I thought I’d be smited, right then and there
The red gravel spilling into the dugout
Was now plastic aquarium rocks
I was in a bowl, drowning underwater
It felt like drowning a lot of the time I was out there
Mostly because I was easily distracted and couldn’t play softball for shit
When Paige kissed me, I cried
Now, those pieces of red dirt
were a hellfire beneath me.
My religious upbringing was the kind that’s secretly stifling. The kind that permeates so deep that to act against it is to act against yourself.
This generational inherited catholic guilt.
The idea that I should be unimportant and unassuming and sinning was important in a bad way.
I knew I would only get one trip to the bathroom per service, I planned it carefully each week
So that it would take the most time
So I could stand in the great hall and twiddle my thumbs
As we were forbidden to re-enter the chapel while the father was speaking
I am forbidden from many things as a child.
I’m forbidden from tears as if I’m not important enough to have them.
I am not stone and my tears are not blood. I am not a miracle. I am not a sight to behold. I am not a message from god.
I am not the prophetic Virgin Mary in my mother’s dreams the night a relative passes.
I am not allowed to love without meaning.
When Paige kissed me I cried.
I had to tell everyone in t-ball that I was 5 when I was only 4 because my mother wanted me to start a year early.
I hid the sign up forms they gave us at school each year, but my mom would register me in person.
Every year she’d tell me, just one more year, this can be the last one.
This went on for nine years.
After I made my first communion. I asked to quit
I had to study five more years to make my confirmation sacrament, effectively promising I’d stay in the church,
before my mother would let me leave.
The irony was lost on her.
When Paige kissed me I cried.
What a cruel way to hurt someone. This was worse than the tripping, the taunting, the terrorizing.
Her tenderness.
I often wondered why she treated me as she did—I was already an ugly duckling, a left fielder, a loser.
Her mom was the coach, and she was the best on the team. They all listened to her, which meant they all hated me.
She’d call me a dyke and pull my hair.
When paige kissed me, I cried
Why couldn’t it have been anyone else, why not natalie johnston
I never told anyone else, I decided it wasn’t my secret to share.
But I am tired of keeping secrets of what people who hate me did to my body.
Retrospectively, it’s easy to try to be flattered. I’m sure it was hard and weird for her to have those feelings.
I’m sure she expressed them as well as she could.
But I didn’t want Paige to kiss me.
I WANTED Paige to stop calling me a dyke.
I wanted her get hit in the face with a softball
and I wanted it to shove her nose into her brain.
And I wanted her to die.
And
I prayed for her to die.