Rani Patel In Full Effect Page 21

  The living room is my stage. Mom’s velun is my mic. The sofa and coffee table are the crowd. I’m working my motionless fans hard with my sick flow.

  Don’t call me Sultana.

  Blazin’ it down, settin’ off the alarm-a.

  I’m a charma’ with plenty of armor.

  More like Cleopatra spittin’ your mantra.

  “Oh, there’s my velun,” Mom calls out.

  My flow gets dammed.

  In her thick Gujju accent she says, “Carry on, Rani. I want to hear it. The bakri can wait.” She walks over and sinks into the sofa.

  I’m mortified. Though Mom now knows all about MC Sutra and 4eva Flowin’, she’s never heard my rhymes. I mean I’ve wished that she’d see me in action. But I never thought she’d really be interested.

  My face is burning. I can’t get my mouth open. I stare at her. With her brown polyester pants and beige faux silk shirt, she blends into the taupe and burnt sienna striped sofa. She crosses her legs and clasps her hands over her top knee.

  I’m all bared teeth. I want to yell “eek!” and run to my room. But I end up standing there like I’m flaunting my custom fit 24K gold grillz. Upper and lower.

  “Rani, rap for me,” she says.

  With her Gujju accent, it sounds like she said, “Rep for me.”

  I relax my face. And snicker.

  “What’s so funny?” she asks. It sounds like, “What’s so punny?”

  “Oh, nothing is punny. Let me get on with repping for you,” I say in a mock Gujju accent. I can’t keep a straight face. I stifle my laugh. It comes out like a reverse snort. Mom smiles.

  I know I’m dragging my feet. But letting myself openly tease her accent a little bit is a good sign. It means we’re comfortable enough around each other to be real. Six months ago this would never have happened.

  Enough avoiding. “I can’t rap in front of you, Mom. I don’t know why, but I’m too nervous. Sorry.”

  “But you rap in front of so many people,” she argues.

  “I know. But you’re my mom. It’s different.”

  Mom crosses her arms. Her brow rests in its V. Her eyes shift up and left. And remain in that position while she thinks. She looks like she’s trying to figure out some incredibly difficult math problem. Which actually wouldn’t take her this long because she’s kind of a math genius. Then she gets this mellow expression and shifts her eyes to me. “Well, can I read your raps?”

  I slog the two steps to the sofa and rest my behind next to her. As much as I’m embarrassed to rap in front of her, deep down I’m overjoyed that she’s asking to read my work. “Ok.” I hand her my notebook.

  She grasps it in the same reverent way she does her holy Bhagavad Gita. She turns to the first page and starts reading. I melt into the thick sofa cushions. I watch her. Her face changes as she immerses herself in my world. The curve of her mouth. The angle of her eyebrows. The diameter of her eyes.

  I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know Mom’s stroking the top of my head. I strain to focus my eyes on her. “Huh?” I fumble with my glasses.

  She points to a page in my notebook. “This one. ‘Widow.’ It’s my favorite,” she says. She’s looking at my head. Then she runs her fingers through my hair. It’s grown some more. Practically a pixie cut. I dyed it back to black yesterday after work because I kinda like me au naturale.

  She pulls her hand away from my head. “Rani, these lines make me sad.” I follow her finger running over four lines.

  A dark web of emotional and sexual merging,

  and I am emerging

  as his mirror.

  He tries to make things clearer.

  Then another line.

  A better life that was my intention.

  A tear lands next to her finger on the page. She quickly dries it. She rubs her eyes and whispers, “It’s always been about what he wants.” She shakes her head, “I’m sorry, Rani.”

  “Sorry?”

  She raises her head and looks straight at me. In Gujarati she says, “Sorry for letting him be in charge of everything. I thought he was being a good dad to you. He spent all his free time with you. He taught you so many American things. I thought I had to let go of being your mom because he could give you more than I could.”

  She grabs my hands and squeezes. “I was mad at him for not treating me like a wife and for treating you like a princess. Many times, I had these feelings that things weren’t right. That he was hurting you. But I ignored it. I let it happen. I let him hurt you. I should’ve kicked him out long ago. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s ok, Mom.”

