Translations

I looked up a phrase in Spanish recently: Si me toca, se mato. Translation: If you touch me, I kill you.

No more sweet and nice with these people who assume they have the right to my time and presence. It’s never worth the stress and irritation. A boatyard guard slides around a corner toward Habibi. I pretend I don’t see him and abandon my paintings, pissed. I’m wearing headphones, so also pretend I don’t hear his “¡Amiga!” I am not your friend, slimy man.

On the beach, a shell picker approaches from afar. I had been enjoying the lovely not-too-hot sun and soft breeze on my bikini’d Bod while pushing the bike west after bodysurfing. I stop and don a t-shirt. Its repellent effect is minimal. “Hola,” he says, and I ignore him until he trudges away.

Why are men able to swan around in bathing suits unmolested? Maybe I should start approaching them…

Maybe I’m misanthropic. Maybe I need boundary practice. Maybe I need a burqa. Maybe I simply want to enjoy this world—by myself—in whatever I happen to be wearing.

I, too, have ogled particularly fine human specimens, but I rarely approach them. Well, there was the hula-hooper in Redondo Beach… and the hydro-foiler in Kekaha…

Hmh. Maybe there is a lesson here. Sexism ain’t dead? Don’t wear colorful clothes? Carry a knife? Unfettered freedom is impossible? It’s an overly-populated planet?

I memorize the translated phrase—si me toca, se mato—and channel Red Sonja, Maleficent, and Mrs. Peel. I am prepared. Sad, but prepared. Angry, and prepared.

Enough. I am allowed to be me. All the time. I am here.

Anger translates to energy, which translates to self-care. Amiga verdadera: a true friend.

A song erupts from my laptop, confusing the issue. “Déjate Amar.” Translation: Let Yourself Be Loved.

I’m trying.

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Bookshelf:
Romy & Julio
Diary of a Reluctant Traveler
Sea Change: stories & splashes
Shoulds are for Saints: the true life adventures of Suzy Le Speed
Dance First …ask questions later: poems & paintings