Ghost Dance {i}

“Hey!” He whistled.

I peered around in the dark trying to ascertain the location of the sound.

“You want some crack?!” He yelled.

“What’s that you say?” I yell back angrily, perched on my side of the sidewalk peering into the distance at the young man yelling in my direction.

He replies, “You want some crack? ….I’ve got some rock if you want it.” He adds hopefully.

I react like he just asked me to eat radioactive pig shit. “NO! I don’t want crack! What the hell are you thinking? What the f*** is wrong with you?” I scream menacingly. Furious that in little small town Vernon across from the courthouse at 11 o’clock at night I am being solicited for a drug deal. Not even a mildly socially acceptable one at that. I cross the intersection bellowing loudly in anger as he turns to run. Deep down in the calm sanctuaries of my heart I’m carrying a great big protective mama bird love for my younger sisters and brothers. Some part of me thinks my anger is for the betterment of humanity. Some part of me is drenched in an unspeakable grief. My skin is tattooed with the memoirs of those whose names and histories have been obliterated by words like 'crack' and 'rock'. I believe in human dignity and freedom and for some reason I don't believe that includes self annihilation.

The last time someone asked me if I wanted ‘rock’, it was 4 am and I was walking alone in East Vancouver. I was used to the meth-heads dropping needles all over my neighborhood by then, had become numb to seeing poor skinny women doing the crack dance at intersections I crossed daily. Twiddling my thumbs and shadow surfing my way home alone at 4 am, this speedy little red car passed me, skidded around a corner and came back around to pull curb-side. Following as I walked down the sidewalk, I tensed only slightly.

…like a samurai warrior when I sense danger, I walked head held up, eyes focused forward, counting my breath.

“Hey Baby, give me a blow job and I’ll give you some rock.” He said. The way someone might bait a child with candy...he said it, like there was no doubt in his mind he was offering me something irresistible. There was no timbre or shame in his voice to suggest that he might be making a purely disgusting proposition.

I inhaled from the soul of my boots to my crown and some kind of molten rage that only the Mama Gaia herself carries in her belly, bubbled up from beneath my feet. It slowed my step, set my heart on fire and my eyes ablaze. I turned heel like an executioner about to deliver a sentence for crimes against woman-kind and glared at the man as though I could kill him with my gaze.

How dare he offer me death in exchange for pleasure.

I took one step towards him and his speedy little red car sped off. Apparently, I can do a great impression of a Gorgon when I feel like it.

I walked home that night wondering…as I always do…

How it is that I never became that girl dancing in the alley, to music that only her ears can hear? Why am I not that bone thin woman whose eyes glaze sweetly as she begs for money from everyone who looks like mum and dad. The one, who wears her scars and sores on the outside and most find her too hideous to look at. What kind of pimp do I live at the mercy of? To what (i)deal am I enslaved so blindly, that I may wish death upon the pushers, and dealers as retribution for the lives they have ruined? What makes me so different? How is it that I am not so crushed by life that I feel the need to tap in, tune out and self-destruct? What makes me so filled with self-righteous fury that I don't cringe and collapse in the face of realms that tempt my hungry ghost?

And though I wonder...I know I will never dare go to those realms to explore. ~i.b.~