I try to pull away from my cousin as he holds my finger above the flame. “Trust me.” His young, barely teenage hand grabs the back of my little neck. Our eyes meet.
There is a certainty in him that I admire: an openness despite being on this earth for seven years longer than I have, or perhaps because of it. His thumb scratches the flint, feeding the red into the yellow and blue that dance above the lighter. My eyes grow wide as my finger passes through the flame. I grab it back protectively, stumbling away as he lets go of me.
At a safe distance, I examine it closely, waiting for my skin to start bubbling with pain. But it never changes; remains the same as it's always been. I walk back over to him, giving him my finger. “Do it again.” In a trance this time, I watch my skin touch the fueled ember of energy, feeling its heat though it doesn’t burn. My eyes grow wide, the image of the flame filling my eyes with light.
**********
You are not supposed to feel like that. You don't. You do not feel. You absorb the images, the harmony of sounds, the emotion, the feeling. You do not feel. You see it, them. They are not real. They are images on a TV. Images that you are not supposed to see. The glow lighting the room and casting shadows over your eyes. You know that this is not meant for your eight-year-old mind, that you should not be reacting or exploring so you pretend to be asleep, though the memory burns deep into you.
Their bodies move with your eyes and your hand running over the curves of your own body. His rock hard, heavy over hers. Your soft hand, heavy over your own. You do not feel. She is not real.
**********
“Boys,” Coach Brian's voice carries over the entirety of Carter Park from the outfield where we are practicing. From the the parking lot where the parents sit, chatting and waiting for their kids to finish, you can see the groups of prepubescent football players, packaged like little men in their pads. The Chelsea Devils Pop Warner A through E Teams are spread out on the patches of grass between the baseball diamonds. Out here, on the the other side of the fence, we are on our own. “If you tap the females on anything other than their hips, they will turn around. And they will hit you.”
Meagan and I look at each other. High pitched male voices giggle around us. In my pads, there is no difference between me and them. Not on the surface. My tied up hair, flattened female jockstrap, and c-cup that I tie down with sports bras and ace bandages are hidden beneath the same shoulder pads and helmet that they wear.
“Down.” The chatter stops immediately as we take our positions. I get down into a three-point stance, weight on my front foot, ready to explode. I look across from me, lifting my head as high as it can go so that I can see the eyes of the guy in front of me. I was terrified of this once. His broad frame, defined with the lines of muscles, and I would tell myself that the harder I hit him, the less it would hurt. I feel a hand tap my right hip.
“Set.” His hands open underneath me and my hand reaches out to grab the ball. I can feel my protruding shoulder bones shift beneath my shoulder pads. Even being eleven years old, I could not meet the 145 pound weight limit for thirteen year old boys. Being two to three inches taller with an extra fifteen pounds on my chest, I can not make cut off for the A-team while staying strong enough to compete. The weight that I have lost to be able to play on the team is visible under the bags of clothes that I drape over my body when I do not have these pads to hide them; the armor that gives me the confidence to fight them.
“Go!” The whistle blows and my body reacts. I shove the ball away between my legs, handing it to him. He has it now and I need to protect him. I stay low, put my face mask into the chest of the guy who my eyes have been focused on and drive him to the right. Push. Hit him. Keep him away. At least until the whistle blows.
**********
Skeletons of trees surrounded me. It was November, I think. Cold bit our delicate limbs turning our skim dimly pink rather than pale. We were just off the path but close enough to still see it if we were to peer around the tree. The bark was rough on my back but her lips were soft. She clasped onto me trying to stay warm.
It's supposed to make you hot right? Sweaty enough to steam the windows of a car at night. I looked into her eyes, searching for the answer in her. How is this supposed to work?
I lay down on the leaves, leaning against the tree, not knowing what to do. She lay down on top of me; a fifteen year old who was two years younger than me. A month before, surrounded by friends in a pile of leaves, I had felt her hand crawl under my shirt for the first time. There was a hunger in her that I did not quite understand and now I was watching her unbutton my pants. “Are you sure?” She gave me one last chance.
**********
Hands beat down on my sides as I curl, protecting my chest and face. Gasps of air alternate between waves of crying and I stop moving, stop trying. This is fetal position.
The memory comes back with the tone of his voice though it is no longer aimed at me. “I grind my teeth too. I do it when I’m stressed.” Anthony's eleven year old voice reflects mine, bearing more during his short time of being alive than many ever do.
“When you’re stressed,” my dad responds sarcastically, stripping him of the value of his existence with just a few words. “You are a stress.”
I watch what he heard cut into him, emotion spilling like blood congealing until the healing process builds new walls; armor. No one sees the flame burning in his eyes; the scenes, the hatred, and the potential that they dim, trying to assert their pride. If they could look into him and see his memory of his dad, belt around his arm, going behind the tv or his grandfather throwing a chair into the ceiling, or the days that he spent locked in his room would they continue to chip away at his security. He learns to hit back harder with every blow he takes.
“Daddy,” I begin, attempting to stand up for him, and my body freezes, anticipating the impact.
**********
I worked to appreciate their body; our dynamic. Their thick hands engulfed mine. They work them gently up my arm and down my torso, until, finally, coming to rest around my waist. They squeeze gently pulling my body to them. Their thigh parts my legs and presses into me.
I feel myself leave. My muscles relax and everything else comes naturally, I guess. I hide in the comfort of their weight that they hold over me.
