come in.
“Mireya, it’s time,” she said. Over the years I have found that the women I work with can often tell when they are close to dying. “My kids, Mireya. I haven’t done enough. There’s so much I haven’t said to them. I haven’t told them what I want them to know, about everything, I mean,” she wept.
What could I possibly say to this woman to ease her mind?
I just encouraged her to talk. I asked her what it was she felt she had not done, and what she needed to do to get it done. As she spoke, it became clear it wasn’t so much that she had specific things she needed to do or say, it was just that she was having a hard time letting go. She needed reassurance that her children would be okay without her. Unfortunately, this was something I could not—no one could—give her.
Finally I told her: “It’s okay to let go, to die. You have done all you can.”
Ultimately, this is what dying mothers need to hear. I have had to say these words to more than a dozen.
Some want to know exactly how to say good-bye to their kids, but again, these things can’t be scripted by others. So Lisa and I discussed together how she would tell her children that she was going to die now—that she would be gone from their (physical) lives forever. She decided to hold each child and say, “Remember that I love you, always. Even though I am not here.”
When women ask, I pray with them. Sometimes I shed tears with them. I try to stay in my social worker role, but in order to remain present, truly present, I occasionally have to cry as we talk. Now that I am a parent, too, I can’t help thinking about my own little boy and what his life would be like without me.
It’s hard to explain how I have been able to do this work day in and day out for ten years. The original commitment I made to the work was strong. It transformed me personally and spiritually. And even with the hardships that can sometimes come, in the past decade I have never once questioned my initial decision. I know this is what I was put here to do. The best I can say is that God has given me the ability and the courage to be with women at the end of their lives.
mireya herrera, a licensed clinical social worker in Sacramento, California, finds that talking and crying about difficulties helps heal the pain. She loves her work and feels privileged and honored to be a part of many women’s end-of-life processes. As it is a time of emotional and spiritual growth for all involved, Mireya thanks the women she works with for enriching her own life.
Finally, women and girls can define their own sexuality. They are able to say no when they want to say no, yes when they want to say yes, and do the asking—leaving it to the cutie they spot on the other side of the room to respond.
Historically, women’s bodies have been a real site of oppression–from sexual assault and inadequate health care (including restrictions on reproductive choice) to being told how to act, how to dress, whom to love. Make no mistake: The battle isn’t over yet. But during the past few decades there’s been a revolution regarding women taking an active role in sexual matters.
Traditional norms dictated that a woman be modest. She was the leg-crossing, no-saying figure who was the main obstacle to a sex act. When she finally did get sexual (after incessant pressure), it was always with a man, never a woman, and she was to react and respond, never instigate. It took guts to be an openly desiring female because being a sexual girl meant being a bad girl. She’d be discounted, ostracized. No longer “pure,” she’d fall on the other end of the spectrum labeled “slut.”
These traditional norms are still present in some women’s lives. But now the norms have morphed into a confusing mixed message, because in today’s multimedia-based culture the so-called slut is actually promoted (though in real life she is still punished). She is the scantily clad, just-do-me-looking, hypersexualized young woman revered in ads, movies, magazines, and music videos. No longer the obstacle to sex, today’s girls and women are supposed to personify it; according to the media images, they are to look attractive, lusty, and be sexually available at all times for the men of the world. Women have learned to accept being on constant display. Worse, what is considered attractive is defined for them by the fashion and media industries. A woman’s value depends on whether her looks meet the industries’ definition–and how much male attention she gets.
From women being told they are not supposed to be sexual, to being told they should be more sexual, our sexuality has been played like a Ping-Pong ball in a game of table tennis. So the truth is worth repeating: A woman’s body is her body, and it shouldn’t be pushed around by anybody else. We all need to be in command of our own selves. We all need to make our own sexual decisions.
That is what the women and girls in this chapter are doing. They break the bounds of both the older and newer norms. They do this by choosing for themselves. They have the courage to revel in their sexiness, uncross their legs, and instigate erotic acts–at their own initiative, on their own terms, and with whomever they choose. And they also adamantly refuse to let others see or use them as sex objects when they don’t particularly feel like being one. They are redefining for themselves (and us!) the concepts of beauty, sexuality, and what is considered an acceptable loving relationship. These women-on-top are taking charge.
Cupid’s Paintbrush
amelia copeland
I’m being sullen, bitchy, and a really bad sport. Who talked me into this anyway? It’s 7:00 in the morning and I’m watching four thousand shiny, happy people doing jumping jacks in the park. I seem to be one of the few who have avoided the contagion of this touching community spirit, this thousand-points-of-light, or whatever it’s called these days. It’s our citywide, one-day-a-year volunteering event, and all I can think is, “If any one of you spills my coffee, if any one of you even threatens to touch my coffee, the carnage begins.” That’s my community spirit.
Actually, I do know why I’m here. I’m sick of my life. I want to meet new people. It’s just my luck they put me in a group with an entire fraternity of business-school students. Thanks. Thanks very much.
