Nancy s summer diary june
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The Visitor: Skyla's Diary, Thurssday June 29 free porn video
The Visitor
Skyla's Diary
June 29, Thursday
Another granny from Grace Church showed up. When I first saw her, I
thought she was Mexican. Turns out she's some kind of Native American.
She told me the tribe, but who pays attention to that stuff. Anyway, she
comes in and asks if I'm Skyla. I say 'yes', she smiles a little, tells
me her name--something goofy--and then she sits down on the sofa. I brace
myself for the usual questions, but she says nothing. She opens her
purse, pulls out an iPhone, and starts tapping the screen. At first, I
thought she was making a call, but she would tap for a while, wait, and
then tap some more.
"You playing some kind of game on that?" I asked.
"Scrabble." She never even looked up.
I had heard of Scrabble--like checkers or something but with words--but
I'd never played it. I mean who would? It was one of those old-people
board games they put on computers for who knew what reason. I liked Prey
and Rising Storm 2, not that I ever got to play them much. The boys'
ranch had an old version of Call of Duty that Garrett and I used to get
into on those rare occasions when I wasn't locked up and there was no
one else around to bother us. Still, anything was better than nothing,
which I had plenty of lying on my back staring at the ceiling.
"Can two play it?" I asked.
"You know how?" She still didn't look up.
"How hard can it be? Words are words, and I know as many as anybody
else."
"Okay." She moved to the chair by my bed and in twenty-five words or
less, and I do mean twenty-five words or less, she showed me how. It
wasn't anything like checkers.
That first game she beat me like three hundred and something to my less
than a hundred. I felt like an idiot. What made it worse was that she
never said anything, never showed any kind of expression on her face,
and just stared at me while I was trying to make up words.
We played again, and she beat me worse than the first time. But on that
third game, just before they brought lunch in, I broke a hundred. She
still won of course but only by 200 points this time.
When they brought lunch in, I thought she would leave. That's what all
the other grannies did. Instead, she watched me eat. You know how that
gets on your nerves.
"What?" I kind of shouted. She didn't answer at first, didn't even move,
blinked maybe.
"I've had students like you."
"Meaning what? Too dumb to live?"
"Berdache."
"Huh?"
"A long time ago, before color TV, when the French were exploring North
America, they encountered people like you among various tribes. This was
their term for boys and men who lived and functioned, socially, as
women."
"Really? The Indians had them?"
"They did, and they do, but they don't call them that anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because it means catamite."
"What's that mean?"
"It's synonym for sodomite."
"Huh?"
"Let's see now, you don't know your own language, and you don't know
your Bible; how did your ancestors manage to conquer mine? Oh, that's
right, your people out-reproduced mine. Well, we don't have to worry
about that anymore."
"So, what do they call them now?"
"I think the PC term is 'two-spirit'."
"Two-spirit?" I repeated. I liked the sound of that.
"Yes. Sounds cool in an ethno-mystic kind of way."
"You say they actually lived as women?"
"As far as they could, which means they didn't live anything like women
do today."
"How could it be different?"
"Well back in the day, the general rule was if the job to be done could
kill you, the men did it. If it merely resulted in a state of sobbing
exhaustion, the women did it. The men hunted and warred because both
were life or death propositions. The women did everything else. They
chopped down the trees to make lodge poles. They turned their husband's
kill into food, clothing, shelter, furniture, tools, and talcum powder.
They tore down the tepees when it was time to move the village,
transported everything, and set up the entire village when they got to
their new destination. They did all the cooking and washing and raising
of children. And you know what?"
"What?"
"There were no pretty clothes, no cosmetics, no glamour, and no romance.
When your husband died, you died."
"Why?"
"He brought in the food. No food; you starve."
"But what about, you know, her grown kids?"
"If they were grown, they had husbands and wives of their own to take
care of. If they weren't, the best she could hope for was that some
family might adopt them, otherwise they starved with her."
"What about charity?"
"The tribes believed that there was a spirit or god or demon behind
everything in nature. Not one of those million, billion spirits, demons,
or gods was love, showed love, or taught us to love our neighbor as
ourselves."
"I don't understand. Why would there be any two-spirit people if it was
that bad?"
"There are always people who cannot deal with reality, and there are
always people who will take advantage of that fact."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"If you had to choose between kill-or-be-killed, or scraping buffalo
hides for the next 30 years, what would it be?"
I just stared at her. That wasn't any kind of choice at all. "But who
took advantage of them. You said somebody took advantage of them."
"The women of the tribes welcomed the berdache."
"Really? Wait, how's that taking advantage of them?"
"Well these individuals, no matter how effeminate they desired to be,
still had masculine bodies with all of the height and reach and strength
that entailed. If one of these became a man's 3rd or 4th wife, that
person's physical assets made life so much easier for the other wives.
