Cowards Among Us

It was nearing midnight when I huddled close to my cousins in the dark of the room, looking up at my sister, Aniya’s, penlight lit face as she told us a story of people who camped out in the woods on a full moon, never to return to recount the tale themselves.

She lowered her voice to a whisper as she leaned in and we mirrored her, wanting to know what the sole survivor of that hellish night had said before he wandered off, never to be seen again “Hell is empty, all the devils a’– RRRAAHHHH!”. The jump scare had us screaming at the top of our lungs, a tangle of limbs trying to unravel itself to outrun the monster that would otherwise inevitably engulf us in its madness. Or at least, that’s what I imagined lurching at us from the corner of the room. It was Bloody Mary without the name or chant and thus even more terrifying. Someone flicked a switch, illuminating the room in a warm glow and pitchy, frantic screams abruptly came to a standstill, erupting into a mass of giggles and laughter only a moment later with our heartbeats still booming in our ears.

One of the most rewarding gifts of being a child is perhaps the active imagination that comes with it. It’s fearless and knows no bounds. How can you ever possibly feel lonely when you’re constantly in the company of a friend that lets you jump off a roof and doesn’t let you fall? It just gives you wings.

A few days later as I sat with my mum in a booth of the diner two blocks from our house, I assembled my army of salt and pepper shakers and other condiments clustered together on the table. The pepper shaker being the villain, several packets of ketchup its victims, while the salt shaker, the valiant knight that saves the day. As the scene unfolded, Mr. Pepper acted cruel towards the innocent and vulnerable wrappers of sweetness, calling them names, towering over them, even trampling them, simply because he could. And because he was bigger. The faultless bystanders, respected Ms. Mustard, Mrs. Hot sauce, and Mr. Soy sauce, were powerless to stop the wickedness happening right before their eyes even when they stood taller than Mr. Pepper. It didn’t take long for Salt the valiant to come and defeat the evil with a single stroke of blinding light. Shame forced the miscreant’s head to hang in shame and those that were powerless to stop him, finally applauded the valor of the one who did what they could not.

In all fairness, the courageous tale of Salt the valiant was partly inspired by an older cousin, who lived a little farther away from us, a mere twenty-minute drive. On one of our occasional family picnics, I had watched him call out a man yelling at a kid picking up litter from the crease of the sidewalk to not go anywhere near his car. The clueless kid looked close to tears and said cousin had casually approached the man and I had watched with engrossed admiration as his initial annoyance turned to a hearty laugh by the end of their conversation. He had managed to not only stop the horrendous castigation but had also turned his sour mood to a lighthearted one. What a hero!

I grew up fascinated – fascinated by my uncle; a man of such prestigious and noble family values. Dad’s childhood friend who always talked about just how much he cherished their friendship, his loyalty was admirable. Mum’s friend who adored us and brought with her little care packages of sweet-smelling lotions, and pretty clothes that were somehow always a size too small, but it’s the sentiment that counts, right? Then there was the kind looking owner of the grocery store; his shop an embellished extension of himself, adorned with posters of quotes that preached equality and love for all. But the one I held the greatest regard for was my science teacher. He was brilliant at his job, and sometimes when we were done with our lesson for the day with still a few minutes to spare till the bell chimed, he would tell us just how much he thought of us as his own children, and in light of that he could not bar himself from doing his part and making sure we grew up to be civil people. In the gentlest of tones, we would learn how important it was to be respectful, and abide by rules, because they were there for a reason. Another day of another handful of spare moments would bring yet another bundle of wise gems.

I continued being fascinated until my limbs started lengthening and my face began to change and with it my mind’s eye – until I started growing into my own, until word-of-mouth just wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t good enough not because I believed I knew everything there was to know, but because I could now see loops and holes where there used to be shiny corkscrews. I was coming to realize that even though I didn’t know what lay behind the curtain, I knew the truth of it wasn’t what I was constantly being told it was. I would catch glimpses of something that was unashamed to stand out, and untethered hands would constantly shroud it from my eyes or tell me that I had imagined it. Trust was expected from me in return for omitted lies. The consequent frustration and distrust awarded me the label of a rebel. A moody teenager. Stubborn. Disrespectful.

As time went on running laps around the sun, I was no longer disallowed to be in the same room when “adults were talking”. Even if there was no unequivocal invitation, there seemed to a silent agreement that I be exposed to, what the self-proclaimed wise ones liked to call, the realities of practical life. Thing is, it never came crashing down. There is no grand awakening when you’ve always known of something being there, even when you didn’t have a string to connect the dots with. It existed in my life like a slow poison that laced every morsel I had eaten, every breath I had taken and every step I had walked.

Cleaning out the attic one day, I pulled out an old cardboard box and found old gifts from mum’s friend that I never got to use. I remembered I had grown before I could get the chance to use them. I raced down the stairs and showed it to my sister, how small the clothes were, how I would have liked to have worn them, how nice it was of mum’s friend to always bring us something. The moment those words left my mouth, Aniya scoffed. Still fuzzy with nostalgia and a smile dancing on my lips I asked “What?”

“Do you really believe she was sweet?”

