The Never Ending War

When she was young, she was a Reluctant Warrior. She did not seek to fight, the world brought the fight to her doorstep, and so she went to battle, with a rusted sword found at the bottom of a dumpster behind an all-night diner. She fought. Some would say braver as time went on, but really it was just wilder and angrier – never braver. Now she sits in her old cardigan, olive green with large, brown buttons, her comfy slippers, worn and coming loose at the soles, and stares at the hope chest at the end of her bed.

Over the years, that chest has become a catch-all, a little like the junk drawer in the kitchen but without the random extension cords and old phone chargers with no phones left to charge. But deep beneath the papers, the loose photographs, the sweaters with holes that are too beloved to toss away but too exhausting to mend, buried under the unwanted Christmas gifts from Aunt Judy and the albums she doesn’t listen to but swears she’ll make an art project out of, one day – at the bottom of all of it, discarded and decaying, lie the remnants of her past. The Warrior Bits. The old rusted sword, the suit of armor made from love letters and blood-stained journals, the hidden memories of pain.

She hasn’t fought in ages. The very memory of it triggers her in ways that no therapy has ever been able to undo. People would judge her for that, she thinks; people judge everyone who doesn’t claim The Warrior as their archetype. They do not understand that not everyone can be a Warrior – if the world were full of only those, then where would they find peace? She was not born for fighting. She, whose hands tremble and voice catches, who was a little girl with braids who cried over lost stuffed animals, who still cries over anything that’s lost, she was not built for battle. She bakes bread and sings and paints and tries to find a way to exist in a world full of chaos.

But now there is a War, not just at her doorstep but brought inside of the walls of the House, itself, and the sword is calling to her. She can hear it, muffled though it is beneath the sweaters. And so she sits and stares at the hope chest, trying to quell the nausea rising from her stomach to her throat with all the memories. So much blood. There had been so much blood. She closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath. She cannot think about that, now. If she does, she’ll never stand.

All the women in her lineage stand behind her, ghosts unseen but most certainly felt. They stand silent and wait for her to do the right thing. One reaches out and touches her shoulder – the hand of her grandmother, of the tiny, Asian woman who lived in an internment camp and nearly starved to death. “It’s time, sweetheart.” She feels the voice instead of hearing it, and nods. She rises and walks over to the chest and kneels down in front of it, lifting its cedar lid and slowly pushes her hands inside, fumbling through all the discarded nothingness until she feels something soft and velvet. She pulls it free and brings it out into the light, staring at the old journal, the one she kept during her time at battle.

I only want to love her. I want to touch her face, gently, take her lips, softly. I want to reach up with my right hand and run my palm past her cheek, my fingers through the long waves of her hair, as slowly as a leaf floats down a windless river. I want to learn her laughter, and discover if our words can dance in tandem rhythm, neither one fighting for control. I want to hear the sighs that escape her lips into the freedom of my mouth. I want to know the Truth of her, and tangle myself within it.

She closes the journal. She doesn’t want to read the rest. Because the beginning is so beautiful, but she knows where the story goes from there, how ugly it becomes. From far back in her past, she can hear the screaming. Another hand touches her shoulder, but she doesn’t feel it, and another, and a third. They are telling her that this is important. They are explaining to her that she must remember in order to find the fight within her. A man joins them, now – old and strong and handsome, the last of the cowboys and with a smile so warm it could melt ice. He whispers into her ear. “People fight different when they’ve got skin in the game, Princess,” he says. “Remember who you are. It’s time.”