  She wraps her arms around me. She keeps hugging me and saying she’s sorry over and over.

  Guess it turns out we both thought he was being a good dad. And it’s partly true. He did many good things with good intentions. But those things blinded both of us to the bad things he did to us. And since it was like I didn’t exist to my mom, it’s not surprising that I felt closest to someone who hurt me but also made me feel good.

  Then Mark pops into my mind. Funny. Because with him it was the same as with Dad. Another rendition of love and hurt. A repeat of me letting go of the bad things he did to me because he did good things also.

  “It’s ok,” I say again. I lean back and smile at her. My smile widens as hope descends. “Hey, Mom, there’s something I have to do.” Taking the notebook, I leap up from the sofa. I grab a pencil from the kitchen counter and walk onto the deck. The Moloka’i channel is smooth and flat. I admire its cerulean sheen. Then I set up a mini lyrical lab on the deck table. I settle into a chair. I realign my glasses and glance one more time at the ocean. I flip open the notebook to my slam poem. I take a few minutes to read it again. I’m drawn to two lines.

  and I am emerging

  as his mirror.

  And I think about how mirrors are a reflective surface. Mirroring someone is imitating them. In a weird way all I could do up until now was reflect whatever Dad and Mark wanted. I couldn’t work on figuring out my wants. My needs. My identity. They forced me into a corner where I was convinced I needed them. So I let them do whatever they wanted. I existed for Dad. Then for Mark. I was their mirror.

  Then I scan the rest of the poem to some other lines that compel contemplation today.

  I’m worthless.

  Nothing.

  Dead.

  When Dad abandoned me and when Mark was gone, I cracked. I became a cracked mirror in a void. I had nothing to reflect. So I was nothing.

  But that’s all about to change.

  An hour and a half comes and goes. As do several whales in the channel. I put down my pencil and exhale slowly. Done. A new ending to the slam poem that started it all.

  Until Mom sees me. First time in all my seventeen years

  she reaches out—emotionally.

  Quells my fears, wipes my tears.

  Says, betta, widows in India are forced to shave their heads.

  Society views them akin to being dead.

  Forced tonsure,

  prostitution and oppression they endure.

  Made to fast,

  seen as social outcasts, the lowest caste.

  A state of social death forever.

  But, betta, you have a choice.

  You can get through this pain,

  you can grow your hair again—

  thick, strong.

  With it, my sense of self grows—I belong.

  My perception of choice.

  The strength of my voice.

  Knowledge of my good fortune

  to save myself

  and show my future daughter

  how men control women—

  through mental slaughter.

  Infuse her with the views

  to escape all kinds of abuse

  so maybe she can choose

  positive self care and

  long hair.

  I’m happy with the new ending. It let’s me get a fresh start. Free from my dad. Free from
Mark. And slowly, I will become my own person.

  I’m so done blaming my parents, Mark, and Wendy. My daddy’s gone. And I’m so done looking for another one.

  LOVE OUTLAWED

  It hits me when I’m alone. The sadness. The anger. The fear. The shame. Three months after Mark raped me, these feelings still hammer me.

  You drank like a fish. You let it happen. You deserve it.

  Brain slap. I squeeze my knees tighter with my arms. I press my face into my lap. I’m hoping the pressure I’m exerting on my body will stop the running commentary in my head. That’s when I hear my name.

  “Hey, Rani.”

  I lift my head off my lap and grab my glasses from the shelf behind me. I slide them on. He comes into focus. It’s Pono. He’s standing on the other side of the counter looking like a gorgeous mirage in the desert that’s been my day. “Oh hey, Pono.” I get up from the step stool. There haven’t been any customers for awhile. Enough time for a little emotional purgatory.

  “How’re you doing?” Pono asks.

  “Ok, I guess. What brings you to Maunaloa? Wait! Let me guess. You want to try our new self-serve nachos. That’s it, right?”

  “How’d you guess?” He crosses his arms and gets this confused look on his face. Then he recovers and throws me his classic foxy Pono smile.

