M.A. Melby's Blog, page 5

Curse of the New Age no. 1

“The word is discreet d-i-s-c-r-e-e-t, not discrete,” I explained, pointing at the paper with a long wooden baton.

“Are you sure?” he asked, clenching his jaw and setting his pen down on the desk. “I’m going to have to write it all over again?! Maybe nobody will notice.”

“They’ll notice,” I replied bluntly, trying to find his eyes from the other side of the desk. I had gotten accustomed to reading upside-down.

He finally looked up at me.

“Tutor. You are too cruel.”

“They will be unforgiving, so I must be, too,” I explained.

He stared down again. His face contorted. His tears fell into the wet ink that he had painstakingly and meticulously placed on the page during the good part of a day, creating blueish snowflake-like splatters where they landed.

“Please don’t be discouraged,” I said flatly.

“Don’t be discouraged?! That’s easy for you to say!” He grabbed the paper violently and squeezed it into a tiny ball. “All you do is sit there and tell me what I’ve done wrong. The only reason you were hired is because…because…”

“Because I’m the only one willing to be this close to you.”

“Get out!”

“Young master…” I started to protest.

“Get out!”

I stood up with a deep sigh, put the baton in the leather holder that hung on the back of his desk, bowed slightly, and left.

When he acted like this, I had to remind myself of why I had taken the job. It was a risk, but I was tired of being cold and hungry. I couldn’t find work. I no longer belonged. It was a new age. The empire saw me as a throwback to an earlier, less civilized, time.

The only reason I wasn’t met with open hostility was to avoid upsetting the locals, but even my own people were uncomfortable around me now. They didn’t hate me. They were simply ashamed.

They had failed me.

The new guard was not more civilized, of course. They simply had more gadgets and a few clever tricks. We didn’t stand a chance against their military, so we chose our lives over our pride. But more civilized? No, not one bit. Would a civilized people declare a human being a demon for simply being born on a particular day, under a particular confluence of stars? Would they blame a baby for killing his brother in the womb?

My life is comfortable now. I insisted on my own room and adequate privacy. I was provided clothes, food, and shelter. How could I complain?

I knew that the young master would sulk for the rest of the day. I delivered his evening meal at the scheduled time. I set the tray of food on his dining table that only seated one. I announced that his meal had arrived, and then promptly left.

I retrieved my own meal and retired to my room. I closed the door and locked it. I ate my food. I read a book. Then, I checked the window coverings, to make sure it was impossible for the other servants to take a peek. I changed into my sleeping clothes and crawled into my warm, soft bed.

And, just as I did every night, I unlocked my nightstand drawer with a key I hid in one of my books, and took out the letter, opened it, and silently read it.

“Our beautiful child, all we ask is that you live. We will be gone soon. We will not find justice in this life. Do not risk yourself in your anger. Hide. We beg you. Choose to live. Find peace in the new world, but don’t forget who you are.”

I folded it back up, put it in the drawer, locked it, and hid the key. Then, I reset the alarm mechanism on the clock at my bedside. At least, that’s what I thought I did. That’s what I did every night.

Instead of the horrible rattling of a tiny hammer being beaten against the inside of a metal bell on top of the hideous contraption I was forced to use to wake me up, I could hear Young Master yelling at me.

Was I dreaming?

“Tutor! Get up!”

I woke up startled. I sat up in my bed, holding my blankets up to my body. The letter fell onto the floor. My eyes grew wide as I slowly began to understand what was happening.

“I fell asleep…” I muttered.

I fell asleep while I was reading the letter. I never put it away. I never checked the clock to make sure it was reset.

“What are you doing in my room? How did you get in? Please leave,” I pleaded. “Please. This is inappropriate.”

“Did you forget whose house this is? I’ve been waiting for my food for hours. Don’t you understand? Nobody will bring it to me except you! I’m starving.”

“I’m sorry,” I said desperately. “I’ll bring you your breakfast as soon as I can. Now, please leave.”

And despite myself and to my deep regret, I looked down at the letter that had fallen off the bed. When I did, the young master noticed and bent over to pick it up.

