The wine: Pinot Grigio, over ice, with raspberries. Light, white, and priced right.
The music: Before You Accuse Me (Take a Look at Yourself) and Layla, Eric Clapton (unplugged versions, Clapton Chronicles)
She was angry when she hit the door. I was only in the way, the latest in a string of people in her day who had let her down. Brother upstairs, crazy brother, lazy brother, the one in the window who pretends he doesn't hear the doorbell when it rings. She had to interrupt herself, and who wants to do that? Damn, here comes another one. 'Nother damn do-gooder, smiling the "I'm here to help you" smile, small in those khakis, 5'5" of uppity white girl ass and here she comes, askin' questions.
Sometimes all you have to do is walk in the room, and breathe, to be considered a threat. I have made this mistake so many times, walking in rooms, and breathing. Oh, and here's a tip. Explaining that you are a doctor of your profession, and need to take a thorough history to treat the patient properly, will not help your case. It will not calm people down when they hate you on sight. When she said she was going to call my supervisor and report me, I dialed the number myself and handed her the phone.
In fencing, before the first en guarde, you take off your mask so your opponent can see your eyes. You look at each other, then you salute, bell guard to forehead and slash to the side. You honor each other before you kill each other. I like that. She never took off her mask. I suppose I didn't either. Not really. Doctor is a mask. White is mask. Thinner and smaller and whiter and more educated than you? That's a mask too.
Tomorrow I fence. Tomorrow I put on my fencing whites, my body cord, my glove, my beloved mask that covers my whole head and makes me anonymous and not small and not female and not white and not anything but a fencer with my weapon to my forehead, ready to honor you, ready to challenge you, ready to win. Ready to defend myself with everything I have, including my wits and my speed and my agility and my strength. And it is relaxing like nothing else, except maybe writing, because you would expect nothing less, because you are the same, under your mask.
sitting here with tears in my eyes...why is this touching me so deeply? The idea of the many masks we wear is landing on my heart heavily I guess. My own masks and the ones that I see my children wear. Wondering if they will serve them well or hinder the ability to love the You that is perfectly imperfect. It's taken a lot of work to remove many of the masks I have worn over the years and feel I am more authentic than I've ever been...but in this moment, realizing that there is so much more work to do and maybe even the act of the work is a mask in itself...covering the fact that I may really not ever get it...that I may never really be happy with, love, or have compassion for the perfectly imperfect me...or you.
ReplyDeleteI like the choice of Before You Accuse Me (Take a Look at Yourself), but as I read this post I heard Losing My Religion. If I were in a similar situation I would walk away long before I'd ever take off my mask, and I would tell you it's the logical thing to do. Not only that, I'd believe it.
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