Eventually they send us off to paint the office of a housing project. And I admit that as I start to paint, I’m getting into it. There’s a kind of Zen to dipping the paintbrush in the can just deep enough, then sliding it across a window sash, holding it at the perfect angle so it passes smoothly along the edge of the pane without touching it. They’re blasting the radio, and even though the music sucks, it’s appropriate for this activity: “Shiny happy people, shiny happy people painting, shiny happy people painting walls…”
There’s one guy here who seems a little different from the others—pleasant, good-natured, with a functional mind and a healthy distaste for venture capital and investment banking. I talk to him for a few minutes during lunch and try to muster up some sexual interest just for the heck of it, but he’s a bit too tall and gawky for me. Still, he does have kind of a nice mouth.
As the afternoon wears on, the shiny people start to lose interest in their well-meaning community ideals, leaving their paintbrushes to atrophy in the trays. They sit around gabbing about stocks and bonds. I’m still caught up in the meditative aspects of painting, so when the job is done and all the masking tape peeled away, I’m not quite ready to go. I start collecting the brushes and trays left by my spoiled coworkers.
As I’m walking around gathering tools, I run across my friend from lunch, who has donned a bandanna to keep the paint out of his hair. I don’t know why, but a little bell goes off in my head and my internal Cupid—or Dionysus more likely—says, “Hey, this guy looks kinda cute with that thing on his head.” Uh-oh.
I take the brushes and trays into the bathroom at the end of the hall. Starting to wash the brushes one by one in the sink, I try not to get paint all over myself, but it’s hopeless. So I dump everything in the tub, turn up the water, and plunge my hands wrist-deep into the mass of gloppy paint. Running my fingers between the brush bristles I develop a true appreciation for the texture of latex: smooth and viscous, it slides over my hands like a skin of wet silk. The bandanna guy is still nestled in my mind somewhere and there is a tension building between the thought of him still working down the hall and the feeling of slippery paint on my skin. Quickly, I rinse my hands off and bolt out of the bathroom. Now I’m on a mission.
I look in each of the rooms to the right and left of the hallway, but I don’t see him. The idea is firmly planted in my head now, and if I don’t find him, or if he resists me, I don’t know what I’m going to do. When I get down to the end of the hall and there’s only one room left, I turn the corner. Okay. There he is. I’m ignoring every shoot of trepidation, though they’re sprouting faster and faster. Keep moving, I tell myself as I stride over to him.
“You’re not shy are you?” I say.
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
“Come with me.” I grab his hand and pull him back down the hall. This is the longest hall I have ever been in. “Come on, hurry.”
We get into the bathroom and I close the door. He is looking at me as if I’m insane, but he’s also smiling. I immerse my hands deep in the thick paint in one of the trays and smear it all over my fingers and wrists. Then I grab his hands and work the paint all over them, between his fingers, across his palms and partway up his arms. He’s grinning at me as his fingers start to move, smoothing and kneading the paint into my hands. We step closer and he envelops my mouth with
his. Our tongues explore and slip around each other as our fingers slide and entangle. Hurriedly, I undo his shirt buttons, take more paint into my hands, then smear it over his chest. He slides my shirt up, pushing my bra above my breasts, and we crush against each other, rubbing and smearing the slippery paint all over ourselves. He reaches to get a handful of paint and massages it smoothly onto my breasts. I bite his lower lip just as there’s a banging on the door: “Anyone in there?” We freeze, on the edge of bursting out laughing.
“Yeah, just a minute.”
We lunge at each other’s mouths, and with them glued together, try to adjust our clothing over our sticky skin and the drying layer of paint on our chests. Now we are laughing, trying to maintain as much oral contact as we can while turning the taps on full blast and washing our own and each other’s hands. We straighten out, step back from each other, and look down at our bodies, shaking our heads. We’re a mess. Our clothes are stuck onto us rakishly and there’s paint all over them. “Oh well,” he shrugs, and I open the door. We walk out as nonchalantly as we can manage under the gaping stares of the future masters of industry.
amelia copeland ([email protected]) is the former editor of Paramour magazine, Lustrologist for the Boston and Providence Phoenix adult sections, and a working stiff. Her story in this collection was just the beginning of her wild years.
Smutmonger
cecilia tan
Nimble fingers played over my sides, enticing me to turn over as he searched my stomach and my throat and my thighs for soft places. And then the kisses began, under my chin, on my forehead, my eyelids, my lips. As he broke away I looked up into his eyes…
My parents’ backyard in the suburbs is big enough to fit a tennis court and a swimming pool. Fortunately, they never built either one, which meant that one summer night in 1998 there was plenty of space for a big yellow and white striped tent, tables and chairs for about a hundred people, and a small tent just for me, The Author, to sit under and autograph copies of my book. A book of erotica. That night I signed a copy of the book for my godmother, my uncle, my mother’s tennis instructor. It wasn’t a place I had really expected to end up.
That Takes Ovaries! Page 7