If words could shame
If words could shame, I’d first need to translate them to Spanish, then use a super soaker to dowse the town..
(I’ve spent the whole day feeling anxious about being tall, female, and light skinned. Thank god I’m not blond or I’d really be in a tight spot. (hi T!) )
So, last week when Rachel was still in Antigua, we spent a rather interesting and unproductive day wandering about the city going from bar to café to hostel and back again. The purpose was to find a dry spot and to link up with my brothers, who we’d told to meet at Sky Bar, a place we stayed at for five minutes before moving on. With Rachel I found myself talking and walking, mostly aware of my surroundings, but not hyperly so. That evening, since we’d failed to meet up with Henry and Stephen, I decided to walk home alone. Rachel was concerned and wanted me to stay at the hostel for the evening, but I was more concerned with Margoth’s anxiety if I didn’t return. So I decided to take Rachel’s mag-lite as a weapon and I started off down the Antiguan streets.
Now, I know many people tend to think of me as stubborn. The word “independent” comes up quite often. Sometimes “absent-minded” or “oblivious.” All of these are true. But “reckless?” Some may think it, but it’s not true. I’m very safety conscious. But sometimes safety does not coincide with practicality, and at this moment I needed to be home and I needed to be quick about it.
Antigua is not large. Nor is it very dark or unpopulated or horror movie ish or anything like that. But it was after 10pm, and I don’t know, but something happens to the night after 10pm, and I usually don’t like walking alone. I did it once from the Vandy library back to my house, and once was enough. Strangely though, this walk home was nothing like the Vandy walk. Nor was it like the race to my car that happened once when I’d been left alone in a bar with some strange men. This walk was perfectly normal, perfectly peaceful, and even though I got quite lost and made a giant circle twice - even walking down by the mercado - I never encountered a malevolent force. Which made me wonder, why was I so nervous? At one point I had even pulled my hair up in a bun and zipped up my jacket to make me appear more manlike. When I got home, I closed the door, thanked my overworked Angel gratefully for keeping me safe, and promptly fell asleep.
...
Today I woke up in Antigua on my own for the first day. Henry and Stephen are in Lanquin and Rach is in Xela. No one to talk to while I’m on the streets, and I find myself aware of all the people I pass, and mostly, all the men. There are a lot of men. Young men, old men, men on stoops, on curbs, on corners, congregated in doorways or standing solitary against the street walls. I’m not sure what they do all day, but with the unemployment level here, it does not strike me as unusual if they do nothing at all. Which means they are probably bored. And bored men make me nervous.
There is one man in particular who has cemented his character in my head as “pig.” I happened to be walking down a certain street and as it goes, passed by an open door with a number of men congregated in the doorway. One man, probably in his 60s, grey hair and fatty, saw me coming and made one of the standard tst tst noises that men make to women here. Per usual, I did nothing but kept walking, pretended I didn’t hear. It’s an automatic noise they make I think, and an automatic response from us. So I wasn’t too annoyed, but then he upped the ante. The old man contorted his face into a pig shape and started grunting at me. Grunting! It was hideous, on a number of levels. First and most obvious, I have never been grunted at, and it was both revolting and alarming. I thought, what if this man has grand-daughters?! Those poor children. But at the same moment that I was alarmed for my well-being and that of his supposed progeny, his contorted face stuck in my mind. And god help me but I could not stop thinking of George MacDonald’s childhood book, The Princess and Curdie.
In this book, Curdie goes on a little adventure to save the Princess. And along the way he receives a gift from a magician. The wizard gives Curdie the ability to see people as they truly are. And as it turns out, most of the people in MacDonald’s fairytale are really just animals in disguise. Curdie recognizes sneaky wolves, idiotic geese, thieving raccoons, etc. And every now and then he runs into a real person. It’s a handy gift, but he also wishes sometimes that he didn’t have it.
As soon as this old man made his pig face I saw him for real. This man may not know it, but he’s really a hog. Dirty and sharply whiskered, mud rooting and rarely lifting his head to the sun or sky. It’s obviously a face and noise he has made quite often, and he has gotten quite good at it. I hope this is not all he is, but I have little hope. I am not Curdie, and I wasn’t given a magical gift by a wizard, but some things are too obvious to miss.
