final zine 1

8/7/2019 Final Zine 1

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/final-zine-1 1/21



SYDNEY OPERA HOUSE BY



I had always wondered what thismoment would be like, I thinkeveryone has. It's happening now. I'mmoving so fast that it is becomingincreasingly difficult to breathe, butpure exhilaration and awe has longsince replaced any sort of fear or

anxiety. Fear. I know now how illogicalit can be, but there was a time when itconsumed me.

I clearly remember the gnashing of yellow pointed teeth. These incisorswere designed for the sole purpose of tearing through flesh and bone, and they did exactly that. Searing painand dark liquid accompanied the new scar that had been etched into my memory.

Laughable now. Absolutely laughable. Freedom from fear is easier than most wouldthink. I can taste the irony in every gasp of cool racing air. This has been my dream of late, my goal. I'm close now. So close.

"Do you like it?" I recall saying. "I made it for you last weekend. When you were up at your mum's place.""I love it." Christine smiled at me. She was my sweetheart. I really did love her. I think."You'll be a famous painter and I'll be your wife." That's what I really wanted at onepoint.

Now I had made my decision. This is where I want my life to go. The bright midday sun

reassures me, warming my face, quite literally lighting my path. Although it seems tomove away, it feels stronger to me every passing second. Elation. I had felt it before.

I couldn't contain my excitement at hearing the ceremonial cutting of the rope. The hot air balloon was now free to leave the constraints of earth and enter the expansiveskies. I looked at my father, he was clearly proud, his tanned handsome face spread into a gleeful smile."Daddy!" I called out involuntarily. He was either deafened by the wind or entranced bythe scenery but he didn't respond. Did he hear me? The question left my mind once Itoo began to peer over the edge. So much space between me and the world, a tiny mound covered in cruel, cruel ants.

What I saw, as a child, as ants I now recognize as individual people, going about theirdaily lives, rushing closer to me. I cannot stop the inevitable ponderings. Will it hurt?Will I feel the impact? Too late it's here...

"I saw the man fall from the building. Surreal. Slow motion. What was he thinking as hefell? I guess no one will ever know."



I lower theentirety of my person,anatomy and mind, intothe cool, crisp whitesheets. I allow my frailbones to seep and sinkinto the folds of thefabric, becoming onewith the bed. My headhits the pillow with a"Thud!" and a strongfeeling of relief takesover me. As my eyelidsbegin to flutter and myvision blurs, ribbons of darkness wind and wrapthemselves around myshins and tighten,cutting off circulationand leaving my toesnumb. Quickly, they tug

and pull me down inside a dream world.

I unleash my inner being.

I have drifted into a meadow. As far the eye can see, long strands of emerald grass dance back and forthin the light gusts of wind. Bursts of colour fill and lace the field; a little pink here, a little yellow overthere. I hear a faint laugh in the distance, the giggles quite reminiscent of a young child. I turn round andround, searching and following the voice. My nostrils instantaneously fill with the sweet scent of sugarplums, distracting me momentarily. The laughter grows louder, and so does my curiosity. The longgrass reaches longer and longer, cornering and trapping me. I cannot budge, and only a mere, faintmuffle fills my eardrums.

Shift.

Suddenly, I'm in a backyard. I'm shivering on the rotting step of an old wooden porch, legs dangling off the side. My toes tickle against the cool gravel below. The smell of a delectable and mouth-watering potroast drifts past me. I take a deep breath in, and the air feels fresh. It can't be any later than October. Myteeth chatter, and I look around. The yard is bleak and barren, with an overgrown lawn and nothing but arusting swing set in the corner. All of a sudden, I feel warm. I look down and wrapped around myshoulders is a plaid, scratchy blanket. An elderly woman with a kind yet toothy smile sits next to me. Shewraps her shaking hand around mine, rests her weary head against my shoulder and coos nonsensicalmurmurs into my ear. I'd never had a grandmother before.

Shift.

I'm walking down a busy street. The city lights from intersections and billboards light up the night sky. Istand still and observe everything, trying to understand where I am. The urban lifestyle is not enjoyableafter dark. As people walk past, men and women absentmindedly bump my limbs back and forth,hurrying by in too much of a rush to even notice. Quickly, a pair of arms grabs me and drags myimmobile figure into an alley. I'm too shocked to fight, too scared to run. I'm propped up against a wall,and my breathing cuts and stutters when a large fist comes out of the darkness and strikes me straightin the chest.

Shift.

Just once more, please, shift. Wake me up from the nightmare within a sea of destinations.



They spread out in

tendrils in front of me.

They formed into

determined shapes.

Roads of possibilities.

Each road winded into

fog, their destinationunknown. Large trees

grew above the path

in a lush canopy that

blocked out the sky.