They reach for it, breaking my trance for a moment, and situate it in their boxer briefs before working their way down me. I watch them peel back the top of my boxers to find the red and black of lacy panties underneath. Their breathing stops as they look up into my eyes and I realize that I am back inside myself. They take the panties into their teeth, letting the air flow out of them in a sigh. Or is it a moan? I'm not sure because I don't think I have ever experienced what I see on their face before.
It scares me, slightly.
**********
“Anthony what the hell happened to your face,” I ask, examining the red dot that lies between his cheek bone and eye.
“I shot myself with a bb gun.” My hand grabs the back of his neck as my cousin did mine years before. “Don't ever...” They would say to us, taking control. It's about survival.
“Don't you ever..” There was a difference in the power, that authority asserted with his voice and his hands. He will always be right. I can never fight back.
**********
I run my hands over my own body, feeling the way that these shorts and this shirt accentuate these curves. Hips, usually hidden, beckoning attention that I normally shy away from. I find a timid strength slowly chipping its way through the insecurity that I wear on my body.
My arms automatically pull them up and propel them under me simultaneously. Thighs spread on either side of them. Thick, strong. I hold their arms down above their head, teasing them with the brush of my lips. “Don't touch me.” I whisper softly into their neck so that they can feel my breath. I gently hold my body over them strategically. They can only imagine the way I feel even
though
they are
so
close.
I leave their hands, limp above their head, and slowly begin lifting my shirt. I watch their eyes grow wide trying to figure out what they love about this so much. I still do not understand this.. desire.
As I lower my armor, the slight vibration of vulnerability runs up my spine. I have always been stuck; hiding my body and the things I place in it, take from it. But taking it from and giving it to them in this moment, I harness that pulse in my chest, ready to explode into this comfort.
Their thick fingertips graze my bare shoulder. For the first time, that fragility that I hid beneath thick shoulder pads, barring their strength from taking this confidence away, makes me feel.. beautiful.
**********
“You got it Asia!!!” Voices cheer as she pulls herself up onto the first beam, holding onto the vertical branch she is climbing with both arms.
“Woo!” She celebrates. It is her second time on the tower today. The first time she made it half way to the first landing, but, with the encouragement of her teammates, she is back on the wooden structure standing in a small break in the New Hampshire trees. She turns her head to see where she has made it to and immediately tenses up. “Oh shit, get me down.”
“Are you sure? Don't worry, Asia. We got you,” her belay team promises, attempting to make her more comfortable.
“Yes, I'm done,” she replies.
“Look at the one near your knee,” I hear one of my girls yell. I look up at Brandy making her way through the array of wood and rope toward the top. The girls on the ground are watching her attentively, pulling rope in swiftly as she climbs and yelling words of encouragement while she tries to find new places to grab onto.
There is a group of girls on all three sides of the alpine tower. I hear the other group helping Dezy get over an awkwardly placed metal wire two thirds of the way up the alpine tower.
“You got it Dezy,” I yell in her general direction. I watch her body finagling its way. Her frustration is apparent in the short tone of her voice but her teammates keep her focused. Using all her strength, she propels her thin muscular frame up past the obstacle.
“Sit back in your harness,” I hear from Asia's group right before they begin slowly lowering her. “You did it!”
“I made it all the way up there?” The fear in her eyes is met with a tinge of awe as she looks up at the spot from the ground.
Watching the girls that I'm now coaching, I can’t help but remember when I was them.
“We can do this girls!” I would encourage as our coaches always did. I can see the platform and a rope in front of me. Our task was to get the whole team of young women and a bucket of water over to another platform without touching the ground. After the past two seasons, the leadership position that once felt so foreign to me was becoming more natural. “Who wants to go first?” I ask seeing that there were people in the group who were nervous about swinging on the rope.
“Bzzzzz.” The sound of my coach, Paige, making a buzzing noise, caught my attention. As my curiosity pulled my head toward the sound, I saw her come up beside me and pinch my pinny with two fingers. “A mosquito has taken away your voice,” she said.
“Ugh.” My hands flew into the air in frustration as I thought desperately about how to help my teammates. Ideas ran through my head. “Mmm mmm hmm mm mmm.” The noises came out of my closed mouth as I frantically gestured with my hands trying to communicate my suggestions to my teammates.
An eruption of excitement brings my attention back to my group. Fifty feet above us, Brandy is pulling herself over the top platform. “Slack!” She yells.
I hurry over to Ashley. “Let a little out,” I say, patting the top of her back where it meets her neck. Her hands slide an arms length of the rope keeping Brandy safe back through the belay device.
I looked up at Brandy's legs looking for a place to get more leverage. Her arms pull the rest of her body up onto the platform and she immediately goes over to help Dezy the rest of the way up.
“Toot that thang up mammi make it roll...” The chorus of voices resound off the trees. Brandy and Dezy begin dancing and a few of the girls on the ground join in. Their developing curves move with a confidence that I am just beginning to embody.
As my girls celebrate their victories, I harness the pride in their eyes. Their struggle to find who they are, fight, and lift each other up reveals a strength that emerges out of more than just self-protection. Dezy and Brandy sit back down on the side of the platform and the belay team pulls up the slack. I feel my stomach drop as I remember that moment right before the solid wood is replaced by fifty feet of air below you. Out here the rope connecting us is the only support, the only armor, we have. Ashley holds her rope down on the break. “I got you. You ready?”
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