KarMel Scholarship 2008

 

Personal Story

“Therapy Session 1”

By LaToya Peoples

 

 

Desciption of Submission: “This short story is inspired by my first girlfriend. Her life has inspired me to work with gay youth to provide them with mentoring and drug abuse resistance.” - LaToya

 

            Sigh

It’s been years since I’ve seen her. Sometimes I’ll wake up with the urge to call her, and I realize I can’t. In those moments my chest tightens and I can’t breathe. I am taken back to our days in each other’s company and I wonder about all the things I didn’t know.

The LGBTQ youth center had been my home away from home for nearly 2 years since finishing high school. One day in winter during my senior year I’d found an ad for the center in the independent newspaper classifieds.

“Think you might be gay?” it said.

  I cut it out and pasted it in my journal. There it sat all of spring. I’d look at it from time to time, daring myself to just go see what it was. A week after graduation, I told myself I was ready.

I remember combing my hair very carefully, picking out the hippest yet casual outfit in my wardrobe, and looking up bus and subway routes to get into the city. Arriving downtown I took in the sights and smells with confidence.  At first, I walked by the unimpressive old brownstone building where the center was located. Realizing I’d gone too far I walked back down the block. This time my confidence gave out and I walked by the door on purpose, suddenly feeling shaky about the whole thing. I crossed the street and sat on the stoop in front of the violin repair shop, holding a conference in my head. My brain argued with my fear for a good five minutes before I pushed myself to go inside.

  I think when Adria first saw me I had my head in a book. Probably some romantic novel; I was so into that kind of thing back then. The women’s group would meet on Wednesday’s at the center. We’d talk a lot about books and writing, and so I’d developed a reading list of steamy lesbian classics. Adria came over to where I was sitting an introduced herself. Her wavy brown hair was messy, in that cool looking way. She sat down next to me, seemingly not all nervous about starting a conversation with a stranger. Her whole face would smile as she talked, and she would wave her hands in front of her as she spoke. We sat there talking until the center began to close. That was the beginning. 

Over the years, Adria and I would often meet up on South Street. We’d go shopping when we had money, but mostly we’d people watch from our favorite shops. One day, on a whim, we went to the 3rd floor Tattoo Parlor, this little obscure place situated on the top floor of rather dilapidated building at the end of the strip. A neon arrow hung on the wall pointing to a winding metal staircase beyond the tall, open door. At the top of staircase a studio complete with barbershop chairs and tattooed muscle men greeted us. The walls were covered in graffiti tags and colorful scenes and samples of tattoos. On the side wall a long window overlooked the northern end of the Delaware River. I guess watching the movement of the water would relax some of the shop’s patrons. I, on the other hand, suffered for 45 minutes, scowling at the docile waves as a blonde spiky haired body builder with bulging tattoo covered arms etched into my right shoulder. Adria and I got the same Japanese character. The symbol meant “pride”. I figured if I didn’t totally have it yet, maybe tattooing it on my body was just as good. I held her hair away while the blonde man worked on her

 “A neck tattoo, that’s so gangster” I laughed.

She squeezed my hand lightly, winced one or twice, and cracked jokes.

 Lots of nights in the summer we would walk down to the waterfront to smoke clove cigarettes and cool off near the river. Everything would be silent except for a few homeless people nodding off in the shadows and the sound of water slapping against the docks. We’d lie on our backs against the cement wall separating the harbor from the river. Looking at the stars, talking about life and what it meant to be young and gay. Even though we had so much in common, it meant something different for her than it did for me. All she needed was for her Mother to accept her, and everyone and everything else didn’t really matter. Adria had six sisters and brothers and her parents went their separate ways years ago. Her Mom had cheated on her husband and conceived Adria. Growing up, she and her siblings knew she had a different father. A man who didn’t have much to do with her outside of Christmas presents and birthday money. She would tell me she was a love child, and if it was up to her Step dad she’d have been put up for adoption when she was born. I could tell she was the apple of her mother’s eye.

 

. Betty, Adria’s mom, had dyed red hair and a Marlboro Red permanently attached to her left hand. She made everyone laugh and drank way too much coffee. She would have me over for Pasta Razoul and tell stories about her big Italian family. Adria seemed happiest when she was with her mother. They both had this unpretentious charm and energy.

