By Marlia Fontaine-Weisse

Something with J

Music doesnt strike me as hard as the letter J. J invokes fond memories wrapped in a lingering pain that can only be described as ripe breath after blue cheese. Or diaper-filled garbage disposal. Yeah, that one. Like Justin. Justin stretched open my eyes to all the possibilities humanity had to offer. Here I thought people were more or less decent, but what he forced me to witness through unblinking vision is that we are creatures of convenience who effectively hide behind our temporary circumstances. Sitting behind this popular upperclassman in Spanish class, talking to him cada da about nonsense and reflecting on how cool it was to have someone like him recognize me as more than just Martys sister had me convinced I was worth something. All those countless hours during countless nights I had spent wondering how anyone could like mepraying, wishing, crying, pleading to the four walls of my room to crush in on me to ease my suffering started to sound petty. Theres nothing like a new seating arrangement to fuck that up. Justin was telling those of us within earshot about his weekend, how he went to some new nightclub. I didnt get to hear the details because he was now seated across the room, but Erika would fill me in during the following class. Its funny, I dont remember a lot of the details, but I recall he hadnt had a good time because there were niggers there. And when Erika reproached him for his foul language, especially with me in the room, he simply said, Why? Shes one, too. With him I was able to experiment with my depression in new ways just to make sure I was alive. Or was it to discover how I could die? For instance, youd never think melted skin would look so malleable, almost as if it turns to Play-Doh once it reaches its burning point; however, that was exactly how the portion of skin just above my wrist became when I peeled away the quarter-inch barrel curling iron from its new home. The trick was not to press the iron to the skin when it was at its hottest pointthat would hurtbut to secure it to the spot while it was heating. The burn of the searing iron pressed against my flesh didnt smell as Id imagined it would. I thought it would be fried chicken, you know? How everything new or different tastes like chicken? Was I thinking of a racist joke about blacks and chicken? But there really wasnt anything recognizable or pungent about it. At least it didnt make me sick. The surface of the burn was a viscous brown matter stretched over a pool of puss. It reminded me of caramel when its just about to harden. My mouth watered at the thought. Was I going insane? I went to Julies house that night to use her first-aid kit.

Julie. J. She lived one street behind me. If I wasnt at Jens house, I was at Julies. Hers was like a second family to me. To this day, I cant remember her parents actual names because I only ever referred to them as Mom and Dad. They trusted me with anything and invited me to everything. If I wanted to, I could walk into their unattended house, grab a Coke, prop my feet up on their coffee table and watch TV; and if they walked in on me doing this, they would simply join me on the couch. This relationship wasnt one-sided, either. Julie was the only friend I had ever had that spent the night. Once, in my entire childhood. We shared everything from clothes to laughs, but if Julie dated my brother, or even thought of dating a black guy, her parents would murder her before she could wipe the idea from her brain. And thats the thing about racism, it comes in many forms. Just like a compassionate invalid once said about chocolate: with racism, you never know what youre gonna get. For example, I was told by John he would love to date me, but his grandparents would disown him. I get it, I guess. In Jackson Township, everything revolves around wealth. The more money you have, the more popular you are. And if you want to continue to have that popularity and all the other benefits of wealth, you listen to what your family expects of you. Translation: treat black people like shit. Its a generational thing that will be eradicated over time. Eventually. Except its hard to believe people, like this new Jon, when they tell you youre pretty for a black girl, which may seem like a compliment, much in the same way youre pretty for something that typically isnt, like a monkey or the Elephant Man would seem like one. And you cant trust people who cant seem to tear their eyes away from your DD breasts, either. Justin, Julie, John x two, Jackson, probably even Jesus at this point. And Jerry. Theres too much to say about Jerry. We shared many late-night witching hours role playing over the phone our own Skinemax versions of intimacy, yet he admittedly could not imagine ever acting out these scenarios with a black girl in real life. How jacked-up is that? And thats just it: life is jacked straight-the-hell-up and there is nothing I can do about it. Its not like its broadcast across radio waves and if I dont like the song, I can just surf through the channels until something less earcrushing emits. I have to accept its jacked-upedness and get over this thing with J.
Published in Rubbertop Review: Vol. 4 (2012)