I stepped toward

where my main road

forked off. Three

distinct pathsbeckoned me with

cobblestone that

glistened in the slivers

of sunlight that seeped through. I stepped toward the one on my left

before feeling a gut-wrenching pull to the one dead center.

I shifted to face the center path and stepped forward. Immediately I was

repelled as if it was warded against me.

I tried the third but found it mush beneath my feet. I jumped back

before I was swallowed whole, and found myself safely on the main path

once again.

All three rejected me.

I stood still and unnerved. I checked my watch to see it hadn’t budged.

Time stood still with me.

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t going to stay frozen for eternity. Life

moves on. I closed my eyes, squeezing them so nothing got through. I took

a step.

The hard ground beneath me pounded and I opened my eyes. I chose

the path to the left. As I walked in further, it began to darken, the patches

of light becoming rarer with each step.

I glanced over at the other two options. They were bathed in happiness

and sunlight. I turned and lifted my foot, tempted to step over into the

sunlight.

“No,” I muttered. I pulled back my foot and continued down my chosen

path. “No running away.”



ScarscarrywiththemstoriesOnewouldthinkthesestoriesare

violent, filled with the recollected pain of the scar-rendering event. I have a scar – one on the upper partof my right arm. It is a tiny scar, a straight, clean line etched into skin, slightly lighter and raised thanthe rest. This scar was given to me by my first born son. A babe, in arms, testing his first cut tooth, hepierced his mother’s skin, leaving a story behind. The story is of a boy, leaving behind infancy, pushingoff from his mother and diving into the world of solid foods, a world filled with tastes and experiencesthat will bring him, eventually, great joy and profound sadness. The mark he left behind was a kind of farewell. It is also, however, a monument. It reminds me daily that although all children grow up, everyindividual has come from somewhere and a piece of us always remains there, where we began. Our

mothers bear us on their arms. Likewise, that soil in which we were first germinated; it is the scar thatwe carry as we move beyond, towards our individual destinations. My boy-child’s first mark brings tomind many memories. I reflect upon scars; we carry scars with us not just as tokens, trifles, remains.We rise out of pain and reach past it, towards our destination.

Amongst the physical scars that mark me, I bear scars that no one can see. These scars weregiven more violently, arguably. Violently because the weapons used were not cast in steel or chiseled instone, the weapons were not borne by enemy hands. Rather, they were weapons wielded by those whostood as mentors and friends. I was under friendly-fire and, ironically, the scars that remain, first camein the midst of laughter.

As a child, I had many older cousins who thought it great fun to mock my roly-poly figure. I wasyoung and hadn’t yet grown out of my “baby fat.” At least, that’s what I tell myself today. I’m not sure

how much of my recollection is wishful thinking and coloured by a lifetime of self-criticism. Perhaps Ishould have been less roly and more svelte by the age of 10 or 11. Regardless, I laughed along whenthey chimed in unison, “Fatty Tammy, Tammy Fatty!” They sang in my mother’s tongue, “Fatty Bam-bole, Seeni Sam-bole!” I laughed. I veiled my general confusion regarding what a young woman shouldbe or look like with a plastered smile. But this façade truly marked how savvy I actually was. At such atender age, I knew enough not to question these taunts. I knew enough to quietly accept this criticismand take it to heart. I knew that I was on my way to womanhood. Unless I Iearned from these people,these mentors, how to be, how to look, how to act and how to maneuver my way towards my finaldestination of adulthood, I would be lost. I gazed for hours in every mirror, trying so desperately to seewhether my thighs and belly, backside and arms were as they called them, fat. Squint eyed, up-close,magnified, I peered and pondered. I compared myself to every girl and woman I encountered. I wantedto walk like Reena, dress like Michelle. I wanted to speak like Adelina and dance like Jemille. Throughcomparison and contrast, I gazed long and hard at the woman in the not-so-proverbial mirror, I invariably

came up with the same answer, time and time again – “Tammy, you’re fat.”

Perhaps every childhood and adolescence is filled with criticism and self-doubt. The scar that thisleft behind is borne everyday. It throbs with every chocolate or ice cream I contemplate and refuse. Itaches with every mouthful actually consumed. It stings as I pull on jeans and tights, and gaze at whatshouldn’t be there. It bleeds, actually bleeds, when I wear a bathing suit. Self-loathing grows deep rootsand manifests itself in strange ways. I continue to compare myself, and I invariable come up short.Sometimes I try hard and persevere. Other times, I give up and throw my hands up. I shake my fist atall that I have lost faith in.

My scars take many shapes and forms. They have been earned, granted, traded and positionedon me throughout my journey. My fingers trace the outline of my babe’s toothy scar. I wonder whatmarks will be left on his pristine body. The marks of his humanity will, inevitably, mar his flawless skin.These scars will, however, only render him more beautiful. For we reach the ultimate destinationglowing with scars.

final zine 1

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