Pigs will not fly. Not even with counseling. Or coaching. Or fancy new clothes. Or affirmations. Or cuddling. Or the last bite of your sandwich. It is not for lack of focus. Or prejudice or profiling. Or being tied up on the phone. Or having a broken heart. Or having things easy. Or some withering away of faith. It is because they are pigs. At best, they may hang weightless for a moment, defy gravity for a moment, suspend our understanding of hard earth and crushing impact ... for a moment. At the end of it all, we will remember how this truth had always been wedged inside the marrow of our bones. Pigs. They will not. Fly.
At eleven, my daughter's fears were getting mauled by a tiger, injured a car crash and being a victim of rape. We talked a lot over the years about sex, sexuality and patriarchy, music lyrics and power, media, shame and the law, discretion, integrity and the whispered fragility of boys. At sixteen, I rocked her as she wept. Her slender shoulders were violent from crying. One of her friends had been raped. Months ago, but was only beginning to share. Months ago, when she started losing weight, stopped hanging out before pre-calc, and kept exhaustion shadowed beneath her makeup contours. We sat crouched on the stairs leading up to my room. She'd called out my name from the dark hall. Her voice, normally expectant and full, had been small and reaching. I peeled away from my husband to find her on the landing, shaking. My daughter felt helpless and hurt that her friend had gone through so much all alone. That she didn't know. Couldn't have known. That it was so unfair....
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