My hands are small and corded thick with muscle. After working a shift in a kitchen, the veins run in stark ridges under my skin. The skin of my hands cracks white. It would be hysterical if one night as I drained the steam table, those wriggling blue night crawlers broke through and bled out.
Black hair grows in coarse streaks and clumps on my hands. I am ashamed of their masculine hairiness. I started shaving the backs of my hands before I started shaving my legs. Skirts were a garrison without walls. They were tricky, sly. Slithery fabric blabbering and tittering half rumors across my thighs. No one saw my legs. My hands have had to be exposed.
My nails split back and break too easily. Their cuticles shred and snag. Using steel wool leaves notches in my nails. I bite them down so they will be less jagged. Dirt gets ground into the nail beds and cannot be removed unless I peel away the skin it is attached to. I'd like to paint my nails, but it seems pointless when my hands are being regularly scraped and bleached.
There is a dark blurred spot on my left knuckle that I remember not having. It resembles a buried fragment of pencil lead. I want to cut it open some day and find out precisely what is lodged inside my hand.
Another knuckle, the middle knuckle on my right hand, was fractured when I hit the porch wall at my father's house. A vitriolic response to his wife had shattered hell over my head.
I couldn't hit her back; and she raged out leaving my father and I fumbling with a shared language and a gulf that swallowed meaning. Unsure even of what I wanted from him: a reason or an answer? An excuse I could believe? Did why really make a difference? I was so garbled with tears I punched the press board I was leaning against. I could speak clearly after. I did not think my fist had done any real damage and pain wiped the fog from my mind. I have discovered that pain is a useful tool for concentrating thought. Besides, I would rather smash my knuckle open than blubber like a brat in front of him.
There is a tiny, squared scar on my right palm. It is a cigarette burn, another misguided strength display. I extinguished it to prove something, I guess. I wasted too much time that year trying to convince a cynical and disparaging man that I could be hurt and not flinch. I thought he belittled my attempts because he felt me inadequate, but I now believe it was because he prefers his women brittle and vacillating.
The palms of my hands are meaty and dwarf my fingers. My hands are very strong. I can climb rock walls and trees, and haul trash to the dumpster. By age thirteen or fourteen I was sturdy enough to lift each of my family members: pets, siblings, even my mom. I exercise, and make sure every few months or so that I can still carry them to safety just in case. I will keep lifting weights until my hands are too knobbed and frail to be useful. I hope by then I will have found someone who does not mind if I spill the tea a bit because my hands are shaky. A friend who could forgive the mistakes in me. For the time being though, I can still live by the strength of my hands.
Back to prose - main
Discuss this work in our Forum