  “Wanna go hang out on the porch?” He uses his thumb to point in the direction he wants to go. Like he’s a hitchhiker.

  “Umm…” But right then, two customers enter the store. One of them is clearly a tourist. The silky, multicolored aloha shirt he’s wearing and the lobster red color of his face and arms are a dead giveaway. He grabs a shopping basket and walks to the refrigerated section. The other customer, La’akea, walks up to the counter and asks for a pack of Marlboro Lights.

  “It’s ok. I’ll wait.” Pono moves aside.

  I ring up La’akea’s cigarettes and take a quick look at her. She seems worse than the last time I saw her. Much worse. Her arms are covered with burns at varying stages of healing. The sores on her face seem to have coalesced into two big sores on either side of her nose. Her tattered t-shirt hangs like an oversized poncho on her pencil thin frame. Several of her front teeth are gone.

  I wish I could do something to help her. But all I do is take her money and hand her the cigarettes. And a free book of matches. She doesn’t say anything as she leaves. I watch her limp out of the store.

  The tourist steps up to the counter. He unloads his groceries. I glance at Pono. He pretends to be browsing the canned goods aisle. He picks up a can and brings it close to his face. He pretends to examine it. The thumb and index finger of his free hand cup his chin and his lips are in a pout. I almost laugh out loud because it’s a can of green beans. He catches my eye and holds the can over his head, mouthing yum while rubbing his belly. I end up making a weird hacking noise because I can hardly hold in the laughter that starts way down in my belly.

  “Sorry,” I say to the tourist man. After he pays, he grabs the paper bag, smiles, winks, and says, “Mahalo and aloha.” Automatically my mouth goes all Billy Idol as I watch him walk out of the store. I eye Pono. I can tell he heard it too. I know the tourist guy was probably trying to be nice. Maybe he even thought he was being respectful of the Hawaiian culture by using some of its words.

  Pono traipses back to the counter. I shake my head and grimace. “Unbelievable,” I say.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I lay my forearms on the counter and interlock my fingers. He does likewise with his forearms from the other side. Our faces are less than a foot apart and our eyes connect. I remember the little flutter in my heart I used to feel when we were this close. He gives me this lopsided smile. As if he’s happy and worried at the same time. He inches his hands toward mine. I watch them surround my hands. Then close in. I stare at his hands on my hands. I’m trying to keep my cool but my eyebrows shoot up.

  “I’m worried about you. You always say you’re ok when I ask. I kinda don’t believe that.”

  “It’s sweet that you’re worried.” I force a smile. “But I’m ok. Really.”

  “I dunno, Rani.” He shakes his head and presses his lips together. It looks like he’s deep in thought. Then he suggests, “We could go hang out sometime this weekend. After everything you’ve been through you must need to vent.”

  “That’s ok, Pono. Don’t worry. I’m ok. Besides I have to work.”

  Pono’s lopsided smile becomes a slight sulk.

  Pono’s been acting strange. Like when Omar badgers me at school, Pono miraculously appears and kicks the clowning up a notch. Then there’s lunch. Whether I’m eating alone in the cafeteria or under the banyan, Pono shows up. Lunch tray in hand, he settles down next to me. Eager to discuss this or that.

  Needless to say my thoughts have been going this way and that.

  Does he like me?

  No, he’s just being a good homie after everything that’s happened.

  Stop reading into things! You’re not even over all the Mark fallout. Plus you’re not Pono’s type.

  But what’s up with the stepped-up attention. Bordering on flirting. Maybe he likes me, likes me.

  Wishful thinking.

  Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve banned myself from guys. I can’t trust myself when a guy gives me attention. I might end up his mirror. Or something else. As my mom put it last night when we were talking about Dad and Mark, “Just because a man calls you his rani, doesn’t mean he’ll treat you like one. You might end up his kam vaari.”

  Seems so obvious now. My two-for-two record as Dad’s princess and Mark’s queen proves that. Both times I dove into the relationship. Head first. Doing whatever they wanted simply because they sweet talked me.

  I run my hand over the back of my head. It’s growing out super thick. Almost an Indro. I can’t wait until it’s fully grown.