They were only too glad to have him wear a dress or dance in the women's
dances since he lifted the barges and toted the bales they would
otherwise have had to."
"I'm glad it's not that way now."
"Oh, but it is, grasshopper. There are hordes of people lining up right
now to sell you hormones, cosmetics, and clothes. And since you probably
don't know the first thing about fashion, there will be others to sell
you lessons on how to make up and dress up. There will be still others
only too happy to charge you for teaching you how to modify your
masculine speech patterns into quasi feminine ones. There's no telling
how many people there will be to bill you, your family, or the
government for countless hours of therapy, consultations, and
evaluations ad infinitum. Then there are the electrologists and the
surgeons. The former will burn off the growth on your face and chest and
back and beg you to let them do your legs, arms, and armpits as well.
The latter will, for a king's ransom, turn your outey into an iney,
inflate your chest, shave your trachea, peel the flesh off the front of
your skull, sand down your brow ridges, tweak your nose, and feminize
your chin. Last but not least, indeed perhaps first and foremost, there
are the politicians who, in exchange for your vote, will gladly tell
anyone who will listen just how poor and persecuted and desperately in
need of the taxpayers' dollars your particular tribe is." She paused to
catch her breath. "In other words, Skyla, you are about to become a very
valued component of the gender industrial complex."
"At least it will be more fun than being an Indian." I meant to say that
being transgender now was better than being two-spirit back then, but it
came out wrong. I was probably kind of mad, but all she did was smile.
"No argument there," she said, dropping her iPhone into her purse,
rising, and departing the room.
Well that was just weird, I thought as I pushed my tray table away and
lay back down. In her own way, the Indian woman sounded just like the
hillbilly Hensons, and they were the definition of weird.
Who did they think they were fooling anyway? Everybody knew they were
just being nice to me, so they could infect me with their religion and
save me from being me. Liv knew it, and she is a doctor, a whole lot
smarter than them. I'll bet if Monica and her precious Hannah were in my
place, they'd know it too. I'm just like them.
Mr. Henson is scary too, because he's tricky. He's big like my dad, but
unlike my dad he isn't always hollering and yelling and knocking me
around. He pretends to be kind and gentle, but he slips up sometimes.
I've heard his real voice, and it's just as scary as my dad's. Sure, his
kids like him, or love him I guess, but that's cause he's always nice to
them. But the only reason he's nice to them is because they do just
exactly everything he says. I bet if Mark or Josiah stepped out of line
even a little bit, he'd smash them down just like my old man does me.
Speaking of those two, they're probably the neatest of the bunch. Mark
doesn't get carried away with all the praying and stuff like the rest of
them. He seems like a normal kid. And he's not jabbering all the time
like the two little girls. If he has something to say, he says it and
that's it. If he doesn't, he doesn't. What you see is what you get. And
Josiah, well I really like him. He's like a little clown, always running
around, always getting into trouble. He calls me "Stinky" and is afraid
of nothing. We're already kind of like pals or something. He even told
me that he calls Elizabeth "Lizard Breath" when his folks aren't around
to hear it.
I really don't see how those two can stand Lizard Breath and Sarah. They
never stop talking. And it's not just talking. Everything is always
"precious this" and "darling that" or "adorable something else". They're
always squealing or squeaking or downright shrieking and bouncing up and
down about how the most every-day thing is "just absolutely wonderful".
I cannot understand what they have to be excited about. Their clothes
are all dull and plain. None of them wear any kind of makeup. They have
no place to go and nothing to do but work and go to church. Who can live
like that?
Of course, the worst of them is Hannah. She's hated me from the very
beginning. It never mattered what I did or said; it was always wrong.
She either got mad or started crying. I can't remember how many times
I've made her cry. I think sometimes she does that to make me feel
guilty. Well I don't. Why should I? I'm trying to live my life the same
as she is. And that's just it, she's not a dumb kid, you know for a
girl, and she's not that ugly. You've heard people talk about hair the
color of corn silk? Well hers is; I mean wow, and she doesn't do
anything with it. And her face, without any kind of makeup. How can
anybody look that pretty? She could have a really good life if she
wanted to, but does she? No; she's happy being her mommy's little
puppet.
And that's another thing. Her mother has already made up her mind about
me. She's only seen me at my absolute worst. She's never seen me looking
as good as I can, and already she's decided that I can't be anything
like her precious girls. Oh sure, she pulled me out of the creek and
visited me in jail and in the hospital; she even calls me Skyla, but she
never treats me like a girl. She's never nice to me the way Liv is. She
says she loves me, but that can't be true. She doesn't know the true me.
She can't see the true me. She loves what she wants me to become, not
who I truly am.
I wish I could somehow make them all see reality.
Haven
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