“That’s private!” I yelled at him, finding my resolve. “Put it down and leave! Now!”

“You’re full of secrets, aren’t you,” he said as he stepped back so that I couldn’t reach him.

My nightclothes were much too revealing. He had me trapped, unable to move without the risk of him seeing my body.

“What is this?” he asked me, with an oddly soft tone, after reading it. “Were your parents killed during annexation? They called you a beautiful child?”

“Please, Young Master. As I said, that’s private,” I replied, still holding the blankets close to my body and starting to shake. “It’s none of your concern.”

He dropped the arm that was holding the letter, to reveal his face.

“My parents are alive, and they hate me. I have brothers and sisters. They all fear me. You’re the only one I’ve talked to in years, and I know nothing about you. All you do is point out my mistakes.”

I felt a certain amount of relief. Maybe he was too young or simply not quick enough to understand what that letter meant.

“This is inappropriate, Young Master, please. I promised your parents…”

“You promised what?” he asked angrily. “Why do they even care?”

“I promised to teach you so that you would learn skills appropriate to your station. They promised me privacy,” I answered matter-of-factly. “If they fire me or I quit, who is going to bring you your food?”

“Would you really leave me?” he asked, looking hurt and worried. “When I don’t have a tutor, they deliver the food without opening the door. I have to wait until they are far enough away to go get it. Even then, they have a difficult time finding someone willing. I don’t understand why they didn’t just kill me when I was born.”

He let the letter fall from his hand and onto the floor.

“Please, don’t hide from me,” he pleaded. “I want to know you.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. He wouldn’t be the first one to attempt to use force to see my body. I instinctively moved slightly further away from him and held the blanket close.

“Why are you afraid?” he asked, upset. “Are you afraid of my parents? Are you afraid of me like everyone else?”

Did he really simply not understand?

“You’re in my room. I’m in my sleeping clothes. The situation is uncomfortable for me,” I explained.

Realization swept over his face.

“Oh! I forgot. It’s forbidden for other people to see you, isn’t it? To see your body.”

I nodded.

“They are curious, though, aren’t they? To know if you are a man or a woman.”

“Please don’t say that. I’m Kyn.”

“Kyn? What does that even mean? If you aren’t a man or a woman, can you have children?” he asked. “Do Kyn have children?”

“Please leave. Please, I’m begging you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, picking the letter off the floor. “I was just hungry, and I waited for you for so long. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He stepped forward as if he was going to put the letter on my nightstand, but then looked perplexed suddenly and examined the letter more closely.

“Your parent’s handwriting looks a lot like yours,” he said. “Did you learn to write from them? Were they scholars, too?”

I froze for a second, but then simply nodded.

He put the letter on the nightstand. He left, closing the door behind him, and I was finally able to breathe.

2a. Burn the letter and leave.

2b. Try to keep the status quo.

2c. Become closer to the young master.

The Right Numbers

A content note and discussion, with spoilers, for this work can be found here.

The room was hot. The windows were open, but the sun had beaten down on the rectangular white-plaster encased meeting hall all day long. The warmth of bodies, the smiling children and teachers, made it hotter. Or maybe, it was just me. My skin felt clammy, but my chest was on fire. I was also dressed out-of-season. Unlike the white linen dresses of the others, I wore a cotton wrap-around shirt and loose pants.

The children standing near me, some younger and some older than me, beamed like light. The joy on their faces was unmistakable. They were all so lovely.

That morning, the teachers had found me begging in the streets.

I was a stranger, but they helped me with few reservations. Wandering orphans were not uncommon. They gave me water. They asked my name. They both seemed so nice. I thanked them sincerely.

They had asked me if I understood the importance of the numbers. They asked if I had committed myself to truth. They warned me of the catastrophe that would result from making mistakes. I smiled at them with my wet lips after drinking from the cup they handed me.

“I know very well. Truth is all that matters,” I told them. “Mistakes made unmake us. Life itself must be eternal even if our lives are short. My parents knew this. My parents taught me this. They died for truth. I will forever honor them.”

They asked me how my parents died.

I told them. I left very few details unsaid. I made sure my joy never faltered even when I admitted that I cried when I discovered my parents’ bodies.