It is time. She knows it. Time for her to remember; to remember the definition the world had given to her existence. To remember what metal felt like against the tongue. They had sneered it, mocked her for it, taken everything she had. But she had discovered, that definition meant liberation. And that is what she needs to remember, now; so she could add her voice when they all muster for what lies ahead. She needs to reclaim her definition. Dyke, fag, n*gger, the sneering way people said Jew, even words that should be banal but were labels used for oppression, words like Woman and Pregnant that should be nouns or adjectives but were treated as currency, those words, all the words, all the nasty, evil, hateful, laughing words…those words, those definitions, are liberation. And liberation isn’t freedom; liberation is a verb, it's violent pain and fear and warfare, liberation is shattering the shackles that bite into your skin and make bloodied strips of your flesh, it’s the overthrowing of tyrannical governments with pride and screams and cannons, it’s Break These Fucking Chains, and Get the Fuck Off of Me, Asshole, it's My Body, My Choice and Say Her Name; it’s identity, and identity is a war cry. Liberation is release. And liberation is dangerous. We fought for that liberation, she thinks. We died for it. We were raped for it. We hung ourselves from rafters or overdosed on 200 anti-depressants washed down with whiskey, for it. We are still dying for it. We are still raped for it. We are still hanging from rafters and overdosing on pills, for it.

Define me, then. Say what I am. Say it the way they said it back then, nasty, snarling tooth decay of words and voices. Say it.

Dyke.

Damn fucking right I am.

She had earned that definition. She had shed blood for it. It had been given to her after so many years without having any. Years and years ago, she'd had no definition, at all; knowing she did not Belong with Others but not understanding why. She could see them, as a child she could see them – she could see them all, her friends, her family, her neighbors, all those lovely, normal Others; they were all standing on the sandy beach of the mainland, in a long line. And she was standing on the shore of an island, just some distance away, the water rolling between. She could wave to them, call to them, hear them as they called back. But she would never be One of Them. She would never Belong. And she knew that. At four years old, she knew that. What she didn’t know then, was why. She went through life as a ghost who has no understanding of where their body went. And then, one day, she turned a corner and saw a girl with long, dirty blonde hair. Time stood still. The movement of the planet slowed and stopped. Voices went silent, people disappeared. There was only her, standing in a doorway, and the other her, sitting at a desk. And then time resumed and the planet groaned back to its spin and the people reappeared. She had looked down and for the first time seen solidity in her hands and form to her fingers. She had weight and bone and flesh. The world around her saw it, too. They saw her take form and did their level best to break her, so they could reform her bones into a more pleasing skeleton. They labeled her and used it as cause to beat her flesh till it broke. But they could never win. Because she knew what she was, now. She knew Who, and What, and no matter what they did to her, they could never take away her Identity. And she took the label they slapped on her chest and wore it with pride and righteous indignation. It was hers, damn it all. Her label. Her liberation.

Say it. Say what I am. I earned that title. I earned my spot in this army. Remind me of Who and What I fucking am. We all earned our different labels. We all have skin in this game.

She had been so young, back then; so much more capable of the emotional acrobatics needed for warfare. Now she has graying hair, and bones that groan and creak, and time is slipping away at a much faster rate than it used to. Now she says things that sound like they come from her mother’s mouth, and young people use slang terms she doesn’t understand. But deep inside her chest, the tiger is pacing again. And it growls and throws itself against the cage of her ribs, to remind her that it will always long for Liberation.

She forgot its existence, she thinks, and then realizes that she didn't forget, at all, she deliberately ignored. She hid it beneath the years that had passed and numbed herself on the drug of calm existence within liberal cities and adult responsibilities. She hid it under bills she paid and emails she sent and laundry she washed, beneath reports and oil changes. She ignored the fact that there is a tiger within her; she pushed aside the memory that she was once a warrior, with a rusted sword because it was all she could pull from the garbage bin. She hid the memory of how she once flailed her body against a mob with chains and ropes and torches. And this shames her, now. She lowers her head and feels the women and one man come to sit around her. She tries to explain to them how she could do such a thing, though really she is only trying to explain to herself.

