i find medical spaces bereft of kindness. scratchy gowns, cold stark rooms — indifferent personnel. for me the worst indignity, being called by name. first and last. my government.
i’m a child of the love generation. we are a village of monikers. nicknames often bestowed by an equation of birth order times physicality divided by grandma’s prophetic dreamscape. naming was serious business and became your childhood identity.
thankfully, my village of ambrosia-scented women were kind, more often than not they simply called me “love.” what i miss most, after the loss of my mom, is never again hearing the pet name she gave me. never again being a cherished little girl.
our nicknames conveyed the innocence of childhood. awkwardness of adolescence. young adult aspirations. the sexiness of baehood and beyond. the sweetness of life.
modern medical offices are grotesque. many are straight from the mind of george lucas, others an attempt at some new-agey/arch-digesty mash. i walk the sterile halls chanting — air standing at attention serving to remind me i am unwell. scanning the barcode on my wrist for entry — a transaction in motion.
illness is a commodity. my first and last names on an exchange. symbols binding me to the ancestors in the worst of ways. examined, poked, prodded in the name of healing — given papers and allowed to leave — transaction complete. i break free, living with the irony that i fight for this manipulation.
the air in my village is thick with promise.
there i am the young girl sipping sweet tea and ambrosia, daring to dream ascendant. the girl yearning to speak love-power into existence. there i am more than sickbae. i simply am.