They forgave me for my inappropriate sadness and invited me to meet the other orphans in the meeting hall for recitation later that day. I accepted, of course.

“Don’t worry,” one of them said to ease my mind, “there are more of us than them. The truth will win out.”

When I entered the hall, it seemed familiar. The teachers who had found me earlier were standing at the front. One had a guitar and the other stood behind a podium that held up an open book.

The one behind the book told the others to welcome me as I found a place to stand near the center of the room. They cheered and I smiled to acknowledge their kindness.

“Let us begin,” he said.

The other teacher started to play the memorization jingle on her guitar. I had repeated it over and over again in my head until it seemed second nature but hearing it out loud was still jarring.

The guitar player nodded her head deliberately so that everyone knew exactly when to come in. The congregation began chanting in a rhythm most of them knew well before they could speak.

“Two. Seven one. Eight. Two. Eight one.”

I could imagine they found chanting comforting. Certainly, nearly all of them had lost family in the war. Certainly, they had witnessed great suffering. Certainly, they missed those who had died. However, I knew, I knew well, that what would otherwise manifest as acute trauma and grief, was replaced, in war, with concepts of glory and righteous sacrifice. The dead were honored dead. To die was not a sorrow, if and only if, your death was meaningful. If a death was meaningful, mourning was removed and was replaced with admiration.

“Eight. Two. Eight four. Five. Nine. Zero. Four five.”

I chanted along, of course I did. I smiled as well, of course I did. I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming ecstasy as the song continued. I trembled and my voice broke. Tears welled up in my eyes and burned my cheeks as they fell. The others noticed, barely, but I knew what they were thinking. Certainly, this new girl, she is showing her devotion. How faithful she must be! How touched with passion for the truth she must be!

She is one of us.

“Two. Three. Five three. Six. Zero. Two eight.”

In their hands was the fate of all life. Their own loves. Their own lives. Their hearts and their minds. Selfish personal meaningless things, certainly. Faced with collective responsibility, the sacred truth gave them meaning and purpose.

I understood.

The belt around my waist stuck to my skin and dug into my ribs. Sweat crawled down my back. It itched. I slowly moved my hand under my shirt.

“Seven. Four. Seven one. Three. Five.”

Their voices became louder in my ears. The sounds moved into the center of my head. My mind inexplicably separated the individual utterances into separate signals layered into a cacophony. The pitch seemed higher.

But like a switch, my determination asserted itself. My own voice, that was drowned out and faltering a second ago, rang out with prominence and clarity.

“Two,” I chanted in unison with the chorus of martyrs.

“Seven!” I screamed with conviction.

The girl standing next to me appeared to slow down time itself when she heard me, but her joy never faltered, as she simultaneously chanted, “Six” with the rest of them.

She turned her head toward me. Her eyes were bright. Her hair was pulled back in a cute ponytail. Her cheeks were touched by summer. I could see a few freckles on her nose. As she spoke the number out of her mouth, her lips were tainted with a lie that she believed, wholeheartedly, was God’s Truth.

We met each other’s gaze in that beautiful moment before I did my part for the effort, and we were all turned to ash.

The Bear in the Woods

This work includes sexually explicit content, strong emotions, family estrangement, and the subject of suicide.

A discussion and a more detailed content note, with some spoilers, for this work can be found here.

For you to understand where I’ve been, I have to tell you about the man who found me.

He is incredibly large. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as big as him, ever, in my whole life. He isn’t just round, but he is round. He is tall. He is wide. He is a giant of a man.

He makes me feel small. I am not accustomed to feeling small. At first, his size and strength intimidated me. He hates that, but he can’t help it. He is just so big.

I remember the first thing he ever said to me. I’ll remember it forever.

He said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I didn’t understand why that was the first thing he said to me until I looked up at this massive man, standing over me, soaking wet in the pouring rain.

He reached out to me. I flinched.

He moved his hand away. His face was almost completely covered with long hair and a full beard, but I could see his sincerity.

