The retired naval officer who counsels
at a battered women’s shelter described
the woman who calls all the time and says
Give me shelter, then refuses to provide information
about her situation. She’ll hang up if you ask
too many questions. Sometimes before doing so
she says God Bless You. And Fuck You. The workers deduced,
from the toll-free bill, that she’s calling Washington
from Birmingham, Alabama. At a conference for domestic
violence care providers, it turned out that all Washington shelters
get calls from “The God Bless You. And Fuck You” woman.
When asked if she couldn’t be blocked out,
my friend said, We couldn’t do that. She obviously needs help.
But isn’t she faithfully echoing
what the world calls out? Who hasn’t been told
“God Bless You. And Fuck You” in the same breath?
Like the day I’d been asked to present draft changes
in the enrollment ordinance to the tribal committee . . .
I enter the room, and the chairwoman and enrollment
officer greet me soberly. As I begin to explain
each change and its possible pitfalls,
a small elder with a sweet, quiet voice
and owl-like glasses demands to know
why I am there. Haven’t we done well enough
without a white person telling us what to do?
The faces and hands of the others around the table
twitch. Hoping for support, I catch
some worried eyes, but silence is required
before an elder. Later, the enrollment officer says
I saw those words hit you--they just flattened you.
Walking back to my office after the meeting, I
pass
the custodian, who’s been out sick, sitting in his truck.
He beckons and, as I near, I smell the vague sweet
of hard alcohol. Wife’s ready to leave me
after 17 years, but it’s okay–been through
three marriages. And my best friend’s son killed himself–
girlfriend left him. 34 years old. Same age as my son.
If Eric did that, I’d follow him. But I miss
your pretty smile. I love you as a friend. Give me your hand–
I’ll pray with you. Reluctantly I turn it over to his wet kiss
and disjointed prayer. As I walk off, still too close to tears
to excuse myself, he calls God Bless You.
And so “God Bless You” and “Fuck
You” both strike me
as if at random, bullets converging on their separately envisaged
targets, the real me locked somewhere inside,
apparently invisible
through the body’s façade, but still they enter.
Now I walk around with them like a soldier
after the war who carries pieces of it in her body,
marveling that organs scarred around metal still function.
And how could this story be told without the woman
in Birmingham
encompassing both in her small, troubled mouth? To her I say thank you.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
Ann finds herself inhabiting endless conflicting
and contradictory worlds—the city and the country, queer and straight,
East Coast and West Coast, lawyers and poets, Indian reservations and
mainstream America. Her most recent internal struggle is figuring out
how to live in the 21st century without destroying nature. One of her
favorite places on Earth is the Seattle Public Library.
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