Inspired by Susan.
When I look at them, sometimes I see my mother. At other times, I see my father. I’ve not always liked them, finding fault in the size of my fingers, the shape of my nails, or the often calloused, rough-hewn texture of them. These are the hands of a survivor, a warrior whose strength I cannot always fathom … although it’s she I see when I gaze into the mirror.
They were old when I was young, held me as a child my mother locked away in darkness; they brushed the cobwebs, the spiders and creepy-crawlies from my bare legs and covered my ears when the things that go bump in the night became too much to bear. These are the hands that shielded me from daily blows, my fists deflecting beer can missiles and vodka bottle bombs. It was they who scratched and clawed in defiance at faceless strangers wearing blue and countless men with cruel hands in places they shouldn’t have been. They collected — and preserved — the pieces of my soul that rape and abuse often threatened to scatter.
They’ve helped me forage food from behind the 7-11 to stay alive, digging through dumpsters for outdated sandwiches, bags of chips and unwanted Suzie Q’s never unwrapped. They cradled me at night when I was alone and wrote amusing stories during the day for my third grade teacher. They lied to her sometimes so she’d never see the truth: I never had the courage to pull that trigger again.
My hands hugged my father close when he finally came for me (and would again years later when he finally returned to me). For awhile they were hands that learned the meaning of Christmas, brushed horse after horse: Tezzy and Woody, Maggie and Tommy, Grace and then Sierra. They grew strong enough to hoist a saddle for themselves, spent hours galloping Woody through the hills and little washes of Hansen Dam. When surprised by a flash flood, they pulled four horses through waist-deep water to the safety of higher ground. I was terrified; I’d never learned how to swim.
These hands have been bitten numerous times: injured birds, trapped kittens, and stray dogs needing stitches. They’ve staunched the blood of a dying friend, finding strength of their own when all I could do was sit there and cry, watching him die. They also protected the girls on the playground when Robert Garcia decided the swings belonged to him. For three days they returned home cracked and bleeding, bruised and split, but by the following week our swings had been liberated. Garcia decided it was too much effort to defend his new territory. We held our hands high and cheered for our victory.
These hands never learned to sew or to paint. They’ve struck match after match to cigarette, pipe, and bong, and they’ve sliced long lines of blow. But, they’ve also discarded the paraphernalia each time I realized I could escape that life and be different from the people around me. Indeed, there have been times when my hands had to let go, but more often than not, they’ve dragged me higher.
I must admire them for their wisdom and strength, though they can frighten me with their indeterminate power. They can do things I cannot begin to imagine. Each burn mark and every scar is a testament to the many times I’ve clawed my way through Hell. But, also, they’re a reminder of how lost and alone I feel some days living here in paradise. These hands, they’ve carried a mother spiritually and subdued a father physically. They didn’t shake nor did they fail me when daddy raised his hatchet high and threatened to sever our heads. Throughout those years when he swore we’d mean more to him dead than we ever did alive, these hands did their best to steer my sister’s life and raise her, even though I was a stupid kid and couldn’t possibly get it right.
These hands have never struck the first blow, but they have pummeled and pounded, and they’ve gone in for the kill. They’ve known little of love, of tenderness, or of compassion, but they’ve learned how to play, how to bring beauty to the world, and how to create. When they hug a friend, rub my soon-to-be husband’s hair, or tickle my friends’ kids until their peals of laughter could shatter windows … I’ve no doubt that I’m alive.
Mine are the hands of a warrior, not always gentle and feminine, but necessary.
Tags: Arts & Crafts
