Tonight I'm Someone Else

by Chelsea Hodson

  God, we got away with everything then, didn’t we?

  2. The Life Line

  But before all this, there was Tucson, where you had to put a towel over your steering wheel if you’d left it in the sun for too long. My friends were always taking a quick trip to Nogales and getting tequila for cheap and then getting robbed of their money or their switchblades and then getting stopped at the border if they looked Mexican or were Mexican and then getting back late and telling us all about it. They didn’t look like cowboys, but they acted as if we lived in Wild West times, and maybe we did.

  I always hear stories about how insignificant we are, how alone we are, how the universe is expanding and aren’t we so small, isn’t our English so adorable, so prone to disappearance. And yet, one person’s hand can change a life—one palm, one touch. Like, how about the immeasurable electricity between two hands about to meet for the first time, how about the texture of a hand on my face versus my forearm versus my thigh, how about the heat of a slap meant as a placeholder for love or harm, you decide. I’ve had hands around my neck that turned from lust to violence. I knew I could die, but still I didn’t fight. Survival of the fittest—a game some choose not to play. I thought if he felt so strongly, then maybe that’s how it ends. That’s how much I love the world—I accept my mortality, my temporality, my weakness, my choice to be held, to disappear.

  Say it with me: brutality. Say it with me: history.

  I could be a beacon of light, I could understand someone for once. My hand is the wave when it breaks. My hand is the city when it lights up at night. My hand is the knife when I karate-chop his thigh. Hi. Yah. You’re. Mine.

  In Tucson, in school, everyone was teaching me something, or I was listening to strangers talk and forming a lesson out of it. Everything seemed like a message just for me, that’s how desperate I was. I was hungry to emerge from my life victorious, or at least to do something that looked like winning. Blood seemed like a trophy, no matter who it belonged to.

  One of my journalism class requirements was to attend a court trial. At the front entrance, my class had to wait for me, because the carabiner I used as a keychain was deemed dangerous. How is that a weapon? I asked the security guard, and he put his four fingers through it and said, Brass knuckles, like this. I left it for him to discard and took my keys to the hall, where my class was waiting.

  The courtroom was dark and cold, just the way I thought it would be. But it was sleepier than I’d imagined, like a theater: lighted up front, and we could barely see our notebooks in back. Our class filled most of the otherwise empty room, and the Border Patrol officer on trial looked at us as he walked in, trying to figure out why we were there. I accidentally made eye contact, which seemed so confrontational I gasped. I felt as if I was watching TV, but then suddenly the TV was watching me. This was my first courtroom—I didn’t realize how private it felt, as if we’d walked in on his secret. And indeed, whatever happened that night on the Arizona-Mexico border was between him and the family of the man he shot and killed.

  Inside the courtroom, we all tried to unravel that secret, we tried to find the truth. The family was Mexican, trying to cross the desert undetected, and they were unlucky enough to encounter a white man with a gun. The angle of the bullet showed the victim had been on his knees, in a surrender position, but he was killed anyway—self-defense. I realized then that I’d be a bad journalist because all I wanted to do was write about the Border Patrol officer’s face—how it moved and contorted as the evidence was revealed, as the prosecution brought out a poster board with a diagram that illustrated the journey of the bullet. In my mind, he was guilty. A good journalist fights for justice, checks people in power, sees both sides. Unbiased—what a word.

  I was as biased as they come. I thought it was because I was a woman, because seventy-five percent of each month was consumed by blood—one week of being about to bleed, one week of bleeding, one week of having just bled. Exhibit A: me crying because something was too beautiful. How could I be trusted to tell someone’s story when all I could do was imagine the dark of the desert, my own fear of encountering this man alone in the middle of the night?