“Please,” his voice trembled when he spoke to me. “Please, let me help you. You’ll die. I’m not going to hurt you. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

The moment I nodded, the moment he knew I was willing to let him touch me, he picked me up like I was a small child. Carrying me was effortless to him. I huddled in his arms to catch the tiniest bit of warmth. My skin had already gone numb in the cold rain. I was dirty. I was scared. I was ready to die. But once I was in his arms, I felt safe.

He was right. If he hadn’t helped me, I would be dead. Does that upset you?

By the time he found me, I was deep in the woods, far away from the road. I still wonder if he would have noticed me if my clothes were not white because I was lying on the ground and not moving, surrounded by brush and dead leaves.

He was true to his word. He did not hurt me. He brought me to his home, which was a small one room cabin. He set me in front of a fireplace and started a fire. He brought out a blanket for me.

“You should take off your wet clothes,” he told me, “Then, you can put the blanket around you. I’ll look away.”

I did as I was told. It was difficult to take off my clothes. The fabric stuck to my skin. My muscles were still stiff. I was disoriented. He just looked away and waited, like he said he would.

“Who are you?” he asked while his back was to me.

“I’m left for dead,” I answered.

“What do you mean? Is someone trying to kill you? Is that why you were out in the rain, in the woods?”

“No,” I answered him. “There was an accident on the road, and I slipped down a steep hill. When I tried to find the road again, I got lost.”

“Your family must be looking for you,” he said. “In the morning…”

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupted. “Thank you for saving me.”

I know. I know. You want to believe that I could have come home, that I should have come home, but I had already made my choice.

He was confused. I could tell. He didn’t understand what I meant when I said it didn’t matter. He probably thought I was too cold and upset to think straight.

Since I didn’t explain, he dropped the subject. “Let me know when you are covered up,” he told me, “Then, I’ll make some warm broth for you.”

He took care of me that night. He made sure I was fed. He washed my clothes and hung them up to dry by the fire. He created a place for me to sleep for the night with blankets and pillows.

Being in that place, with him, was very different from what I was used to. I’m sure you realize just how strange it was for me. My skin felt weird from being so cold for so long. I felt itchy and uncomfortable, but eventually I fell asleep, naked, under several blankets.

He kept the fire going all night.

He didn’t know who I was. We were strangers. I wondered what would happen to me. Would he continue to save me or not? Would he throw me out the next day or not?

My life was in his hands.

I was too ashamed to tell him the whole truth. In the morning, he asked me why we couldn’t just go into town so I could find my way home. He insisted that there must be a family waiting for me and worrying about me.

I refused to explain. I just begged him to let me stay. I cried, so he stopped asking me questions and just said yes.

Living with him was difficult. He expected me to simply know how to do things. He tried to be patient, but I could tell that sometimes he was frustrated with me.

He had to teach me everything. How to cook. How to use a broom. How to clean clothes. How to start a fire. How to use a shovel. How to harvest turnips, carrots and potatoes. How to gather wild herbs and mushrooms. How to hunt. How to clean fish and butcher rabbits.

He wondered if there was something wrong with me. How could I be so helpless? Why would someone like me stay with him instead of going back to a more comfortable life? He thought I would give up.

But after a few weeks he realized that I wasn’t going to leave, so he made a permanent place for me to sleep and surrounded it with a curtain.

I got used to the taste of the food. I got used to the blankets. I got used to my new clothes. I got used to how everything smelled. I got used to how everything felt.

I got used to everything. What, at first, seemed unbearable was eventually the everyday.

I got used to working and doing things for myself.

It just took time and practice.

I got used to him. I got used to being with him.

We had so much to talk about. I told him about you. I told him about my family and my friends. I told him about my life before he found me.

He told me about his family and friends as well. His father died in a hunting accident. His mother had passed away of illness. Very early in life, he had to work very hard. He helped build the cabin that we were living in. It had been his father’s hunting cabin. He decided to live there fulltime after his mother died. After moving, he rarely went into town. When he did, he would meet up with his old friends and go drinking.

Honestly, at first, he repulsed me. His skin is damaged by frostbite and sunburn. He is fat. He often smells bad. His breath in the morning could wilt flowers. His hands are rough with callouses. He is as hairy as a bear, on his chest, on his back, in his ears, in his nose, everywhere. He has scars from cuts and scrapes he got while hunting, farming, and building things.

