(The) Angel was a Devil

Shame is tiring.

And as much as we can tell ourselves it is not ours to feel, there is an entire world and its finger shaking (visible; invisible) to make us flush with it so.

(pause)

I am not bad for not wanting a ring on my finger.

Many years ago, I had a ring made to match that of a ring I saw on Alan Cumming: a two finger, thin metal ring.  A slender, stylized nod to brass knuckles.

The ring was a gift to myself when I reached the age that people start pressuring you to marry, and inquiring why you have not yet done so.

The artist let me cut the metal for it in his shop. It fits over and connects my ring and middle fingers: a marriage I understand.  Such codes these wedding rings are.  A glance at a ring finger can tell you something and nothing all at once:  Upon a seeing my left hand, I wanted them to be taken aback or slightly frightened before they thought to inquire.

(pause)

When I was 15, I read Emma Goldman's essay, "Marriage and Love".  It supported and informed my feelings towards marriage.  As these ideas have grown and evolved to fit the world surrounding me today, it is beautiful to see that others were moved by the same words.  One of the best current essays I've read on the topic, written by Craig Willse and Dean Spade and recently updated from it's 2008 publication, begins with a quote from Goldman's original essay. You can read it, here:  Marriage Will Never Set Us Free. 

(pause)

Shame of class, race, gender, sexuality, intelligence, type of work, desire, obsession, gift, trajectory.

Ask me how I put myself through school, and I might tell you.

Ask me to tell you everything, and know that I never will.

You will have your straight back, high standards, and pride.

I will have the taste of sweat and honesty in my mouth, and the attention of wet cement in my eyes.

You will hear of me: The ash of my extinguished shames will write stories into your skin of what you could have.  There's no need to be afraid of this. It is only my existence.  I know that sometimes, the gilded window frame from which you gaze can seem the polished bars of a willingly-entered cell.

And although you don't voice your doubts (for you are encouraged not to), I can see the terror that secretly flashes in your eyes when you wonder what it is, exactly, that you have built around yourself.

--k.

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-Photo credit: Sandrine Zondervan

-A tip of the hat to Alan Cumming, Brecht, and Weill.   This is a song that plays inside of my mind at least five out of seven days of the week:   The Ballad of the Pimp

-The title of this blog entry is a reference to one sentence from the following excerpt of The Three Musketeers. This scene was referenced in a book I read, more recently, and it has served as the backdrop to my mind for the past few months and, today, the influence, inspiration, and reason for this entry.  (This is mid-scene. A woman who had been the love of a count is being described):

Her beauty was breathtaking. One day when they were out hunting, she was thrown from her horse.  While she was lying on the ground, unconscious, the count hurried to loosen her clothes- so she might breathe more easily.  He bared her shoulder. You'll never guess what was on it, D'Artagnan!"

"Then tell me," said D'Artagnan.

"The fleur-de-lis! The mark of a convicted criminal was branded on her shoulder!  The count's angel was a devil! So he tied her hands behind her back and sent her off to be hanged."

Athos buried his face in his hands.  Struck with horror, D'Artagnan could only stare at him.

The next morning, Athos told D'Artagnan, "Forget what I said last night.  When I drink too much, I tell the most ridiculous stories."

But D'Artagnan could not forget his story.