Indivisible, new edition by Fanny Howe

Author:Fanny Howe [Howe, Fanny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MIT Press
Published: 2022-04-05T00:00:00+00:00

8-5

They put on a nightmare for me. My own waste was splashed across my lower body. It was so bad, the doctor said, “No more theater for you, young lady.” And I was horrified because just now Tom had accepted me as I was and didn't want me to be a stiff socialite (or socialist?) after all. What if he saw me like this? I would want to die. So instead I rushed away from the nightmare into the fog. I used this as the first part of a 13-minute video called This Shit.

8-6

Libby and McCool were so generous, they always stopped the car to buy something for someone they were visiting. “Whenever you visit someone, one arm should be longer than the other,” McCool would say in his fake Dublin accent. But Libby had to be stoned no matter where she was going. And so McCool was useful to her because he cheated, stole, knew crooks, never paid his debts and lied his way out of all his troubles.

On the other side, he gave everything he had away, threw money at anyone who asked for it, stopped to help people in trouble, and knew how to fix a car. He always justified his petty criminality with weak politics that were all about despair and opinion and nothing involving risk and sacrifice, yet his life was all about risk and sacrifice. His debts lay far and wide, cutting a swath through pub after pub and restaurant after restaurant and bookstore after bookstore across the city. He was able to sustain this situation by his own acts of generosity.

He had a recurrent suspicion that I had saved Lewis's illegitimate children through foster care. “Because they all look like resurrected half-breed slaves,” he explained. “I just bet that hack writer of a friend of yours has reproduced plenty.” Yet he cared for the children tenderly and well.

Libby took him away to the Mexican border where her early husband had left her that crippled lot of huts on a canyon gold with nasturtiums. It was a deserted compound that might have been inhabited at one time by hippies or a cult. Birds flew out of its windows as soon as they flew in.

To St. John of the Cross, memory is an obstacle to spiritual progress. To someone else serious, memory is the way God enters the brain. I was left with the children in a big stone house I couldn't afford on a small park in Roxbury. I was the only white person living there. Another one had been burned to death with gallons of kerosene. She was a young lesbian liberal who ran screaming for help. Who could forget this story? Especially not one living being hated. One after another people who were not white moved in with us—Jimmy and his wife, Heaven, then Mimi's husband's sister Ruby who helped with the children, and soon I had nothing to fear about being there. Not only were my foster children an indecipherable skin tone, I was white-haired and plain.

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