  The man with the gun saw the man on his knees and pulled the trigger that changed everyone’s lives, even mine. It was the first time I saw a man try to justify a killing, how he told a story to himself and then performed that story for us. Testimony—a lovely word made ugly right there, right then. I never made eye contact with him again, I just wrote notes in my notebook, I learned how to write different words than the ones I was listening to. With my class with me there—even then, I felt alone. I thought about how alone we all are. In the same room, in the same country. A wall is built, someone walks around it. A border closes, a hand reaches through.

  3. The Head Line

  I stayed on my journalism path, assumed changing majors was too much of a hassle, thought maybe someday I’d find a way to put myself into the story. I did my homework and I drank whiskey and I touched women’s faces when I kissed them. I couldn’t figure out where women belonged—behind a microphone or in front of a camera? Women had this way of being invisible unless tragedy was assigned to them.

  I don’t remember what Gabrielle Giffords and I talked about the night we met in 2008, but I remember how we smiled in the photo afterward. I don’t remember what her speech was about, but I remember she made a joke about the audience hoping to hear from her husband, real-life astronaut Mark Kelly, but being “stuck” with her, a Tucson congresswoman, instead. I don’t remember which of the other undergrad students wanted to be an astronaut, I don’t remember what the requirements were besides learning to scuba dive and speaking Russian, and I don’t remember wanting anything at that time in my life besides enough love and enough money to live on.

  I don’t remember how I found out that Gabrielle Giffords had been shot, but I was in Los Angeles by then, three years after we’d met, watching the news on my laptop while teens smoked pot in the alley by my bedroom window. I don’t remember all the details, so I’ve looked some up: Jared Lee Loughner, twenty-two at the time, went to a “Congress on Your Corner” event that Giffords was hosting outside a Safeway supermarket in Tucson. Loughner used a 9-millimeter Glock pistol to shoot Giffords in the head, then killed six other people and injured thirteen. The morning of the shooting, Loughner posted a photo on his Myspace page that showed his gun sitting on what appeared to be a textbook—the title read, United States History.

  I remember sitting there in a kind of dazed horror, the way I had when I first learned about the Columbine shootings. I don’t remember crying when I learned about Columbine—it felt far away somehow, as if it had happened on another planet. I remember some kids stayed home from school the day after, but that didn’t make sense to me—how could violence like that reach us, there, then? It hadn’t, and so it couldn’t.

  But I knew that Safeway, I knew that local news station, I knew that reporter, I knew that Loughner was only a year older than me, I knew that Giffords wasn’t fake like other politicians—I knew that because I’d touched her hand once, and I believed what she said that night, if only I could remember it.

  Girls like me—we get to choose when and where to look. We get to choose for how long and when to turn away—that’s the real privilege. I think I can train myself to look longer, to remember more, to write more down when I can’t remember, to give testimony worth recording, to learn from it. I think a hand might be the same thing as language, I think it might be more efficient. I think blood might be the first story of touch, I think it might have a hundred endings, I think I want to live long enough to see them all.

  Artist Statement

  I think I wrote it, in a way, to try to find you.

  —JESSE TO CELINE in Before Sunset

  I’m trying to think of the hole in my bathroom ceiling as something besides a metaphor, but I can’t—when I feel hopeless, I turn things into other things. How could the hole not be a wound, bleeding with clues to the p
ast? How could the hole not be a woman, leaking a little every time my upstairs neighbor takes a shower? I know, it’s an old building, it’s a bad pipe, it’s a slumlord’s fault. I know, and yet.

  I’m trying to write my life down before it’s too late. I don’t know why I become more afraid the more I write. I don’t know why I can’t override that feeling of being afraid of what will come out: who I’ll hurt next, who I’ll betray, what world I’ll trespass into this time. When I told my friend I was out of ideas, he said, Write about not having any ideas.

  I’m trying to remember all the times art saved me. Art can be so good that it consumes me. Being consumed is an act of salvation—I give myself up to the possibility of true light. Whenever I encounter genius in another person’s work, I give myself over to it, hoping to forget myself, hoping to touch it for real for at least a moment. All the better if the writer or artist is still alive—that means geniuses aren’t finished being born yet.