He isn’t pretty. He is far from elegant.

However, the longer I am with him, the more I appreciate him and the more I find beauty in his imperfections. They represent the story of his life. They represent what he does for both of us to live. His scars are sacrifice. His callouses are hard work.

My hands became worn as well. My skin became damaged as well. Did you notice? I no longer smell of perfume. My skin is no longer soft and flawless. I got used to dirt under my fingernails. I got used to my hair being oily and tied back in a ponytail.

I became a different person.

However, I wasn’t prepared for how hard winter was. I was shocked. We had enough to eat, but we ate the same foods almost every day. It was dangerous to go into town. I felt trapped. Sometimes it was so cold that we shivered even when the fire was blazing. It was easy for us to get irritated with one another. We were so miserable.

He went out hunting one day during a cold snap. He was out for hours and came back with two rabbits. His ears, nose and cheeks were red — his fingers as well. I felt so bad for him.

I immediately took the rabbits and put them on the table. I clasped the tips of his fingers in my hands to try to warm them up.

“You aren’t used to this, are you?” he asked.

Of course, I told him I wasn’t. The harshness of the winter had taken me by surprise. He could tell I was upset.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I looked up at him to see his wind-burned face and the ice in his beard. I wanted to scream at him.

Sorry? How could he say he was sorry? He went out in the freezing cold to bring food home to us and he said he was sorry? Why? Because I didn’t have cake?

I put his ice-cold hands on either side of my face. They nearly covered my whole head. I held them there as best I could.

“Please, don’t say you’re sorry,” I told him. “It hurts me to see you suffer for my sake.”

“For your sake? I’m going to eat most of that rabbit,” he joked. He wanted to lighten the mood.

I didn’t laugh, I just said to him, “You’re ice-cold. Your fingers are ice-cold.”

To this day, I don’t know if he seriously thought I was complaining.

He looked at me like I was being silly and said, “Then why are you holding my hands up to your face?”

He started to pull away but stopped once he realized that I was trying to keep hold of him.

His hands were no longer on my face. I was holding them in front of me. That’s when I guided his hands under my coat and around my waist.

He looked confused and nervous. His hands were still so cold that his touch on my warm skin made me shudder.

“Please,” I begged him. “Please, let me keep you warm.”

I know, you don’t want to hear about this. Are you horrified? Let me make myself perfectly clear. I was the one that crossed the line first.

Up until that moment, I don’t think either of us even considered being together. That moment was a sudden realization of a deep affection that had grown over several months.

We were all alone in the woods. We didn’t need to care about what others might think. Once I made my intention clear, it was like we were at play. We were free.

I told him to lay down. I crawled up on top of him with the front of my coat open. I put my arms around his face to warm up his ears and cheeks. I rubbed my nose against his.

I couldn’t stop laughing and smiling.

He put his hands around my waist again. His hands easily fit around me. It was pleasant, even if his hands were rough. Being so close to him made me breathless and excited. We had been living alongside each other but always kept our distance until that night.

He was smiling and still looking a bit surprised. Then his expression changed again to nervousness, as he slowly moved his hands down my body. He stared at me, as if asking a question.

I nodded and closed my eyes.

Despite my anticipation, he stopped, as if using his self-control. I opened my eyes and looked at his face. He was obviously having second thoughts.

“But what is this to you?” he asked me. “Are we married? Will you stay, or will I fall in love with you, just to miss you when you leave me?”

That was what happened. I am not lying to you. The person who you see as some mindless, wild beast, stopped to protect his own heart, while I craved his body. That is the truth of us. That, that is who we are.

How do you think I responded? Do you think that I came to my senses? Do you think that I, at the very least, quit shamelessly pursuing him once he stopped?

No.

I told him the truth and begged him. I was sick of feeling alone and miserable. I wanted to feel his strength. I wanted to be close to him. I desperately wanted him to keep moving his hands down the back of me.

I’m not supposed to have those feelings, am I? I’m supposed to be the one who says no. I’m supposed to protect my virtue from the appetites of savage men. Right? Is that the story you want to tell? Is that the lie you want to believe?