  Pono exhales and crosses his arms.

  I know Pono has been looking out for me. Above and beyond. He’s been an amazing friend. But I’m not taking any chances. Until I’m able to figure things out, I’m keeping my walls up and fortified. For now, my head and heart are safely tucked away from any male influence.

  Sorry, love, but you’re outlawed.

  “Thanks again for offering, Pono. You my best homie.”

  Right when the words “best homie” come out of my mouth, I swear I see him cringe.

  “No worries. And, back at cha,” he says with downcast eyes. “Homie.”

  B-GIRL STANCE

  Omar rolls into the Maunaloa Community Center like he’s MJ. “What’s up, Rani girl?” his Airness asks as he plants himself in the empty chair next to me. I get a load of his threads. Red and white on black Michael Jordan Chicago Bulls jersey. Baggy jeans. A pair of fire red and white on black Nike Air Jordan V’s.

  “Lookin’ good, Omar.”

  “Dressing like Mike gives me confidence,” he whispers. “Not that this playa needs any more confidence,” he professes a little louder.

  I giggle. “So you ready for the meeting?”

  “Yup. Dressed to kill. Check. Powerful testimony. Check. How about you?”

  “Fo’ sure.”

  Tonight’s big. The Ranch is still trying to get Maui County approval to build a massive pipeline to pump water to the dry west side. They want to keep expanding the undeveloped land here. There are even rumors that they want to build a gated community of luxury homes near Papohaku. And though the EPA approved Molokai’s Federal Sole Source Aquifer designation, the Ranch hasn’t given up on getting their hands on the island’s fresh water. The feds are on our side, but no local who opposes the pipeline wants to take any chances. And so the community center is packed. Pono’s going to be a little late, but he’ll be here. He wouldn’t miss this for anything.

  The Chair from the Maui County water committee calls the meeting to order. He reviews the issue to be discussed and the procedures for the meeting. I go over my testimony one more time. I smile to myself because my points are
tight. The adrenaline is pumping in my brain. So is Mama Said Knock You Out. I can always count on LL Cool J’s motivating rap to play in my mind’s boombox exactly when I need it. I look around and everyone seems ready to go. All this heightens my desire to take a stand against the developers.

  Then Omar says in a hushed voice, “Hey, don’t look now, but your dad and Wendy are here.”

  Of course I look. Yup. Dad and Wendy stroll in. They find a place to stand against the wall near the front. My body tenses and my fists ball up. I’m scared I’ll panic. I’ve waited so long to be here. To speak my peace. I don’t want to miss my chance because of Dad. A minute or so passes. I realize my mood or feelings haven’t changed. No trouble breathing. No tears. My body and fists release. I exhale slowly in relief. I’m still amped up to testify.

  I refocus on what the Chair is saying. I try to forget about Dad and his floozie. After a half hour of testimony, mostly in opposition, the Chair calls my name.

  You know your stuff. You’re ready to deliver.

  I walk up to the mic imaging I’m on the 4eva Flowin’ stage. And I’m ready to drop a verbal bomb.

  And that’s exactly what I do. Only today it’s in prose.

  Honorable Chair and Committee Members,

  My name is Rani Patel and I’m here to testify in opposition to the

  proposed pipeline…

  When I’m done, I deliberately turn around to the left first. I want to see my dad. We make eye contact. I give him a quick b-girl stance. Then I walk back keeping my narrowed eyes on him. I maintain a frown and a slight pout. My head stays tilted back a little. My arms are high on my chest, crossed, with my hands under each of my pits. His eyes grow wider as I walk down the aisle. Now it’s like a staring contest. My eyes remain unblinking. He’s got a blank look at first. But he can’t keep up with my b-girl determination. He blinks and his head drops. I think I see defeat on his face.

  As I approach my seat, I chill. And grin. I plop down and Omar elbows me. “Yo Rani that was off the chain!” The next person starts their testimony. Omar and I listen. Then he elbows me again. “Hey, I saw you give yo’ b-girl stance to your dad. Right on, sistah. How’re you feeling?”