1 In the tale of Persephone which should be read as an argument between the mother and the lover-- the daughter is just meat. --Louise Glück, "Persephone the Wanderer" why did i do it? why did i lie? everyone wants me to blame religion, my mother, the country in flames behind us, but i was not an unhappy child. we danced and colored and folded little paper boats to float in the bathtub. we tried our best and locked the doors and installed sensors in the windows. if i am to blame, it is only because i was forever curious, forever climbing onto the sill to peer out the locked window at the lives continuing outside. i was not unhappy, only restless. only hungry to know what we were trying to keep out. it was i who opened the doors, the windows. it was i who let him into the house. BAD GIRL all the aunties in the neighborhood love to remember that i was a sweet kid laughing & dimpled & affectionate & these reveries always end with a sigh as they look at me now, sixteen & what they call, sorrowfully, boy crazy but ever since i was small i've wanted to be loved when it was the aunties i'd reach for to be embraced, to be kissed, it was fine but ever since i was small i would lock eyes with boys on passing buses, in passing cars & wonder if i could make them love me though all my life, mama has taken great care to make sure i never find out MY NAME it all started when a boy whose name i wish i did not remember he & his family long since returned to sudan told a lie that begat another that begat several more & in the eye of that storm hissed my name samira the littlest exaggeration, intended, i'm sure, to be harmless to get his friends to stop laughing at his inexperience his chest puffed out, an untruth forming between his teeth the insistence that he had, that he does. with who? they mocked. samira we liked each other, passed notes back & forth at sunday arabic school, glanced shyly over at each other at eid gatherings, our hands brushing once at an iftar buffet but nothing more. we barely spoke. never touched. but still samira & now he's long gone, years since the story took root & poisoned my name, so long ago that people barely remember the lie itself, the story, only the feeling they get when they look at me, the disgust, the reproach, embarrassment on behalf of my mother, & also something darker, something gleeful & carnivorous, sinking into my name, my reputation & drawing blood, teeth wet & red & shining samira Excerpted from Bright Red Fruit by Safia Elhillo All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
