When myth meets reality, and neither one offers protection, it is time for a rewrite.
By Alexis Haynie (Writer, Actor, Scholar)
My mother has mainly existed as a myth in my memory. Immortal and without flaw. A life too big to be confined by death. Strong. Driven. Living with sickle cell disease but never suffering from it, of course. She married my father. She separated from my father. She bought her own house and her own car. But even more important than being independent and battling a chronic illness—she birthed two daughters. Because every great myth needs a miraculous birth. The doctors, not to be mistaken for the daytime talk show hosts, warned her against childbirth. She didn’t listen.
She grew two humans in a body that was self-destructing because she knew her mission was to deliver the tiny humans into the world—even if it meant dying in the process. She knew she would never live to witness the trajectory of their lives and the fulfillment of their personal missions. Her death would come before her existence could concretize in their memories. But that would be enough.
The myth would be enough.
At age 16, standing at 5’ 1”, weighing 115 lbs., and marching in the safety of the myth of my mother’s kinda-martyrdom, I was convinced that I was invincible. But when I moved to New York my aunt warned me not to wear both headphones when walking down the street. My cousin gave me mace. My friends insisted on waiting for me at the bus stop. Everyone seemed so concerned but I couldn’t figure out
What was everyone so afraid of?
I didn’t know anything about fear. I knew about fighting. I had nothing to lose but a fight.I never imagined I might lose control of my body. My life. Mythology has that power. It has the power to give displaced histories—place. To make magic of the mundane. To give life to the lost. To give little girls mothers made of metaphor and symbolism that could still tuck them in at night. And chase away the monsters.
Except, some monsters are realer than others. I used to think I could fight them. I was so confident that I thought I could teach a class on it.I would walk around with my keys between my fingers, a fuck you on my face, and my mother’s myth in my spine reminding me that I was here for a reason.
I guess it was when all of my guards were down that a boyfriend wrapped his hands around my throat and forced me to realize it is much harder to fight without air. Ah, bittersweet mortality. Now if I wasn’t invincible, how would I ever be safe?
If my mother’s myth meant nothing, if the body that she forged inside of her own battleground would not be immune to violence, if violence were to be aimed at this body precisely because it was forged “girl,” because it was forged “black,” because it was forged all honeysuckle and wild garden fairy…
A woman whose name went unreported was found with her throat slashed in 2014 a few blocks away from my school. It was my mother’s birthday.There wasn’t a story I could tell to heal her.
Jessica Hampton was stabbed to death on Chicago’s Red Line while bystanders looked on, many capturing video of her attack, nobody helping her. There wasn’t a book I could read to imagine standing in their shoes ignoring my sister’s screams.
And today, while the good ol’ USA celebrated freedom, a young white man with blond hair and a frat boy aura walked past me wearing this shirt
I laughed. Silly boy. Doesn’t he know none of the spaces are safe? Doesn’t he know safety is the myth that was slaughtered at the altar?
We are becoming our own mothers. We are birthing new myths. New miracles. The babies will have pistols in their spines and razor blades in their teeth. Their bodies will be doused in both blood and gasoline. They will be flame and firework. They will not be confined by life or death. The myths will not be confined to language.
ALEXIS HAYNIE is a college student, writer, and feminist, from Arlington, TX who moved to NYC in search of a word. She hopes to spend her entire life searchingfor it.
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