  I’m trying to write about someone without giving away his identity. I could say, Well, he’s got this face that’s alive like the tide and lit like the moonlight, no matter what time it is. I could say, Well, he’s got this special power where he gazes in a way that makes time stop. He says, Will you write my biography someday? and I say, I’ll write your autobiography today. That’s not giving him away—he’s beyond dialogue, beyond description. That doesn’t mean I’m done attempting.

  I’m trying to enforce the household rule: no discussion of nuclear war after midnight. That’s always when it comes up, when the headlines of the day have sunk in, when I open up to the possibility that language could die soon, and then where would our work go?

  I’m trying to check the locks less. When I leave my apartment, I become convinced I’ve left the door unlocked and that someone will rob me of all my possessions—I’ll come home to a door ajar and nothing left. I’ve never been robbed, but I obsess over this image. I lock the door, I hear it click, I walk a few paces, then I have to go back. Sometimes when I leave the door, I say out loud to myself, The door is locked, the door is locked.

  I’m trying to describe how it feels to know you, but I just keep coming back to this memory of camping when I was very young, around eight years old. Someone told me there were beavers that emerged in the early morning to make their dams in the river. I awoke the next morning at dawn, the way children are known to do in anticipation of a great event. I looked to my father, who was sound asleep, and then put my shoes on, unzipped the tent, and began walking. I walked for a long way, excited at the prospect of seeing something brand new. On my walk, I lost my way and became so disoriented that I couldn’t remember my name when a stranger saw me and asked. He said, Let’s get you back, and part of me didn’t want to go. I didn’t know where I was going, but I hated to think I was heading back to where I started. I never saw the animals in their act, I never saw how they make a wall in the river, I never found out how they do it. But for some reason, I got lost trying to catch a glimpse of it. That’s the best way I can describe you to someone.

  I’m trying to think of the word wall without thinking about Mexico, but the news just takes over my mind like that sometimes, even if I try to shut it out, even if I look away. The images and voices creep back in, at the airport or the gym, reminding me of the state of the world, the things someone said on repeat, Wall wall wall, we’re going to build a wall to keep the bad people out.

  I’m trying to stop using love as an antidote to end times. Part of me thinks it won’t matter what I do because the world will end before our love does. When everything seems on the verge of collapse, I don’t know what to do besides indulge every desire. Help?

  I’m trying to have faith in any form. When I was ten, my parents dropped my sister and me off at our grandmother’s house. She took us to her church’s Bible camp every day, where my sister and I were mocked by the other students for not knowing even the most basic facts about the Bible. Our parents never taught us, and we seemed to get along fine without it. But at Bible camp, the pastor and his wife were ventriloquists. I learned about God from a puppet’s mouth, which made sense at the time. I believed I could ascend to a land of peace and forgiveness. I didn’t have anything to be forgiven for yet, but I believed in the possibility of turning into an unimaginable adult. Look, here she is now, no longer believing in ascent.

  I’m trying to find out why I fall into a trance sometimes and why I resent waking up from it. The world goes quiet when I am being bad again—I could live forever in that kind of silence. But then: confession, consequence, aftermath. It’s enough to make a girl go good.

  I’m trying to recall the man on my street who owned his own hot air balloon business. He took tourists up over the Phoenix desert in rainbow-colored balloons lifted by fire. On one particular trip into the sky, he crashed into some power lines, and a bag of cocaine fell out of his pocket. When I first heard about it, I imagined the cocaine falling straight into a police officer’s hand. That’s not how it happened, but I could see it so clearly in my mind, saw his balloon mangled and deflated on the news later, saw a new family move into his house when he went to jail, and never saw him again.

  I’m trying to envision Earth as a woman: all I see are large hips made from tree roots, bowing outward, making way for all of us, none of us asking for life in the beginning but soon demanding more than she can give us. I hate writing us, but that’s where I am: desperate times call for desperate ways to speak for everyone.

