Tough Love

The Somali boys love soccer more than anything, I watch them play until it gets so dark they can’t make out the ball anymore. They talk loud and fast. Their tall gangly bodies full of nervous energy, as if being constantly on the move is what keeps them together. Sane. When I first arrived I thought we had nothing in common but our history of violence, but that’s not entirely true. They look grown to me, so much older than their real age. Their maturity intimidates me, but out there on the soccer field they’re just kids playing. Experiencing childhood, the way it could or should’ve been. It’s strange living in an all-male environment, being around all these guys, cocky and self-assured, certain of their part, their significance, their place in the world. It’s all an act, but they act their part so well, and I can feel myself withdrawing into my shell. Becoming the quiet, invisible kid I was certain I had left behind. I apologize for being alive, for taking up space, for breathing their air, that’s me. “Could it have anything to do with the fact that you don’t want to settle in?” my friend asks. There’s no special treatment, no being an ”only child”. There’s no L spoiling me, letting me do whatever I want whenever I want, but I wonder if they know how much I crave rules. How much I crave parenting, boundaries, structure. I understand why prison is not such a bad thing for some people. They wouldn’t survive in a different environment, they wouldn’t know how. I feel like I had more common sense at 9 than I do now. I knew my place, my responsibilities. I had a role, a part to play in keeping my family together. Now I’m just scared. I don’t know what’s expected of me. I’ll stay out late, I’ll get drunk just to get a reaction. I want consequences, I need tough love. I’m not that fragile, I won’t break if you punish me, but you might get through to me, the person inside the shell. Maybe I’ll never be able to understand any language other than violence. The way my dad ”spoke” to me. He’d know how to get my attention. Everything seemed crystal clear then.

Changes

A rite of passage is described on Wikipedia as ”cutting away from the former self”. In my red leather-bound dictionary the word passage is described as ”the process of passing from one stage to another”. I think of it as a journey or a giant leap where the outcome or destination is unknown. It’s the story of a butterfly, of transformation. Boldness as well as uncertainty. Beauty as well as fear. I crave change, I want it so desperately, but change is a scary thing. I’m not afraid to jump, of letting go, but I’m afraid of the unknown, of landing in the wrong place. I’m too far away to make out the details, too young to make sense of the big picture. All I know is what I feel. Change is unsettling, unfamiliar. Change is somewhere I’ve never been.

Sometimes I think I need my own Vision Quest, a way to make peace with the changes. Something to guide me along the way, someone to point me in the right direction. You will not grow up to be like him, we are not genetically programmed to become violent, but no one mentions violence around here, it’s too dangerous. What if it triggers a bad memory, what if it upsets someone, what if they start crying? Violence is taboo, it’s the elephant in the room, we talk around it, we ignore it, we don’t talk at all. We’ve never discussed how abuse changes a person, a child, a boy, but we don’t talk about love either, do we? Intimacy. Boundaries. Respect. Nothing important.

Juvenile

I wake up feeling angry, pillows and blankets on the floor, even my dog is keeping his distance. Watching me from across the room, wagging his tail, just a little. Come lunchtime I’m back in the boys’ bathroom with my toothbrush, flushing the toilet to cover up the ugly sounds of vomiting. I realize that I’ve been holding my breath all morning, everything tight and rigid, my chest ready to explode. My friends don‘t ask, but I tell them anyway, I was coughing so much it made me sick, is all. I’m smiling now. Everything is fine. I’m not running away from my problems, I’m simply getting rid of them.

You’re being mean, she says. You’re selfish! Stop acting so goddamn juvenile. I want to scream in her face, call her every bad name I can think of. I want to tell her that it’s normal to fight, other kids fight with their parents all the time, what makes us any different? We never make up, we never say sorry, our words are left hanging in the air. I want to grab her arms and wrap them around me, but I stay where I am while she’s hiding in the kitchen, crying quietly. I pick fights because I want to know if you really love me, it’s my way of testing you. I’m too afraid to ask, too much of a coward. What if the answer is no?

Shedding Skin

Dance is like shedding skin. I am slowly getting to know myself, really becoming aware of my body for the first time. I enjoy pushing myself, I enjoy the repetitiveness, I even enjoy the pain that follows practice. I feel safe, I feel at home, I feel happy. I remember watching dancers on TV when I was younger, admiring their strength, their stamina, their sensuality. Wishing, wanting it so desperately, but too afraid to ask. It was out of the question, my parents would never pay for lessons. Boys don’t dance and the ones who do…well they’re different in the worst possible way. Girly, effeminate, soft, fruity, flaming, faggy, gay. Boys shouldn’t appreciate beauty, it’s better, so much safer to worship mud and dirt, to graze your elbows and knees, to only use your body for running and climbing. Bold, brash and confident. Don’t think before you act, just do it. Being a boy should be automatic like breathing, but I had to think about it. I had to create this other persona, this façade to hide behind. Neutral, somewhere safe in the middle. A little too nice, a little too quiet, but never obvious. If you can’t be aggressive, and God knows I tried, the second best thing is to become invisible, to cease being a person. And then you can start erasing your body. You’ll take up even less space. You’re no fun to mess with because you’re too weak to fight back. The only person who won’t leave you alone is dad, but he can’t hurt you any more because you’ve stopped feeling. You don’t feel sad, you don’t feel happy, you’re not even in the room while it’s happening. And then one day it stops. You’re safe, that’s what they keep telling you, over and over. You have to re-learn everything, replace your fucked-up dictionary, become a boy, a person again. But I am out of control, suddenly aggressive, so confused, who am I really? Am I turning into him? Everything is turmoil, pitch-black angry chaos. Acting out, they call it. Like a pat on the head. This is normal, this is recovery. A return to normalcy, yet I feel anything but normal. I’m fighting myself, fighting my body, I want out. Why is every attempt unsuccessful, what am I doing wrong? Do I want to live after all? I’m not used to feeling, now I’m feeling too much, I’m overwhelmed, please make it stop. There’s no progress, nothing visible to the eye, nothing tangible, I’m not getting well fast enough. I read somewhere that the mind chooses to forget, but the body always remembers. It’s a painful reminder. How can I learn to like myself, to accept my body and its history, the fact that I’m turning into a man? Can I get to know him, little by little? Can I write it out, can I talk about it? Is it safe to explore, to come out of hiding, can I dance now?

I don't think anyone can illustrate dance like Jakob Karr.

Almost

When I’m in a good place mentally the need to write is less. For some reason I’ve never been able to express happiness and contentment in words. Somehow “feeling fine” isn’t important enough to write about. I have to convince myself that it’s perfectly okay to be happy, to smile, to feel good both inside and out. Every day I sign my own permission slip, I give myself permission to like what I see in the mirror, to derive pleasure from my body, to accept a compliment, to feel strong and proud. Perhaps I’m scared that writing about it will somehow jinx it. Happiness is only temporary, if I get too cocky, too proud, then something bad is bound to happen. It’s like counting the prize money before you’ve crossed the finish line. Just because I’m healthy doesn’t mean I’m cured. I am a recovering anorexic, a recovering addict. Almost normal. Almost, nearly, not quite there yet. The desire, the want to change is so strong, but I’ve fought this internal battle for so long that it’s almost impossible to imagine life without it.