It’s been too long, you see, she says, too long that I’ve been living in the light. Which seems such a strange thing to say, when the light is all that we yearn for. To not be Hidden, to not cloak ourselves in fear and the instinct of survival – to be in the open, to walk down a street, to kiss in the sunlight and laugh under the moon. We long for that with every sinew and tendon in our bodies. But then we achieve it, those lucky few bastards of us. We achieve it, and we cry with gratitude, and we build our lives and homes and families there. And it is good. But muscles that go unused will atrophy; and too long spent in the light makes us more afraid of the dark. And...and it's more than that, too. It makes us forget the importance of the darkness, itself. There is a certain gravity to things, a different mass, a different weight to what is done when Hidden. Things mean more when you can only look at them in the dark. That girl with the long, dirty blonde hair – she and I could dance in the darkness of an ally’s bedroom, and it meant more than all the light in the world. We walked with our arms touching, because we could not hold hands, and that touch was so beautiful and painful that it broke and reformed our hearts. When you live in darkness, you know that every moment you feel warmth is something to thank God for.

She had once said that she was so many things, not just this one label – and that was true. She had said that she was sister, daughter, mother, friend; she was blues lover and avid reader; she was gardener and writer; she was poet and singer; she was priestess and queen. And Warrior, reluctant or not. But these, she now knows, are only aspects of her, colors within the fabric. What is she? She is what she has earned the right to be. She is Human. She is Liberation. She is now. And she will earn that right, again and again, before her days are over. She will have to. Because the light does not shine in all places. It shines in only a few corners; not in the in the house, entire. The house, itself, is still so very dark. Dark as pitch, she thinks, and we are all sick and tired of falling down inside of it.

It’s not her War, alone; this is not a local and centralized skirmish. The battle of her past, though part of a larger fight, was nothing like what this monster screams to be. This is on a scale that her heart cannot comprehend. It stretches everywhere, the blood spills from city to city and the weapons fire from every hand. And on one side, Them, and on the other side, We. The side of Them has uniforms. The side of We – nothing uniform about it, nothing Same to be found amidst the beautiful conglomeration of colors and voices and flags. The side of Them has one banner. The side of We has many. She remembers what her young lover with old eyes had said to her so long ago – I don’t understand, she had said back then, I don’t get it. Why don’t we all just show up and stand together? If we all did that, we’d be the majority. So one’s a dyke and one’s a Mexican and one’s a Cuban – so this guy’s Black and this guy isn’t. This is ours, it’s all of ours, it belongs to all of us, why are we just holding on to our specific little piece of it? If we all grab hold and tug at the same time, we take it away from Them forever.

She had been so idealistic, her lover; so full of good and honor and the seeking of all truths. The memory caused her throat to close – but something else to open. And she reached down into the chest once again, beneath the albums and the moth-eaten quilt. It was an odd place to keep a sword, of course. But then, she wonders, where does one keep such an item? Certainly not in the pantry, or the linen closet. The chest really did seem best, all things considered. She pulls out the sword, she stares down at its dull and blunted edges. She wonders how she ever wielded this thing, in the first place. She marvels that she didn’t get tetanus. Its hilt is in even worse shape than its blade, and she wonders if she should simply buy a new one and be done with it. After all, it would take so much work to fix this damn old thing. The phone rings, and she ignores it. She just kneels there on the carpet and stares down at the sword. She cannot buy a new one, and she knows this – in spite of all the care and effort it will require, she just cannot. Every jagged notch in its blade is a memory – of a fight won or lost, wounds given or received. Even the rust has meaning. And she is a sentimental old fool.

She wonders, too, how many others, how many of her specific breed, over the past few years have been kneeling on carpets and opening old chests at the foot of their beds, running fingers over forgotten weapons and suits of armor. She wonders how many of her breed have been shaking their heads and thinking to themselves that they should never have put them away, and how horrific it is that this War should still be so bloody in this late year. She wants to find them. The ones of her kind who cannot understand how racism, how bigotry of any and every kind, could be coated in enamel and presented as normal dishware to everyone at the table. The ones who believe that anyone saying "All Lives Matter" should be muzzled with the gag they want to use on others. The ones who feel shame at the systemic brutality churning just beneath the surface of tree-lined neighborhoods. She wonders how many have been remembering Who They Used to Be, and asking themselves if there’s any bit of that left inside of them, now. Asking themselves how they can find their Warrior buried under old quilts and sweaters and the desire to bake scones and cook lasagna and make sure the kids get to school on time – buried under complacency of living. And she wonders how many first knew, truly knew, that they would have to dig out their old things and arm up, the moment the jackass with the orange skin and his weak-chinned attendants took over, and limp-dicked senators ran ramshod over our freedom. Because this isn’t just about the fight for the right of labels. Labels just define what platoon we’re in.

