Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Marked IV: Baby Daddy Drama
I felt dizzy, reflexively I reached behind me and my hand steadied me against a massive rock. I sunk into it. More than anything I wanted to be agile and mighty, that's who I am, not this girl whose knees have betrayed her, a girl captive of a phantom who says she knows my mother, my father and my destiny.
She started to speak. I glared. She paused but not long.
“Alright, girlie. Clearly we aren't going to be fast friends but it's not imperative that we are. We're here so you can step up and join the ranks. You're not in the Order by happenstance. Your parents made a decision and you're stuck with it whether you like or not. Speaking of parents, let's start with them. You really don't know them. Who shall we begin with, your mother or your father?”
“My father.” Shyte, did I just blurt that out? I'm sure she knows my mother left us but does she know how much I resent her for it? Did I just reveal it?
“Alright. Your father it is. Your father's tribe as you know are the Rubbas, working class people who do menial technology work in the idiot chip factories or worse work in textile sweat shops. What you don't know is that your father's father and mother were not cows who chewed their gruel willingly. Your grandfather was a union man. Your grandmother supported his effort to improve workers' rights. I don't have explain to you how that made your grandparents different. Women lead. Men support their women not the other way around.
Anyhoo, your father, too, rejected the status quo. He had no intention of spending forty years in a factory assembling chips to numb his people more than they already were if that's possible. Your father worked hard in school and earned one of the few coveted spots for worker children to enter University. He organized campus sit-ins and was active in the Men's Movement. Your father met your mother at University. She was a third-year. She saw him the first time passing out fliers about an upcoming Men's Movement meeting. At the time your mother wasn't political. She didn't give a rat's butt about activism of any kind. She was just a young, privileged girl attending school to keep her parents at bay while she figured out how to blow out of her comfortable, boring life and explore worlds beyond Terra Heaven. But your father, he was beautiful. He had long dark hair, pulled back and knotted with three rings, as the tradition among Rubbas. Nothing wrong with a little distraction while she was stuck in Terra, she thought.
Back to your father, he passed her one of his fliers without so much as making eye contact. He was weary of women. He resented how most of them sized him up. He decided early on he would not be seduced by some woman's promises of a good life raising her children and being taken care. Yeah, right. And your mother was clearly middle-class; while he knew his cause needed them as allies he was even more suspicious of their women.
"Ah, now I see we are gaining some traction here."
Crap, caught again wearing my feelings on my sleeve. I batted my eyes furiously for being caught giving her my full attention.
“There is more but I'm hungry. We'll stop for now and get something to eat.”
“Really? Where? Are we going to rummage through garbage for our supper? Oh, wait, we're in the middle of nowhere. There's nothing to rummage through!”
“Don't be a smartass. We're going to hunt. You do know how to hunt, right?”
She can't keep that blade always strapped to her. When I have the chance sans the blade, I'm going to slap the wench.
"Of course I can hunt. I am part of the Order."
She looked behind her, “Well, you coming?”
Every week Thom posts 3 words. This week: imperative, garbage, traction. Join us.