Marriage and the Native Girl

The foul stench of my mother’s only daughter, her firstborn — permeates every room she walks in.

No matter how regal or fair. Even with her calm smile confronted by smirks that ravage the mirror of dignity she holds so dear.

The nature of things as it pertains to the child she reared. Like her mother before her who followed the rule book of grooming and preparatory requirements.

The girl who marries is beautiful. Yes.

Intelligent. Yes.

Industrious. Yes.

Graceful. Yes.

Maternal. Yes.

Willing to surrender to societal demands without qualms. No.

I am not my mother’s daughter.

She would’ve hung onto every word and sang every song to the Lord who blesses you with your wish for the man who will give you the respect and validity you could acquire on your own.

It’s not natural to punish your mother with the burden of your failure to love forever and conceive.

You led her astray the way you always do when the heights of normalcy overflow into gross interference.

She can’t take how I much I reek over the phone as she asks again and again with measured approach — if the bloke she envisions has met me yet.

No. This time — he is absolutely not The One.

I wanted him to be but he didn’t want Me. The time before that he couldn’t be the one because he belonged to the one he didn’t want. Some years before that I didn’t want The one because I was The One.

Time has run out.

The rotting evidence of what I’ve become can no longer be hidden under my bed. It can’t be covered up with the scent of my marginal success. It can’t be overpowered by the triumph of the brother who compensated for the pooling mess around us. It can’t be dolled up by the gorgeousness of love and adherence that flows on account of familial politeness.

The girl wants her mother to dress up in vibrant attire as she pampers her only daughter to the center — for her friends and age group — so they can sniff the fresh power of victory emanating from ceremonial beads.

She wants to hunt for goods and services for the party of their lives. To pleasure herself alone as she watches the man who will save her sleep away his chance to convince her that she doesn’t stink.

She needs to give in to the traditions that instruct mother and her girl in a dance that exposes the sacred language of a native daughter who won’t marry for the love of human decency.

We toss the rotten away so we can breathe.

So why does it still stink?

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