I will tell you what I said. I said, “I don’t know about love. I just want to be warm. I can’t stand the cold anymore. I’m not strong like you.”

His face softened and he asked me, “But what if you regret it? I promised you, when I met you, that I wouldn’t hurt you. I keep my promises.” I tried not to seem angry, but I was. How could he not realize he was hurting me? Did I need to explain?

“Wanting you, and not having you, is painful,” I told him.

He took a deep breath and said he was sorry. He moved his arms so that his hands were no longer touching my skin. Instead, he wrapped his arms around me and held me close.

“It’s just so sudden,” he said. “I’m afraid.”

That’s the kind of man he is. He held me and comforted me. He calmed me. I fell asleep in his arms. I woke up in my own bed, but something was different. The curtain that he put up between our beds was taken down and was covering me. He had spread the curtain on top of my usual blankets.

Without the curtain, I could see across the cabin from my bed. I sat up and saw that he was butchering the rabbits.

“Good morning,” he said once he realized that I was awake. “I want to talk. I take such things very seriously.”

I just looked at the floor and nodded.

He asked me, “If you were still at home, with your family and your friends, would you pick someone like me?”

I told him the truth. “No.”

He immediately looked upset, so I clarified quickly. “Only because I would have never met someone like you. I would be a different person with a different life.”

“But is this the life you want?” he asked me. “If you had the chance, would you leave this life behind? Would you leave me behind? Please be honest with me.”

We had never had this conversation before. He asked once, a long time ago, why I didn’t go home, and I refused to answer. I wasn’t going to explain. I didn’t want him to hate you, you know. I didn’t want to upset him. I left certain parts out.

All I said was, “I made my choice. I chose you.”

Then he asked me why. Why would I choose him?

I didn’t know what else to say.

We were quiet for a moment, until he broke the silence. He was calm and resolute.

“I promise that I will treat you like family until you find someone you want to be with,” he told me. “You won’t find yourself homeless. You won’t find yourself hungry. I care about you very much. You have nothing to worry about.”

I wanted things to be like they were, when we were laughing and smiling and playing around the night before. I didn’t really understand why he was so resistant to me until he explained what he was afraid of.

“It would gut me,” he told me, practically in tears, “it would tear me in two, if we were together because you thought it was the only way you could survive. I need to make that clear. I need to tell you that. If you don’t really, truly want to be with me, please, don’t do those things.”

Even when I threw myself at him, he needed to make sure that I realized it wasn’t an obligation. He knew I was vulnerable. He knew I was alone. He protected me in every way.

Then he asked me, “Do you want me to put the curtain back up?”

“No, never,” I answered him. “Hold me tonight. I want to wake up in your arms. Please don’t turn me away. Please don’t reject me.”

Can I make this clearer to you? I begged him. I wanted him. He was the reluctant one. He was the careful one.

After that night, we slept in the same bed. He would often cradle me in his arms until I fell asleep first. I felt safe and warm, even when the wind outside was frigid and frightening.

I was the happiest I had ever been in my whole life. Does that surprise you?

At first, he was still timid. He was still fearful because he was so strong and so massive. He worried that I would get hurt, so, at first, I was the active one.

Do you understand what I mean by that? Your face is hilarious.

You see, he needed to know how much I could take and how much I wanted. I had to teach him that I wasn’t as fragile as he thought I was.

Eventually, we did away with our worries and fears all together. We started to do all sorts of things. We get quite creative.

Why are you so pale? You don’t want to hear it?

Let me tell you, he is so strong that he can hold me up while he’s standing. My legs just dangle on either side of him, or I rest my ankles on the inside of his arms. It’s amazing.

Did that make you uncomfortable?

Would you be mortified if I told you that, when he lays on top of me, I can barely breathe? Don’t worry, after a little while, he gets up on his knees and puts his hands under my hips to finish while I gasp for air.

If we time it just right, it’s spectacular. I feel like I’m flying.

