I'm With the Banned

This story contains leftist political hot-buttons. Do not proceed if you are easily offended.

“Do you promise you won’t leave me?”

“Baby, how many times I gotta say it?”

“More times than you have.”

“I promise. I’m not going to leave you.”

“It’s just…everyone I’ve ever loved has left.”

“I am not everyone.”

“And if we do this…”

“Ssshhh…you talk too much.”

“Just, go slow, ‘kay?”

“You got nothing to fear.”

-----

“And you met him, where?”

“At the dugout…”

“I mean, where, the first time?”

“Online.”

“Where online?”

“CuddlesClub. He said he was fifteen though…”

“And how long had you chatted with him, before…”

“Two months, maybe?”

“And when you met him…”

“He could have been fifteen, maybe.”

“But he wasn’t. You knew this, right?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know this?”

“Just the way you know things.”

-----

“But she’s only twelve."

“The State does not give her permission.”

“She was raped.”

“Better than being a murderer.”

-----

Noam is playing with blocks on the floor. He uses them not only to build, but to spell. His latest word is “dim”; his phrase: We are a dim lot. Noam is going on four.

Naomi and I are cuddling on the torn loveseat. She entered my life when Noam was born. I am sixteen now; Naomi is nineteen. Naomi named him Noam, said it was a good name, said it meant “pleasantness” and that Noam Chomsky said we are born with “innate linguistic aptitude.”

“It’s a silent ‘fuck you’ to the suppression from the State,” she told me.

I didn’t get it at all then. I get it a bit more, now.

Naomi kisses my cheek, and hums Jack Johnson: …it’s so much better when we’re together.

-----

We are huddled in the shanty. The rain has finally stopped, so Naomi has gone out looking for food. So long as she stays to the alleys, she should be fine. Better food there, anyhow. Lots of restaurants; lots of waste. Last week her foraging yielded an unopened bag of pre-cooked, deveined, tail-removed shrimp. Noam found it delightful.

I was twelve when my parents were imprisoned. My father’d called the judge a sick beast and away they went, both of them. I was sitting behind them with some person in a white robe.

Now now, she tapped my knee. Now now.

I was fat with child and my back hurt. Heavily medicated, I haven’t much memory of those times. Naomi says there’s much we are not allowed to do. Being together is one of them.

“What happens if they find us together?”

“Just stick to the script.”

But Naomi is white, which is also a problem.

“Who’ll believe we’re sisters, Naomi? You’re white and I’m…”

Naomi just kisses me then. It is a hard kiss. Passionate. She grips the nape of my neck and puts her forehead to mine. “Sweet angel, I do so love you.”

-----

At four, Noam is still a thumb sucker. Despite our attempts at potty training he still has to wear diapers, and still Noam cannot speak intelligible words. His block spelling has plateaued. While we have no reliable source for nutrition, Naomi is resourceful and provides our RDA of the necessary food groups but still Noam’s eyes are jaundiced, his gums are bleeding, his skin is scaly. He’s been given to highs of rage and lows of slurping depression. He's pulled out most of his hair; his fingertips and nails are nubbbed from scratching our earthen floor. I’ve tried to love on him —we both have— and sometimes he’ll relent but more often he’ll gnash and growl.

“What do you think the problem is, Naomi?”

“How well did you know his father?”

-----

It was on one of her last forays that Naomi returned with books. “I found them in the dumpster,” she exclaimed delightedly, “all brand new.”

Governor DeSatanist. We both knew it, but we dared not speak of it, FOR JESUS CHRIST HATH DECREED THAT the right the abort, the right same sex, the right to read, THE RIGHT TO EXPLORE OPTIONS are no longer rights, but SINS, all in the names of murder! defilement! propaganda!

“Oh, Naomi, what beautiful treasures. The Giving Tree. What in the world?”

“Sexist.”

“Exploring Civil Rights: The Movement.”

“Racially motivated.”

“Bridge to Terabithia? I loved this book.

“Promoting the occult.”

“Where the Wild Things Are.”

“Again. Too demonic, they say.”

“All of these were tossed? The Outsiders (too violent!), To Kill a Mockingbird (too mature!)…oh, I love this one but never heard of it: My Moms Love Me.”

We both looked down at our four-year-old, teething on a sandal.

-----

There is heavy foot traffic outside our tin-roofed shanty. They are marching in unison. Regimental, a tap-tap on the door: big bad white men instilling fear in two biracial dykes and a bastard invalid. We know why they are here. Surprised it took them so long.

The walls of our shanty are now lined with books: banned books, we assume, for they’d all been discarded. Several months ago, we’d opened our doors for exploration, purely word of mouth quite naturally as we —Naomi and I, and Noam— are not known to exist, not any longer. (For it’s been assumed, we assume, that we were wiped clean during the last fumigation, we fitting all their criteria of filth, after all.) Prior to finding us, our people had been fed the The History You Need to Know twenty-volume series; The Jesus Christ Giver’s Guide: How to be a Good Citizen; and The Lives of Hunter and Paisley five-volume series (Birth-Elementary Homeschool; Homeschool in the Neighborhood; College is not Necessary; Adulting with People Like You; Growing Old Quietly and Respectfully).

For the past several months, though, we’ve allowed our people to travel, to read with delight words that are actually said, emotions that are actually felt. Our people have been able to find comfort in words, healing words, words that have allowed them to transcend the NORM and to explore the lives of others, the majesty of foreign lands without the privilege of escape from this, our "home of the free because of the brave," words and emotions that are now SINS because…because…

is there one right answer here?

Because independent thought is treachery. An enemy of progress.

Because “who controls the past controls the future, and who controls the present controls the past.” Because “the best books are those that tell you what you already know.”

Orwell, too, has been banned, of course. But we have him in our library.

Had, for we have been discovered.

-----

We are not going to be stoned, or burned like witches. We are not going to the rack or the gallows, or the chair. We are not going to be strapped to a gurney and punctured with needles. We are not going to be shot, or even gassed.

Our “fumigation” is the now-proverbial Jim Jones’ Drinking the Kool-Aid, though still we get to live, very much like the donkeys at the end of Pinocchio, also banned for its debauchery on Pleasure Island: as sheep in the fields, after the surgeries are complete, we shall follow without question, we shall bleat unintelligibly, we shall chew the cud from dawn ‘til dusk with those indistinguishable from ourselves.

We shall cause no further problems. We shall be obedient.