 Adria and I went on regular trips down to the center of town. This is where all the funky, artsy shops and boutiques in Philly are. We’d stroll up and down the avenue, walking in an out of bookstores, jewelry and leather shops, retro clothes stores, music shops and art galleries. Sometimes we’d stop for a jumbo slice at Lombardi’s Pizzeria, or Burritos at Santa Fe Café or Dim Sum in Chinatown. When it was warm outside we took our food to the Park and had little picnics in the grass near the ponds. Adria would feed the ducks her leftovers and run around with people’s dogs and kids. On windy days she used to always say how she wished she had a kite to fly, because she’d never flown one before. We kept saying we’d make a kite. We never did.

Of all the time we spent together Adria only expressed sadness to me once. We were watching a movie in a friend’s apartment one night and she just started crying. I hugged her while she sobbed and shook but said nothing. I could tell she didn’t want to talk about it so I didn’t press her for an explanation. This moment was short- lived and Adria went back to her happy easy going way. She never told me what was wrong that night, and I forgot to ask.

            Sometimes we would go on these trips into South Philly for what I thought was no good reason except to hang out with various people I didn’t know. We’d take the subway down to Snyder Ave. and traverse the area between 5th and 18th. This part of town was a melting pot of the city’s residents, Indians, Arabs, Chinese, Cambodians, Blacks, Italians, Irish, Puerto Ricans, Dominicans and Mexicans all had there own concentrated few blocks, dotted with small stores selling products and meal staples from their respective cultures. Scattered throughout were abandoned houses, littered with empty bottles and crack vials. Children played in vacant lots, old men sat on their stoops, and teenagers fooled around in school yards. On these days I savored the atmosphere so much more lively than the suburbs of my adolescence.

 On my 20th birthday I rented a huge hotel suite downtown and invited all our friends to come celebrate with us. It was a great party. Adria brought enough food to feed a few armies and just to be classy we all drank wine. Around 4 am when almost everyone had gone home Adria and I retired to the back bedroom. For a few minutes we just lay there on the bed, sprawled across the plush sheets, eyes closed, talking in whispers about the night’s events. I remember she said something really funny about this drunken girl trying to dance and I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes. We kissed and I held her close to me inhaling the scent of her and tracing the length of her back with my fingertips. She looked me in my eyes and I felt she saw all the things I search for in my own reflection.  Around dawn, exhausted, we fell asleep.

Hours later I opened my eyes to the sun beaming through the window blinds. I squinted at the shapes and shadows the light created against the wall, slowly waking up.  My arm still wrapped around Adria I glanced at the clock on the nightstand and wiggled around a bit to wake her. “Get up sleepyhead, check out time is in one hour” I half whispered. Adria didn’t stir. She just lay there, still, with her short legs folded around mine. I remember smiling, thinking she must be in a deep sleep after our torrid night.

The next hour isn’t totally clear in my head. Maybe deep down I just don’t want to remember it clearly so I’m not allowing myself to.  I must have screamed, because our friends ran into the room with stricken looks on their faces. I was blowing air through Adria’s lips, holding her body. Panic clutched my throat and strangled me. Someone said something about the paramedics and the elevator when Adria’s body tensed and her eyes opened just enough to see their chestnut brown color. Her face was pale and emotionless. Her chest rose and fell once, a horrifying, solitary breathe. Men and women in blue jumpsuits flooded the room and wrestled me away from her. I stood in the hall for what seemed like an eternity, while the walls dripped and swirled like a surrealist painting. I kept hoping for a relieved, face to emerge from the room. Instead, a grave looking man in a black suit told me Adria had flat lined, she was dead, and asked me if I was using drugs too. I leaned against the wall and slid to the floor as the jumpsuits wheeled Adria’s body away in a long black rubber bag while the man in the black suit tried to question me. The thought of death echoed through my thoughts over and over, but I could not grasp their meaning.

It’s been 8 years since that day. Sometimes I wake up with the urge to call Adria, and I realize I can’t. She was my first love.

 

 I have to stop now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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