misperception Archives - The Bluebird Word

Fiction by Lucy Fox

The trouble with being a therapist is I can’t switch it off. Constantly, I’m analysing
people, trying to dissect their triggers. It makes dating difficult. I’ve found men are often on edge when they find out what I do as if over our meeting of wine and breadsticks, I’m trying to work out if they have a good relationship with their mother. So, I haven’t told Thomas.

We met on a dating app a few weeks ago. I was surprised to see him on there; he
didn’t seem like the type, but he’s exactly what I go for. We started texting, but he said he prefers to talk over the phone, so our texts turned into calls. Now, here we are, sitting opposite each other, sipping wine and sharing stories.

Over the phone, we briefly touched on the topic of work. He told me that he doesn’t work much anymore and he accepted that I didn’t want to talk about what I do either. “So, what do you do in your free time?” I ask now, leaning forward, arms uncrossed, using my body language to show how open I am to hearing him.

“I do a bit of DIY, but mostly I play golf.” He smiles, it is friendly, not leering like some men. “Are you close with your family?” He mirrors my body language.

“Oh you know, the usual story. Dad left when I was three.” My throat closes up; I take a sip of wine, savouring the bitterness of the Cabernet Sauvignon Thomas picked out for us. “I don’t know him but it’s fine. It’s been thirty years, you know? And my Mum did an amazing job of raising me and my younger brother. When you have one incredible parent, who needs a Dad?”

“Mothers are wonderful. My Mum was a fantastic woman. She stayed at home raising me, looking after my Father and the house and she liked doing it. Never complained. Women aren’t like that now.” I bristle slightly; it’s involuntary and not professional – he’s not a client, Meg – I reprimand myself, but honestly, those views! If he was my patient I would say no woman will ever live up to his Mum. Obvious Mummy issues.

Our perky waitress bounces over as I’m trying to come up with an appropriate
response, “are you guys ready to order?” She holds her pen and pad, poised. I tell her what I want, while Thomas fiddles around with his reading glasses.

“Thank goodness it’s not one of those places where you have to order on an app.”
Thomas huffs, handing the menus over. The waitress smiles and Thomas lights up, “you look just like my daughter when she was your age.”

“Oh really?” She laughs, “is this your daughter?” She turns to me and my cheeks
burn red.

“No. I’m his date.” Is that what it looks like from the outside? Like I’m having dinner
with my Dad?

“Oh I’m sorry,” she turns scarlet and runs away.

Thomas chuckles but I feel sick. I need a therapist.

Lucy Fox is an aspiring writer who likes to write from the female perspective. She will study English Literature and Creative Writing at university this September.

Poetry by Amelia Díaz Ettinger

1.
My Puerto Rican aunt in North Carolina, lived in pearls, three-inch heels, and illusions.
“There is bigotry for blacks, but we are white.”
And yet a woman stopped her car at my aunt’s Corinthian columns
“How much do they pay; I can pay you double.”
The Gucci suit and diamonds was no shield.
Still, my aunt, mi tía, insisted; “ignorance vs. prejudice.”
(A PhD from Columbia in New York assured her notions had to be right).
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“Don’t be impertinent.”

2.
A woman with puffy bleached hair, and a ‘T’ shirt of compassion says,
“Tell me your hardship story,” empathy fills her eyes, and I almost laughed.
I know what she wants, but living in a palace surrounded by cultured men would unhinge
what she expects and I am tired
half a century of talk. I want calm, and I want peace, and I want somehow to fit
in this olive brown skin, so I gift her;
“Born in a shack without water or electricity. It was the slums, el barrio.”
She tearily pats my knee, my father in his grave protests, ‘Remember Caruso and Barcelona’,
he says and I silence him, so I swallow memories in surrender
and I become the Latinx Pinocchio.

3.
It is easy to release a single story,
harder to pretend virtue,
so I talk in a soft voice,
when pain blinds me in anger.
And I work harder,
three times, five times, a billion times,
knowing it would not be enough
I still will be the sleeping effigy
under a large sombrero.
Above all entomb lust under a blue tarp,
along with my ambitions,
my culture, mi gente,
and my nose grows long,
but I can’t bury the rhythm of my hips,

4.
I can accommodate, I can give and I will take, will sigh after I cry, and smile until I make a grimace, but when my children are denied— yes— then, I will justify this constant view,

I will lose my temper.
Time after time, my children were told:
“You can’t write Hispanic in these forms.”
“What do you want? Some sort of privileges?”
“You are white”
I see the pain each time they denied
my part in them.

Now, my grandson is too young to understand,
“Yes!” he screams, “she IS my Nana,” Confusion in his eyes.
To me, carrying them in my arms:
“Where did you go to adopt these children?”
“Tell me the truth, are they adopted? Or are they albino?”
“No! You can’t possibly be their mama!”
This I cannot give.
Here I draw the threshold.
I will cut this wooden nose to spite my face.

Amelia Díaz Ettinger is a self-described ‘Mexi-Rican,’ born in México but raised in Puerto Rico. As a BIPOC poet and writer, she has two full-length poetry books published; Learning to Love a Western Sky by Airlie Press, and a bilingual poetry book, Speaking at a Time /Hablando a la Vez by Redbat Press, and a poetry chapbook, Fossils in a Red Flag by Finishing Line Press. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies and have received honors and awards. A new full collection of poetry will be released by RedBat Press in the fall.

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