  I’m trying to find a place with less noise. Last week, when I thought I’d escaped the sirens and shouting of New York in my yoga class, the fire alarm went off, so loud we had to cover our ears in warrior pose. Even then, no one left—we were used to that kind of auditory attack. We evolve and contort and accept.

  I’m trying to speak to you in my dreams. Can you hear me calling out to you, animal to animal? What I emit are not words, not really, but they take a purposeful shape when uttered alone in the dark. The first language must have been invented out of desperation, out of pure instinct and need. That’s how I sound.

  I’m trying to say what I mean, without any stylistic interruptions. I don’t regret what I’ve done, because if I didn’t do it then, I would have done it later. I believe certain mistakes are imprinted into our DNA: it’s only a matter of time before we make them.

  I’m trying to write something so good, so pure, so perfect that I’ll never have to have children; I’ll have created something that can stand in for me, that can live on after me.

  I’m trying to whisper something that can’t be spoken aloud: I still think about you.

  I’m trying to identify what drew me to the people I’ve loved. I seem to thrive in a state of in-between, of wanting to love all the way but only receiving a portion of what I want. That sliver is enough to make me want all of it—I feel the moon changing shape, and she feels me turning.

  I’m trying to evolve into all wolf all the time. It seems possible if I let go of the idea of my body, if I fall into my dream headfirst, if I accept words as signals more than language, if my love sounds like a howl in the forest—doesn’t it already?

  I’m trying to promise you I won’t leave again, but I can’t guarantee it. You know how I am—can’t decide on groceries, too distracted by the perfect white bars of soap in one aisle. Last summer, I stood there transfixed by their milky perfection; I said it looked like art or something. You left to shop without me—easier to leave me standing there in my admiration until I was done.

  I’m trying to forget you; you must think I have by now. Honor—you always hated when I used that word—I’m trying to honor all the ways we knew each other, all the things we said, all the ways I saw your face change before our time was up.

  I’m trying to document all the ways I angled toward the light and all the ways I leaned into shadows, every time I faced myself and every time I refused to look.

  I’m trying to forget when and where I live, trying to leave my responsibilities behind. Call to me ag
ain, my love. Wave me down like a taxi cab in the middle of a summer so hot only the beautiful people lose their minds. I took my glove off so slowly you thought you’d die waiting. And what better way to end? You died as I lived: waiting to reveal myself.

  I’m trying to use my small powers for good. What if I wasn’t a villain? What if I was the hero of my life? What if I knew what a lesson was and learned it? In this moment, the horizon is calm but red with the dirt of my past. It’s so easy to fill up my life with a person so wild I can’t look away. I love the shapes we made together, I love the way we spoke in fragments, Sappho style; we took our time, we carved ourselves into stone. We were so desperate to unveil ourselves that we came out like poetry—secrets often do. But that was then, this is aftermath.

  I’m trying to solve the math of my life, so complex it begins to surpass my abilities—X equals me plus my capacity to imagine minus the way I make people fall in love divided by my true nature, my wildness like the lion that bit the actor’s hand. That’s the kind of viciousness that keeps me alive. How’s that for a remainder? I am survival of the fittest, I am what endures when the Earth ends, I am exoskeleton instinct, alive with my own evolution.

  I’m trying to outline all my contradictions. I am alive but not living. My heart beats but forgets. My legs walk but in the wrong direction. My phone lights up but does not ring. My ring stays on my finger but does not represent eternity. My face feels clean but becomes dirty. My mind wanders but does not leave. My computer hurts me but does not kill me. The bones in my feet break but heal. I am cold but not heartless. I wear headphones but only hear my own voice. I have a phone but only call one person. I wear black but feel blue. I want to see my friends but don’t want to tell them about my life. I want to fall in love but I don’t know how to be good. I want to be good but I think I was born bad. I did an ugly thing but it was in a beautiful room. I was pretending to be someone but you were believing it. My hair is dark but the source of your hope. I sent you a poem but you didn’t listen to it.