She knew, in that moment four years ago, that she would have to go to War. She got back into the practice of marching and shouting, carrying banners and defying oppressors. But now…now has come the time to actually fight. And she is unsure if her body remembers the movements, as much as it remembers the pain.

She stands up with her hand on the hilt and waves the sword through the air, once, a sweeping motion bringing it down from right to left. But where it should part the air with a whoosh, it just descends with a whimper. Something will have to be done about that, she thinks. That won’t instill fear, at all. She wonders if the problem is not with the sword but with the arm that’s moving it. She thinks that her lover would tell her she is simply out of practice, that the warrior is still as alive in her as it ever was. Her lover had always thought more highly of her than she did; a thing that was one’s weakness, and the other’s strength.

The tiny, Asian woman puts her hands on her hips and wills her reprimand through the veil separating them. “You aren’t even trying,” she says. “Again. Bring it down again, but this time, remember what you’re angry about. Remember me. Remember your grandfather. Remember where you came from. Remember what they did to us. And remember what they did to you. Remember what they did to her. Remind yourself of everything they do to everyone that isn’t Just Like Them.”

She begins to tremble, but not from fear, not from her usual anxiety and issues with confrontation. Names run through her head on a scroll, one after another after another, as the ghostly women and one man breathe them into her mind. George Floyd, says the tiny, Asian woman. Breonna Taylor, says the cowboy. Mia Green, says the woman with the long, black hair. Matthew Shepard, says the tough, white woman with the cigarette in her mouth. Name after name after name. Names of the murdered, names of the beaten. Names of women raped for being women. Names that meant color, and names that meant gender, and names that meant how much we pretend to have but have never touched or seen. And the list will continue. It will always continue. As long as They keep hold of what belongs to We, it will always continue.

She takes off her cardigan; suddenly it does not feel so comfortable against her skin. Somewhere in this chest I’ve got a pair of Doc Martens, she thinks. One can’t go to War in slippers.

She lives alone, these days – she prefers it that way. She enjoys her solitude and the fact that she doesn’t have to pick one side of the bed and stay there for years. But on days like this, she thinks, I long for her. I yearn for her presence, just there, in the chair by the window, reading her book or painting at her easel or softly pulling the thread through her needlework. I yearn for her laughing eyes that mock me gently, for her voice that pulls me out of my head and into the world around. I would say to her right now that I am frightened, and she would say to me that she would be worried if I wasn’t. I would say to her that warriors are not supposed to be frightened, she would say to me that that was bullshit. She would ask me how my tiger was. I would tell her it is sitting expectantly just behind my ribs, tail flicking, waiting to see what I will do. She would remind me to feed it before setting it loose, and then she would go and make us dinner. Yes, on days like this I long for her – days like this, and many others, besides. For those who are about to love, we salute you; it is not for the faint of heart or weak of character. Love requires far more effort and resilience than any other action in our lifetimes; and it can shed more blood than the most brutal war. She reminds herself of that, as she holds the sword; she reminds herself that she has paid a higher price, by far, than the one demanded of her, now.

A different ghost steps forward, now, and the others part for her – young, so young, but with eyes so old and ancient. The young one reaches out and touches the hand that holds the sword. “I am still here.”

She grips the hilt tighter, knuckles turning white, jaw clenched, eyes wild. She brings the sword down again, and this time there is not a whimper to be heard. And she adds her lover’s name to the list on the scroll, as she digs in the chest for her boots.