Ladies in gingham still blush
While he sings them of wars and wine
But I, in my leather and lace
I can never become that kind
I can‘t go back there anymore
You know my keys won‘t fit the door
You know my thoughts don‘t fit the man
They never can
They never can
– Joni Mitchell
I hate the word “trigger”. I hate “triggered” and “trigger warning”, too. I was the first to roll my eyes when these became common utterances from millennial mouths. Get over it, I thought. Deal with it. Grow the fuck up. Cry me a fucking river. You haven’t suffered half as much as a lot of people.
But after a year of therapy and writing about my own trauma, I know that I have PTSD from my child- and early adulthood. I am triggered, too. And now foster more empathy for people who use these phrases. I can now dissect my own and other’s behavior after the fact and readily identify the places, points, and people that transport me back to my most vulnerable, innocent self. Which happened this weekend during a family visit, our first one since Christmas 2019. The first memory is a snapshot burned into my brain, but interestingly enough, it wasn’t on my Little List of Memories as one to write about. However, it surfaced this weekend and inspired the short piece below.
He threatened to kill my dog. I am nine years old, the same age Bria is now. I walk Zinger on a rope, a husky mixed with German shepherd. His fur is brown with shades of gray. He is the only dog of my childhood and I don’t remember what happened to him, which makes me sad. His dog house sits near the back of our trailer, 14 x 70 and mint green. He spends most of his time there, tethered by a chain.
His paws are big and the tips of his ears are folded over like the corner of a page in a book. There are single-wides set diagonal to the street on each side, walkways brindled with remnants of spring snow and mud. Zinger weighs at least as much as I do. He pulls me down the street until we reach the corner. A white man opens his back trailer door, a dented piece of insulated aluminum. He stands there, pointing a shotgun at me and my dog. I freeze. Zinger does, too.
“Get that dog the hell out of here.” he said.
I do not cry. I do not run. We slowly back away.
He threatened to beat the shit out of my dog. I am 54 years old. I cook dinner for him, his wife and two children, welcome them into my home – Friedrich’s home – on their visit from Napa. I put Friedrich on a rope, my purebred Weimaraner. His fur is grey with shades of brown. He is the third dog of my adulthood and I know everything that happened to him. And Oslo, his nephew, and his brother, Mies, too. Which makes me glad. His house is my house, my house is his. He spends most of his time here, tethered to nothing. Adored in our bed, relaxed on our couch.
His paws are big and the tips of his ears flop down soft and heavy like velvet curtains on a stage. A white man opens his mouth, a stunted piece of privileged, arrogant flesh. He sits there, launching his poison at me and my dog. I get up to check on the crying six year old, the welt on his nose from Friedrich, who paws innocently – as dogs do – when he wants to play.
“Get the fuck out of here.” I said.
Take your ignorance and toxic masculinity with you. Your felony charge. Your threats and abusive bullshit, too.
I do not cry. I never run. I stand with fire in my eyes and titanium in my heart and call your bluff.
And his, and his, and his, and his, too.
Not all men, of course. But you. This house is mine and you are no longer welcome here.
Things That Nourished My Writing: June 25-July 5.
FOOD
Strawberries in the summer time.
Candied salmon from B & E Meats.
LITERARY
On Writing by Stephen King
MUSIC
PLACES
Volunteer Park where I had a lovely, maskless lunch with colleagues.
The front weight room at the Olympic Athletic Club.