Would it disgust you to know that I often get stray hairs stuck in my mouth and have to fish them out with my finger? The man is completely full of hair. It happens all the time. Occasionally, they get shoved into the back of my throat and I have to dig them out with my fingernail.

Oh sorry, should I lower my voice? Are you about to die of embarrassment?

I know that look. You want to slap me across the face. You want to beat me, but it wouldn’t be proper to do it out in the open, would it? What a disappointment I must be. How terrible for you.

I’m saying these things for your own good, mother. I want you to feel wronged, not sad. Disown me. It makes sense, doesn’t it? I have no value to you anymore. I’m ruined. I’m worthless.

Disown me.

I remember what you told me before I left. You told me that sending me away was how our family would survive. You told me that it was necessary. We had too many debts. We needed political connections. It was my duty. Everything would be fine if I just did what I was told.

How bad could it be? All I needed to do was nothing, absolutely nothing. I was pure and unspoiled. I was a valuable thing.

But now, I’m damaged merchandise, aren’t I mother?

So, just throw me away. I insist.

There will be no lies. There will be no convenient stories meant to save our family from shame. You will not blame the man who saved me for your loss. You will not make him pay for what I gave him. It was mine to give, mother!

Mine!

And listen to me very carefully. Let me make myself perfectly clear. If you do anything, anything at all, to hurt that man, I will butcher you. You think I don’t mean it? You think I don’t know how? I have learned many skills since we last met. Don’t test me, mother.

Did I make you cry? I want you to cry! I want you to be angry beyond words. Your rage is sweet. This is what I wanted all along, don’t you understand?

I am loving this!

Knowing you would suffer is the reason I threw myself down the hill. Knowing you would suffer is the reason I walked away from the road until I was so exhausted that I could barely move. Knowing you would suffer is the reason I did everything I could to be left for dead.

I never expected to survive, but I did. My new life is a gift that was given to me.

My life is mine now.

Disown me.

The legend of Joan of Arc is a horrible story full of patriarchal lies.

So, someone calling herself “James Barry” on twitter is very, very upset that the Globe Theatre is putting on a production where Joan of Arc is portrayed as non-binary.

I’ll get to that later.

First, let’s talk about history. I’m going to assume everything that James Barry said about history is true.

She mentions, as if we don’t all know, that women have been largely ignored. History has been written by men (and “men” in this context is referring to the patriarchy unless otherwise noted — my apologies).

She says that she is a history buff and knows a bit about the actual life of Joan of Arc. This is what she said:

And so we come to Jeanne d’Arc. A controversial figure, historically. It’s always seemed clear to me that Jeanne was a poor girl who was used by various powerful figures (men, obvs) for their own ends. Not a visionary, not even a proper, powerful leader. But the myth was created.

So Jeanne was a poor village girl who was used by powerful men for their own ends, and had a horrid death. But that’s not the point.

So, she tells us that the history of the real Joan of Arc, as much as we can know about this person, is “not the point”. The human being that actually lived, is inconsequential.

History was replaced by myth. (Herodotus would be proud.)

I used to be a storyteller and we were issued a book of folktales, with the full knowledge that those stories were changed by the chroniclers to be more suitable as morality tales for their own culture. They are dynamic and change in time and place and with retelling.

This isn’t news.

So, who created the myth of Joan of Arc to replace the more depressing reality?

According to James Barry, the myth of Joan is much more compelling! It is fit for purpose! It is a great story to tell “little girls who want to take on the world”.

We have all heard this story, over and over and over again, with different characters and in different settings, but it’s all the same.

A plucky young girl who is loveable and attractive but doesn’t always do what she is told comes bounding onto the scene. She is not content with the confines that others place on her. She isn’t like other girls! She is told she can’t do this, that or the next thing! She is told she must be a proper little girl.

She is given no support for her interests, so she somehow pursues them herself. She is not dissuaded! She is strong. She gets really good at [thing] — as good as a boy!

Everyone is skeptical at first, and they test her. She wows them by her natural talent and confidence, and she wins them over! She quickly ascends to a position of importance and moral authority, despite all odds.

She is a hero.

All the people who once worked against her are either thoroughly vanquished or have come over to her side. They follower her.

She is a leader.

