Bhanu Kapil's Twelve Questions

I am reading Candice Chung's 'Chinese Parents Don't Say I Love You'. She talks about many other people for a novel that is somewhat autobiographical. But I think it is pleasant. In a way it highlights just how much of ourselves are parts stolen, or borrowed, or adopted, or absorbed, from other people, some of whom we will never encounter or know personally. She references poet Bhanu Kapil, and the twelve questions she asked women around India, the UK, and some parts of North America. I am not part of the demographic of women she sought out to interview. But I should like to answer these questions for myself. The questions are as follows.

For the sake of publishing, I have redacted some of my answers. I think some things should be left unsaid, for various reasons. But know that I have answered all of them. Maybe if you ask me very nicely I will share them with you one on one. Maybe.

1. WHO ARE YOU AND WHOM DO YOU LOVE?

I am unsure who I am in my entirety, but I think I have time until it is required that I have a solid answer. It is also possible that I never need a solid answer. I am Maeve, for all intents and purposes, but sometimes I feel like that name doesn't quite reflect me. Who am I to choose a different one though? I think it would be almost offensive. I am a woman. At least on the outside. I don't think that I quite fit the description. But in part I must say that I am woman because I have been socialised as one. I have been perceived as one. And I think that a lot of who we are is how we are taken in by others. I know that who I am is somebody who loves. Perhaps too greatly. I love my mother. I love the fierce women beside me. I love my boss. I love the boy who, for a third date, drove me down the coast just so I could swim in a private pool that overlooked the country side, even though we do not speak now. I love the stranger that smiles as we pass by one another in the street. I love the dog that I see around Collingwood that sits in a sturdy nonna's trolley. I love the woman that is so far away and knows more things than I ever will. I love the women who write the songs that hurt so much I cry in public any chance I get. 

3. HOW WILL YOU BEGIN?

With bravery, no matter how scared I am. With determination to be better than I was and than I am. With grace and kindness, directed, most importantly, towards myself.

4. HOW WILL YOU LIVE NOW?

The same way as I begin. But this time with gratitude. I lay upon a grassy rooftop this late afternoon, fizzy beverage by my side. I thought to myself, "what a perfect way to be". I do not know if it is luck, but I know that whatever it is I am grateful for it. And I will cherish it forever.

7. WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER ABOUT THE EARTH?

I remember that it is unforgiving yet nurturing. I remember that we were cruel. That she might not forgive us, and that we might not deserve it. We do not always deserve forgiveness all time time. So I would not pass any blame if we are left behind, the same way we did to her. I remember the sound she makes when the wind whistles through her cracks, and the way she groans as she tosses and turns. I remember how quiet she can be. I remember the smell of her soil, that damp, clean smell that comes up from the dirt after rain. I remember the prickle of her just trimmed hair against my bare feet, dry and sharp under the rural sun. I remember how she lights up, gleaming golden as a final farewell before saying goodbye for the night. I remember that I am sorry. For everything I haven't done.

8. WHAT ARE THE CONSEQUENCES OF SILENCE?

Unknowing. Discomfort. Pleasure. Understanding. Deep unsettlement. Peace. Violence. Solidarity, for good and for evil. 

9. TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT DISMEMBERMENT.

In the abstract, I think about dissociation, and the detachment from my limbs and my movement that comes with it. How far away I feel from myself. How uncomfortable that limbo is. In the non-abstract. I think about [redacted] . And I don't want to say any more than that.

10. DESCRIBE A MORNING YOU WOKE WITHOUT FEAR.

I woke up in someone else's home. They'd held me the night before. I had been taken care of so gently. I hadn't woken up alone. When I wake up alone I am always scared I have forgotten something. I never know what it is. It is never tangible. But that morning I knew that I had forgotten nothing, that I was exactly where I had needed to be, and that I for once, was safe.

11. HOW WILL YOU/ HAVE YOU PREPARE(D) FOR YOUR DEATH?

I have come to terms with the fact that I will die. I am not yet comfortable with it. But I will write a detailed will. I will tell everyone aforementioned that I love them. I will hope that they say it back. If I know it is coming, I will make sure that my home is tidy. That all the important things are where they should be. That my laundry is done. I will make sure that my secrets stay with me, not that I have many. If I do not know that it is coming, I will pray, in my last moment, to a god I don't believe in, that my kitchen is clean enough for me to die without shame. 

12. AND WHAT WOULD YOU SAY IF YOU COULD?

That I'm scared. I'm so scared. That I love you. That I hope we never speak again. That I want to be anyone else. That I'm so tired that sometimes it feels like I can't breathe. That sometimes I wish [redacted]. That sometimes [redacted]. That I feel so fucking guilty about that. That I am sorry. I'm so sorry. That I love you, again.