I’ve had a lot of girlfriends in my life. Each one has been extremely different from the other, but all possessing a part of my personality — mostly the parts I was too afraid to show. I was raised to be shy but was secretly funny and interesting on the inside, so I liked a girl who could pull that out of me. I liked the curvy ones who made me feel like my curves were beautiful. And I always had a simmering boldness below the surface that the right kind of lady could bring out if she cooked up a great idea, but was too scared to go through with it herself.
I have always been naturally and easily attracted to women, but desperately needed the approval of boys. The man who raised me did a great job in instilling fear upon any male who attempted to even think about dating me, so I did a lot of private ‘dating’, which is just a terrible idea for a girl as young as I was. But that’s what happens when you are raised with strict restrictions on something…
The child will always find a way to get it.
I was also raised by racists. Or at least one overt one and one ignorant one. I came home from school one day in the 6th grade; so excited that I had a new boyfriend. His name was Kenyale and he had the most beautiful smile, perfect hair and made me feel so special and pretty. He leaned outside the bus window and blew me a kiss as I walked home alone from school. I only saw this in movies. I blushed and beamed the rest of the walk home in my yellow dress with lace.
“I have a boyfriend!!!”, I squealed through the doorway as I clumsily ripped off my bookbag; giddy with excitement.
A imperious eyebrow raised when I said the name, Kenyale.
A black boy?
I was confused by the question.
Yes…?
.
No you don’t.
Kenyale and I didn’t even get to hold hands.
The range of males I’ve dated is vast. I’ve dated jocks, pretty boys, smelly grungy boys, bisexual crossdressing theatre boys, complete assholes, drummers, complete asshole drummers, closeted gay boys, complete asshole bassists, emotionally and mentally abusive boys, the shout-it-from-the rooftop lover boys, and the emotionally unavailable / cannot decode boys.
Basically, if you were a boy and paid me attention, I’d do stuff.
But I have always been very discerning with the females I was interested in. I had lots of quiet crushes on the sporty ones. I loved the fiery ones. I have always been attracted to talent and humor.
And I’m a real sucker for weird.
In middle school I had a best friend who we will call, Feathers. Feathers was the weirdest of the weird. She took the heart from the frog we dissected in 8th grade and kept it in her pocket all day. She was friends with two spirits that came to visit her when the clock showed either a 3 or an 11. We skipped science class one day just to sit in the bathroom, and I got detention but she was magically acquitted.
Feathers had long, black, straight hair to her waist. She dressed in jeans, an oversized t-shirt and Sambas every day; never showing her perfect shape. She had a gorgeous face and only wore mascara.
I was obsessed with Feathers’ handwriting. She wrote in all caps with one of those Pilot Precise pens that only the cool girls wrote with. I’d sit behind her in History and just watch her write.
We exchanged notes daily and I breathed in those perfectly formed letters, hoping that one day my practicing would pay off and I’d be able to write just like her.
She was oddly shy, but outgoing enough to draw attention to herself because of her blatant weirdness. I was a little more… this is exactly who I am and there isn’t anything secret underneath. I envied her mystery. But I made her smile and she made me laugh.
I got to take a friend to the beach every summer and this particular summer I chose Feathers. The family beach house was weird and old. There was a tiny room the size of a closet attached to the downstairs porch. It was separate from the other living quarters and was only accessible from the porch. This is where my annual friend and I would stay on these trips.
We had our own phone line and our own exit. It was perfect for a couple of deviant girls.
Feathers and I snuck out every night to hunt for boys down at the pier and it’s a wonder we didn’t get abducted or worse. We lived off of boxes of fat free Twinkies and strawberry Blow Pops because they turned your tongue a flirty shade of kiss-me-pink, and obsessed over lip gloss and hair. We staged daily photoshoots on the porch with disposable cameras, and fell in love with older boys who drove us around in their cigaretted Camaros. We made out with them on the beach during sunrises and made up the sleep getting burnt on the beach every day.
One late afternoon, the sky was misting and threatening to storm. Lots of clouds and a little wind made it a perfect day to sit on the beach and talk about lip gloss and boys. We were sitting up on the backshore, and down by the surf we noticed a family with a litter of kittens. We saw two drunk parents in lounge chairs and a couple of kids splashing in the water.
And we saw them tossing the kittens into the ocean. One by one, they would grab one and chuck it into a wave like tiny footballs with legs. And each time, the kitten would get washed ashore and they’d do it again. Never checking the kittens for aliveness, they treated these creatures like they were in a batting cage.
This family gave off the presence that they were not the kind of people who would take kindly to a couple of girls approaching them and correcting their behavior. But Feathers and I were furious; minds racing. I was taught never to approach or correct an adult and always respect my elders. And Feathers was shy with new people. But I knew I had to dig down and tap into that simmering boldness.
I started walking the way of the tide in hopes to catch one — or several — of these drowning kittens as the current brought them my way. And as I was almost to the water, I saw the tiniest yellow tabby stumbling my way.
I ran towards it, scooped it under my Abbey Road t-shirt and ordered Feathers to RUN!
We ran to the house and put the little kitty in the kitchen sink and started to clean it up. Shaking, soaked in layers of sand, eyes taped shut by infection, bloated belly on an otherwise waify frame; this kitten was dying before our eyes.
This kitten would have died that day. And all its brothers and sisters were out there dying in that ocean. The guilt of only saving one was quickly stifled by the desperate need to get this animal to a vet.
They cleaned her up and gave us some medicine and we nursed and loved that kitty to health and comfort.
We named her Sandy.
Sandy lived a very long life and loved resting in the napkin basket.
Or any basket.
Feathers and I grew apart and I haven’t thought of her in years. But I did think of Sandy as I drifted off to sleep last night. I thought about how proud I am, still, that I was with Feathers that day so I could have found that part of me to step up and steal a cat that needed to be stolen.
To all the women in my life — both female and feline — I have learned so much from you about all the different parts that make up who I am.
And to all the women who are still trying to figure out who you are — be patient, my love. You are so many things. Just keep collecting people along the way to bring them out of you.
xo
I don’t even know what to say about this mashup of sisterhood and kitten horror except those people should not be alive and three cheers for women who share themselves with us and make us brighter.
I loved reading this story so much. The way you described your friend (I wonder what she’s up to now!) and the day on the beach felt like scenes from a novel!
But my heart really broke for those other little kitties. That’s so awful. I’m so glad you were able to save Sandy.
(Also, that vintage bottle of seltzer in one of the photos really transported me back in time!!)