(I’ve spent the whole day feeling anxious about being tall, female, and light skinned. Thank god I’m not blond or I’d really be in a tight spot. (hi T!) )
So, last week when Rachel was still in Antigua, we spent a rather interesting and unproductive day wandering about the city going from bar to café to hostel and back again. The purpose was to find a dry spot and to link up with my brothers, who we’d told to meet at Sky Bar, a place we stayed at for five minutes before moving on. With Rachel I found myself talking and walking, mostly aware of my surroundings, but not hyperly so. That evening, since we’d failed to meet up with Henry and Stephen, I decided to walk home alone. Rachel was concerned and wanted me to stay at the hostel for the evening, but I was more concerned with Margoth’s anxiety if I didn’t return. So I decided to take Rachel’s mag-lite as a weapon and I started off down the Antiguan streets.
Now, I know many people tend to think of me as stubborn. The word “independent” comes up quite often. Sometimes “absent-minded” or “oblivious.” All of these are true. But “reckless?” Some may think it, but it’s not true. I’m very safety conscious. But sometimes safety does not coincide with practicality, and at this moment I needed to be home and I needed to be quick about it.
Antigua is not large. Nor is it very dark or unpopulated or horror movie ish or anything like that. But it was after 10pm, and I don’t know, but something happens to the night after 10pm, and I usually don’t like walking alone. I did it once from the Vandy library back to my house, and once was enough. Strangely though, this walk home was nothing like the Vandy walk. Nor was it like the race to my car that happened once when I’d been left alone in a bar with some strange men. This walk was perfectly normal, perfectly peaceful, and even though I got quite lost and made a giant circle twice - even walking down by the mercado - I never encountered a malevolent force. Which made me wonder, why was I so nervous? At one point I had even pulled my hair up in a bun and zipped up my jacket to make me appear more manlike. When I got home, I closed the door, thanked my overworked Angel gratefully for keeping me safe, and promptly fell asleep.
...
Today I woke up in Antigua on my own for the first day. Henry and Stephen are in Lanquin and Rach is in Xela. No one to talk to while I’m on the streets, and I find myself aware of all the people I pass, and mostly, all the men. There are a lot of men. Young men, old men, men on stoops, on curbs, on corners, congregated in doorways or standing solitary against the street walls. I’m not sure what they do all day, but with the unemployment level here, it does not strike me as unusual if they do nothing at all. Which means they are probably bored. And bored men make me nervous.
There is one man in particular who has cemented his character in my head as “pig.” I happened to be walking down a certain street and as it goes, passed by an open door with a number of men congregated in the doorway. One man, probably in his 60s, grey hair and fatty, saw me coming and made one of the standard tst tst noises that men make to women here. Per usual, I did nothing but kept walking, pretended I didn’t hear. It’s an automatic noise they make I think, and an automatic response from us. So I wasn’t too annoyed, but then he upped the ante. The old man contorted his face into a pig shape and started grunting at me. Grunting! It was hideous, on a number of levels. First and most obvious, I have never been grunted at, and it was both revolting and alarming. I thought, what if this man has grand-daughters?! Those poor children. But at the same moment that I was alarmed for my well-being and that of his supposed progeny, his contorted face stuck in my mind. And god help me but I could not stop thinking of George MacDonald’s childhood book, The Princess and Curdie.
In this book, Curdie goes on a little adventure to save the Princess. And along the way he receives a gift from a magician. The wizard gives Curdie the ability to see people as they truly are. And as it turns out, most of the people in MacDonald’s fairytale are really just animals in disguise. Curdie recognizes sneaky wolves, idiotic geese, thieving raccoons, etc. And every now and then he runs into a real person. It’s a handy gift, but he also wishes sometimes that he didn’t have it.
As soon as this old man made his pig face I saw him for real. This man may not know it, but he’s really a hog. Dirty and sharply whiskered, mud rooting and rarely lifting his head to the sun or sky. It’s obviously a face and noise he has made quite often, and he has gotten quite good at it. I hope this is not all he is, but I have little hope. I am not Curdie, and I wasn’t given a magical gift by a wizard, but some things are too obvious to miss.
Comments
Post a Comment