She is defiant until the very end! You sometimes have to make her die at the end because of those pesky death records — and you’ll get in some shit if you don’t. (I mean, the Titanic has to actually sink.) So, you zoom in on a random little girl’s face, who is watching this horror, and imply that she is inspired, or fast-forward to a little girl reading a book in the future who is inspired, or something!

You don’t want it to be too much of a downer. You’re not going to get away with that, so end on an up-note somehow.

This is a myth of course, it’s a female power fantasy. It’s comforting to think that we can overcome everything if we just try hard enough. We want to think that if we are strong, and work hard, that good things will happen!

Now, I want you to think. Make a connection here. History is written by men, right? Why would *that* story be written by men instead of the more accurate one?

What messages are we sending our little girls?

I have a theory. It came to me while I was working on my physics degree. You see, these stories are very useful when they get into our heads.

Because, when we get no support, no mentorship, no help, so we don’t develop skills. When we are expected to work, to help, to take care of everyone else except ourselves, so we have no time and energy. When we are harmed and suffer and are mistreated, so we are hurt and broken and isolated.

We can feel inspired. We can think to ourselves, this is on me. If only I was strong enough, I could do anything. Other women have had to deal with worse and they did all these amazing things, so there is something wrong with me.

If only I was good enough, the people around me would see my worth and respect me.

But that’s not a real story.

James Barry even mentions Artemisia Gentileschi who apparently created the “best art” due to the pain of being sexually assaulted! Wow, those men sure are clever in their retellings of reality.

Maybe we should stop listening to them.

Just a suggestion.

So, anyway, I promised I would mention the non-binary Joan of Arc.

James Barry contends that making Joan of Arc non-binary takes away a role-model for women and girls. This is what she says:

But, OF COURSE, little girls aren’t allowed to have anything for themselves any more. They have to (as usual) move up and make room for the men who want to be girls. And so, one of the few female empowerment stories in history now can’t be a female story. Ah feck

@The_Globe just HAD to pick Joan of Arc — one of the pitifully few strong female stories in the whole of Western history- and make THAT story a “non-binary” one. Ah, feck the lot of ye, and the horse ye rode in on. Misogynist bastards.

We could have a discussion about whether or not a non-binary Joan of Arc is still a “female empowerment” story. However, Joan is not being portrayed as a trans woman, so mentioning trans women vulgarly is completely gratuitous. It has absolutely nothing to do with them.

This is unfortunately typical of “gender critical” feminists, they completely ignore trans people who are not (by their definition) “male”, even when the issue directly involve trans men and non-binary people, such as inclusive language surrounding reproductive health.

This is no exception. James Barry completely erases trans people that she considers “female” from the conversation, even though this directly relates to them.

She seems to believe that the story of Joan of Arc belongs to cis women. Joan must represent them, and only them. Any other interpretation of Joan somehow steals her away from her rightful owners.

She thinks the correct response to queer people wanting to tell a story, you know, one of those precious few historical stories that inspire us, is to get angry.

How dare we?

Ironically, I guess, she suggests that the Globe Theater tell a different story…about a man.

They could have picked ANY MAN from the past 2000 years for a “non-binary” interpretation. There are SO MANY MEN, @The_Globe. Thousands and thousands of MEN stories that could be turned into non-binary stories. Pretty much the WHOLE OF F**KING HIS-tory.

So, instead of encouraging others to tell more stories of girls and women that history has nearly forgotten, whose lives are very rarely mentioned outside of a handful of history buffs, the person calling themselves “James Barry” insists that this particular story is not told.

The only way she seems to know how to fight, is to fight other people over the scraps that men have thrown at us.

Why?

Maybe it’s because solidarity is absent when men tell us the stories about women and girls that they want us to hear. We certainly shouldn’t be holding each other up and helping each other out!

Who needs that? We’re strong!

We just need to be that superhuman hero-girl that can do anything she puts her mind to! Because if she is good enough and strong enough and fights hard enough and makes a really, really good speech, the people that once had power over her, will come around.

That’s how this works right?

Being used and killed, despite our personal strength, that’s not the point. The real story doesn’t matter at all.