I had never thought of her any other way. The question itself sounded absurd. “Of course, I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

Aniya sighed “She brought those clothes because she thought we were too fat. It was a pretty incentive. Have you never wondered why they were always two sizes too small?”

“No way! Why would you think that? It’s not like we were with her to be sized up when she used to buy them” I laughed “besides, if that were the case, then what about the other stuff that used to come with? What were they supposed to lipo us?”

“What other stuff? The bleach creams?”

I balked then. “Bleach creams?! You’re really making all of this up now. They were just sweet-smelling lotions”

“Ask mum then” she said, clearly exasperated with my sluggish acceptance of a truth she had grown wary of “To her, we were too fat and too dark to be pretty. So, she was “helping”. I’m pretty sure she believed she was going above and beyond in her affection for us”

I walked out of her room and headed straight to mine. I didn’t need my mother to confirm anything. Aniya had ripped off a band-aid. The older woman’s constant insistence for us to get out of the sun while we played tag lest we become darker, her singing praises of her nieces who were slender and delicate, “how girls should be” she’d say. This wasn’t the straw that broke my back, it just made me aware that there were far too many that I had been carrying all my life.

I don’t recall a timeline; what came before or after the other. A couple years into adulthood and I merely stopped caring if the dance had reached its conclusion or not, forcing myself to step behind the curtain. I looked at them and saw through them. The older cousin I had admired for his chivalry had watched his older brother beat his wife to a pulp and said nothing, done nothing. With wise words still preaching the language of parity in his grocery store, the man had disowned his daughter for falling in love with a man of a different cultural background. My old science teacher had humiliated and shamed his goddaughter for wanting to leave an abusive relationship, even as she sobbed and told him that her partner, at the time, had threatened to kill her and when it came to violence, he kept his promises. They were but a few threads of a fabric out of which, I realized, my world was made out of.

It would be nice to say I was enraged and set to charge at them. A single stroke of blinding light. Truth be told, I was terrified. This is what I had been surrounded by. My entire life was bordered by them. People I had believed I could trust to have my back would be the ones to push me into a monster’s cage, and they wouldn’t just look away, they would first make sure the lock would hold.

There’s this thing about fear. It’s a creature bound to evolve; into paranoia or cynicism, desperation or hopelessness. But if you take the reins, anger and courage. But something had to give, because it held me in its grip like a vice. If boogeymen lingered under our beds, I would have reached out to them to feel safe, for at least they commanded retribution only for those who had done wrong.

“It is what it is” yet another untethered voice sounded “let’s not interfere where it’s not our place to”

“It is what it is? She just hit her kid. He’s two! A baby!” I snapped “I can’t just sit here and watch it happen knowing too damn well it will keep happening”

“Then don’t watch!”

I finally saw what they were, really saw them; just how small, how pathetic, how lonely, deathly afraid to be left out if they refused to raise their hand in salute, or didn’t look the other way, along with everyone else; Cowards.

To unlearn all that had moulded their person would have taken courage, but dastardliness was convenient, and so they stayed with it. Pretty in yellow, they would cop out with such nonchalance; "just a product of their time". As if they weren't living still. As if this wasn't their time too.

Not many things happen overnight. You can’t wake up one morning and be magically healed from wounds that have been festering for years on end. But this one epiphany broke the spell, freeing me from the clutches of a familiar, dull dread. Not long after, I became what I’d hoped I would with the likes of such wimps; a pariah, someone they turned up their noses at, someone they hated for holding up a mirror instead of a curtain; I stopped pretending to find humor in their jokes about women being dumb, instead asking them to explain it and watched them scramble to make it sound anything but drivel glazed chauvinism.

They chided me for calling one of our family friends a racist for mocking a dark skinned gentleman, being fully aware that he could hear them. And so I made sure he heard me speaking up against it as well. I walked away from them then and rounded a corner. I don't know if he had waited and hoped I would walk by, or if he had always planned to be there before dross was thrown his way. But he thanked me the moment he saw me, and I burst into tears. Despite thousands of thoughts speeding through my mind in that moment, the only response I could manage to get out was, "I'm so sorry".

Some grow up to be men, and others remain boys, regardless of the abundance of years they might have under their belt. And until they have worked to be grown, they don't deserve to have a partner, a family, anyone who might rely on them for safety, for peace, for love. Here it was; another shiner no one particularly appreciated to hear.

My favourite would probably have to be the time I got labeled "Man-killer" because I dared say some women should not have been mothers if they weren't going to let their sons cry or express what hurt them, that men were no less human in their feelings and deserved compassion and understanding, rather than an imposition of empty aggression. I flat out laughed when they gasped and branded me with their choice of words. If they had pearls on, I'm sure they would have clutched them.

As peachy as tales of grit we had grown up with been, there was no applause for someone doing what others chose not to - not that it was ever expected or wanted - because, to a coward, one who makes moves against an evil they have contributed to simply with their indifference, isn’t a hero but a villain.

Life often tends not to be a suave tale of vanquished wickedness, defeated once and never to be seen again, especially not when they’re your blood. But I’ve taken the reins now. Hell is empty, all the devils are here. And I’m not afraid.