Twice a year, you're to visit your bio dad. Court said so. The year you turn eight, you start flying as an Unaccompanied Minor. At the Sydney airport, you get butterflies in your stomach when other UMs ask to play multiplayer Nintendo DS.
Bio dad is at LAX with a bouquet six times the size of your head. You know he’s tight with the LA flower shop owners. They like his British way of saying “vase” and he likes the way he cheers their name on his way out. Behind the bouquet is a girlfriend and in front of the girlfriend is a camera. Your hair is standing up with plane sweat and your mum is too far away* but you smile anyway.
The day after you land, you’re at summer camp. There’s a guy with a sign-up sheet and surprise. Turns out you’re at an all boys basketball camp for low income families. Turns out your dad’s still an all around excellent sweet talker.
They call you The Princess of Down Under and your chest puffs up because now you are special in three ways.
You’re whooshed to a corner of the gym and told that your mission should you choose to accept it is to get the ball in the hoop ten times in a row from this line right here. For days, you throw the ball furiously at the hoop. You're coached by Amber who is the most patient person you will ever meet.
Your arms are dusty and tired and every throw is a chance to check-in with god. You ignore the squeaky courts because you’re working on something bigger here. Anyway joining the boys would be a lot since, so far, no-one has sat you down to explain the rules of basketball. Anyway even if they did, how could you partake in something you’re not already good at? Slam dunking prayer comes easy to you.
On day four, it’s settled. Maman and bio dad will love each other again. Done. Ten baskets in a row. You roar as you sprint across the gym and you’re pretty sure your chin or cheek is wet. The counselors hoot Princess of Down Under and Amber beams.
At night on the pull-out couch, you feel so strong it’s distracting. In your head, Amber’s voice: And again. You got this. One more time. You’ll get it, I promise.
*two reoccurring life themes.
This week ! I listened to Jules’ audio doc about having time-space synesthesia. Memories and history dates cling to her body — some are above her left knee, some are below her right pinkie. Sounds fake but it’s not. I got to hear multiple drafts and each listen made me go so still. The piece is here, at 17:05.
At Valmont, oranges were 45c for a net of nine which was super suspicious. I learnt how to use Slack for my new job and ever since, I’ve been caterpillar emoji reacting left, right and center. This screams: I burst with potential yet I also go at my own pace with the task you ask of me.
Many of you have already heard me harp on about this. Yet here we are. Je dors, je travaille, the book I ordered for my birthday about (the lesbian ceramicist / fireplace builder / skipper / wooden spoon carver / knife collector) Valentine Schlegel arrived and I freaked out. Across 244 pages, the book mentions Valentine’s queerness one time. But Valentine’s raw material is queerness. I want to make an audio doc about my disappointment and whether “j’aime” should come after “je travaille”. I don’t know where to start and that not knowing feels good — for now.
I hope you are sleeping, working and using love as a raw material.
— zo