“Huh?”
She sighs with exasperation and puts the cup down. “Only the gay man doesn’t want to have a sex with the new bride.” Oh. Well. She sighs again, deeper this time, and gazes into the cup between her hands as she continues, “She just told everyone that they couldn’t get along, so he didn’t have to tell that he was a gay. It was very nice of her, so he and his family didn’t have to be ashame. In Japan it’s not good to be a gay, you know. It makes the other people upset. Many of the gay get married so they don’t make their families ashame.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” I blurt. “There’s no shame in being gay.”
“Ha!” she snorts. “Here, all the gay just think they should tell everyone. They say oh, be yourself is the best way, no shame, and everyone else should accept. It’s selfish.” This is one of Mom’s favorite complaints about America and Americans. Selfish. Disrespectful. Inconsiderate. Women were happy before feminism—until those selfish feminists had to go mess everything up and demand equal treatment. Same with Black people. Forget individual freedoms and differences—it’s all about making the majority feel comfortable.
On the other hand, if her big complaint about gay-rights activists is that they’re selfish—well, it could be worse. Maybe the ice isn’t as thin as I thought.
“Asking for acceptance and equal rights isn’t selfish. It wouldn’t be an issue at all if other people accepted them instead of thinking of them as freaks.”
“They are the freaks. That’s why it’s selfish to make a big protest. They should accept the society because they are living in it.”
“But that’s wrong. That’s unfair.”
She drains the last drop of tea from her cup and stands up. “That is the life. No one can have perfect life without suffering. People have to accept.”
“But you can try to make it better, at least.”
Mom puts the teapot and cup in the sink, and turns to face me. “You are young, so you think everybody should get everything they want. But one day, you will see. Life is not so simple.”
“How would you know?”
“Ha! I know.”
And suddenly, I get the feeling that she’s not talking about social justice anymore.
“What? What do you know?”
“I am grown-up. So I know.”
“Know what?”
“I don’t need to tell you. It’s just life.”
She turns her back and starts washing the dishes. Conversation over. Though to be honest, I’m not sure I want to hear what she’s not telling me, anyway. So I say, “Hmph,” so she knows I’m not conceding, and get up from the table.
“Chotto. Tetsudai-nasai.”
I go to the sink to help her. We wash the dishes, put away the leftovers, rinse the sink, and wipe down the counters. When we’re done, the kitchen is neat and clean and shiny. Meanwhile, our secrets whirl around us and obscure us from each other like a cloud of dust.
POETRY JOURNAL, HONORS AMERICAN LITERATURE
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16
“Loose Woman”
by Sandra Cisneros
I’m not really comfortable with swear words in poetry. But I can see why Sandra Cisneros used them in hers—just the b-word, actually.
“Loose Woman” is sort of like the bold, loudmouthed version of “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” Instead of being Nobody, the speaker is a “b****” and a “beast.” But she’s proud of it. Most of the poem is the speaker boasting about who she is and what she does, though, so maybe she’s like the Somebody who says his name all day in Dickinson’s poem.
This part toward the end is probably my favorite:
I’m an aim-well, shoot-sharp,
sharp-tongued,
sharp-thinking, fast-speaking, foot-loose,
loose-tongued,
let-loose,
woman-on-the-loose, loose woman.
Beware, honey.
There’s a lot of stuff about talking: sharp-tongued, fast-speaking, loose-tongued. But it’s a different kind of talking than a frog repeating its name all day long. It’s speaking your mind, not just your name. Each line is short, one after another. Maybe it’s supposed to be like a stream of bullets (because of “aim-well/shoot-sharp”)??? Maybe it’s like words are her weapons? So that would make her dangerous? (“Beware, honey.”) Who is she threatening? Her oppressors? Society in general? Is she angry, or is she kind of joking a little?
But she also says she’s an outlaw, and that she breaks things, and generally makes people uncomfortable. So all of that would make her like Emily Dickinson’s Nobody. Except I feel like that kind of person is a Somebody.
I’m not sure I would like this person if I knew her, but I admire her strength. Because she’s the opposite of me and I tend not to rock the boat, even though I sometimes wish I could.
14
I’M AT THE STARTING LINE FOR OUR MEET against Cupertino High School. I’ve been in four meets so far, and every time, I get so nervous I think I might be sick. My insides tie themselves in knots and I wish I could hit the bathroom just one more time before the race. Janet keeps telling me, “Don’t worry. What’s the worst that could happen? You get tired and slow down? You don’t win? So what?”
I know in my head that she’s right—it’s just one race, and really there’s nothing at stake except for a few points—but my body doesn’t care. My mouth still goes dry and my heart still thuds away like something terrible is about to happen. “Find your stride. Find a good pace and stick with it,” Coach Kieran keeps saying.
The gun goes off, and I start running. It’s a three-mile race today, so I have to stay loose in the beginning, which is difficult, what with the adrenaline coursing through my veins and everything. At least I’ve improved enough over the weeks so that I know that I can keep Janet in sight for most of the race without flaming out at the end.
I cross the finish line and barely make it off to the side, I’m so exhausted. Bent over double and heaving, I feel Janet’s hand on my back, and Coach Kieran’s, too. Someone shoves a water bottle in my face, and I stand up to take a sip.
“Great race, Sana,” says Coach. “Way to finish strong! That’s what I’m talkin’ about—reaching down deep. Great job. Go warm down.” He gives me another pat on the back and is off looking for the next runner.
“Way to go, Sana!” It’s Caleb. What’s he doing here? His friend Ginny is at his side, waving. Thom is on the other side looking bored, but he gives me a thumbs-up. I wave back.
“Omigod, that’s Caleb Miller! And Ginny and that Thom guy. What’re they doing here?” asks Janet, staring.
“I dunno,” I say. “I’ll ask them later.”
“You know them?”
“Well, yeah. Caleb sits behind me in trig. I have lunch with them sometimes.”
“Really.” Janet looks at me curiously. “Are they as weird as they look?”