A Bolt of Cloth
The man who held the scissors to the bolt of cloth created not me but a lie. I was never a bolt of cloth. And neither were you.
Narrated by Demian Yumei
A Bolt of Cloth
I wrote about a conversation my father had with me when I was thirteen, where he said if he had a bolt of cloth and could make his dream girlfriend, she would be just like me.
In the days after writing that I found those words coming back to me.
He’s dead. Has been for a good number of years, so I’ll never have the opportunity to tell him face to face what I think or how I feel.
But I have my writing. The words that rise from my heart, they rest on my tongue like fledgling birds.
I can speak them into flight.
Is that what you thought of when contemplating making someone just like me?
Is that all you see? No love or wonder or curiosity to stir into the mix of who I am? No steadfast trust that only a child can give? You know, the one you took advantage of?
Is there nothing else in me? Just a piece of flat material to be laid out, cut, and sewn together?
What kind of cloth would it be, Daddy?
Soft cotton like summer shorts, climbing up jungle gyms and streaming down slides?
Flannel cloth like my brother’s shirts I wore in 5th grade, when you got angry and said, “Be proud you’re a girl.”
And I said, “Why?”
And I sincerely wanted to know, because I didn’t know why anyone would be proud to be a girl.
Because you were so good at teaching me that being a girl meant being less:
Less smart—at least pretend to be.
Less strong—again, pretend to be.
Less ambitious—your goal is (should be) to get married and have babies.
You sat me down and told me, “Boys don’t like girls who talk too much.”
Were you afraid I’d tell? No worries, Daddy. It would be years before I could tell myself. You did a good job.
Oh, or maybe silk. Smooth, slick like sheets, like the cheap, black satin sheets on your bed. Was it to make the blood less noticeable?
What kind of bolt of cloth would this girlfriend-just-like-me be for you to Frankenstein-create, to make come to life?
Just like me?
Daddy. She was me.
He grew his victims.
I grow myself.
What shall I become? When my roots search their way into the soil what species of mycelium will meet them? What connections will be made? What larger community will I become a part of?
As the green sprout I am pushes upward, what promises will I exhale to the sunlight that falls upon me when I break through? What will my eyes see as I follow its light across the sky? What dreams will I dream as the moon watches me sleep-breathe.
Even as I sit here, and scoff, me, a green sprout? I can hear the universe or serendipity, itself, laughing at me, shaking its head in the way a parent looks at their naive child with endearing eyes.
There is no age to spirit, even as it feels old and withered by life’s harshness. But what crushes the spirit is the weight of cruelty, ongoing or sudden, not time.
Every moment is now, and the laws of reality, notwithstanding, lies a bit of magic within it, whether called upon or not.
I don’t know what that means. But I seek refuge in the present moment more and more these days.
Which is kind of ironic. Because now has not always been kind. Sometimes, it’s the last place I wanted to be, and somewhere else, anywhere else was where I sought refuge.
Healing, I think, is as much about navigating the paradoxes of reality as it is your past.
And in this place of the present moment, rather than being left behind, or some thing I moved on from, is also my past—its storyline, its context, lessons learned and questions unanswered. Just as every hope I have and every possibility I envision for the future exists in this present moment.
They are all here with me. And something more. Something else occupies this space.
Without rationale or evidence, I know it is love.
Love reminds me I’m more than a bolt of cloth. I am more than useful material to be cut and shaped to fit a pattern pleasing to someone.
I am love expressing itself through me. I am wonder and curiosity and empathy stirred into a cauldron of magic. My name is part of the incantations of life.
I was never a bolt of cloth. And neither were you.
All the years you may have seen yourself as nothing more, as something that derived its worth by what you were to others, their needs, their pleasure? None of that ever changed the reality of who and what you are.
And that’s the secret, my friend. No matter how insistent the manipulation, no matter how forceful the gaslighting or propaganda, no matter what deception or what harm they laid upon you, they cannot change what is true.
They can only obfuscate it, cover it with the mud of their own fears , bury it under mounds of their projections, and then look at their remaking of you because the truth of you would burn their eyes.
They cannot change the true of you.
Which is why you suffer. That’s why you feel so much pain. Yes, from the cruelty inflicted by others, but also because of the truth in you.
It is the truth of you screaming that you are more. It is the truth of you, outraged at injustice, knowing you deserve better. It’s the truth of you touched by the truth in others that cries in anguish at their suffering.
And that suffering we feel, the rebellion of our hearts? It should give us all hope.
Because it is a declaration of our worth.
The man who held the scissors to the bolt of cloth created not me but a lie.
I was never a bolt of cloth, not in his hands and not in others'.
Neither are you.
I’m a work in progress, as I believe our country is, defining who we are. To succumb to evil is to twist ourselves into something unnatural.
I think I’m going to go with this flow—the truth of who I am, the truth of who we are—even if it feels like we’re swimming upstream right now. There is a current of truth that is even stronger.
I’m going with that.
What about you? What does that look like for you?
A little music, by Stacey Young on lead vocals and me on backup, to recharge you in the face of seemingly endless bad news. I hope it uplifts you today. The abusers and wannabes depend on our despair. Frustrate them with your hope.
May you stay true to your journey, to the light in your heart, to who you are and who you are becoming, always.
Demian ~ Silent No More
Silent No More is my voice, through written/spoken word and song, for healing, love, and human dignity, and a stand against abuse and tyranny
I invite you to join me as I share my personal journey reclaiming the stories of my past and writing new stories and song for the future. Please join me in making a difference, one heart at a time.
And if you will, spread the light ❤️ Share Silent No More with someone you care about.
Thank you so much 🎶 ❤️
Thank you so much for sharing this, Vanessa! I really appreciate it ❤️