“All your life you think you are your body. Some of the time you think you are your mind. It is at the time of your death that you find out Who You Really Are.” - Neale Donald Walsch, Conversations with God: An Uncommon Dialogue, Book One.
My apathy for the condition of being alive grows with each subsequent revelation that my renovated condo is a place where things come to die. I was reminded recently that my home is a moribund estate (albeit repainted in Dunn-Edwards Swiss Coffee) while participating in a staring contest with a bee.
To help balance my circadian rhythm to flow more like Zapp & Roger’s “Computer Love,” and less like Clipse’s “Grindin’,” I allow the first rays of the day’s sun the privilege of touching my skin (ALL of my skin). The day I was confronted by a bee was no different.
I sat cross-legged in the dead zone of my condo’s east facing balcony atop a round, orange beach towel. The orange of the towel happened to match that of my breakfast smoothie (of mango, baby banana, orange juice and passion fruit). As I marveled at the coincidence, I happened to lock eyes with a bee.
The little thing was on the floor of the balcony, burning its bug eyes into mine and forcing me to meet its popeyed gaze. I studied street-smarts under the tutelage of the L.A.U.S.D. and knew immediately that the winged insect was squaring up. I also knew I couldn’t back down from the bee versus woman challenge. Given the trees surrounding my balcony don sexy, purple, bell-shaped flowers, they attract many horny, winged things. It would be less than wise to let the bees and their erect stingers believe they could punk me on my property.
I leaned my face closer to the bee, letting it know it landed on the right balcony today. I busted up laughing closing my eyes in the process. I didn’t even last one full second. (Yes, I am a loser.)
My laugh wasn’t a “ha-ha” type of girl-you’re-so-silly throat laugh. That type of laugh pairs well with the realization you’re naked on a balcony in a serious staring contest with an opponent that has the anatomical advantage of not having eyelids. Well, maybe my laugh started out as that sort of laugh, but then it quickly devolved. It turned into a “bwah-aaaaaaaaaaah-ah-ah” type of what-the-fuck-is-this-life? laugh, direct from the diaphragm. The type of nervous cry-laugh one gives to the recognition you’re trying to make googly eyes with a dead thing. Again.
“And another one,” I rapped (à la Biggie, not DJ Khaled), bouncing my bare shoulders in vain.
What should I do with my growing collection of dead things? I wondered, saliva and tears swelling in my mouth and eyes.
-
One year ago, I first noticed Death taking a literal read of my condo’s “WELCOME” mat.
I was seated in my office in front of the double monitor set up I’ve preserved from my corporate lawyer days. Preceding the work-from-home/hybrid model granted to office folk by the demands of COVID; my set-up is from a time and place where working from home late into the night, and early as hell in the morning, were conventional supplements to working in the office every single fucking day. (Even on the days you were oozing green phlegm and throwing up bile into your office’s trash can.)
While scouring my favorite online gossip forum for the day’s top current events, celebrity salaciousness, and evolving conspiracy theories, I was disturbed by a loud buzz.
The buzz seemed to drill through the screen of my open sliding patio door, drowning out Yussef Dayes’ drums pumping through my Harmon/Kardon Bluetooth speaker and the click-clacking of my nails on my keyboard. I took a sip of my early afternoon iced tea concoction (of sencha, raspberry leaf, and hibiscus flower) and glanced over my left shoulder. Flying in place over my balcony was a big ass emerald and brown June bug.
It looked as though the June bug was trying to show off. The little thing hovered and turned its big, bejeweled body from side to side like it was a slutty male peacock trying to attract a mate. I let that first presumption pass quickly, as I’m sure I’m not the June bug’s type.
What if the June bug is a tiny drone disguised as a June bug and sent by the U.S. government to spy on me?
This too seemed unlikely.
I was burning Dragon’s Blood incense in my office and in every other room of my condo. Dragon’s Blood’s fundamental property – per a thread in my favorite online gossip forum – is potent protection of your aura and home from external attacks. I trust that if the June bug was a drone, it would be repelled by the hazy deflector shield around my condo. At least that’s what I rationalized, as the June bug completely ignored the billowing smoke floating in its face.
I can’t recall how long the June bug hovered. (I’d returned my attention to my double monitors to research my new interest in drone espionage.) But I remember the sound it made when it landed on the floor of my balcony.
“BLOOP!” (à la Nene Leakes).
The June bug landed on its back and began to scrape its wings against the tiled floor of my balcony. The new sounds from the June bug were more distracting than its earlier buzzing, but also much more entertaining. The screaming scrapes of the June bug sounded like a Beat Junkies’ baby scratch transition.
If the June bug recorded a mix tape, and (spoiler alert!) it was released posthumously, it would have been titled, “If Wings Could Scream.”
I walked over to the screen of the sliding door and stared down at the June bug’s under belly. It was made of iridescent greens and bronzes.
You’re a looker on your back, too.
The June bug’s body-card did not decline even as it flailed around with its little legs cycling in the air.
I watched the June bug in a sort of somber amazement. My hands clasped behind my back; smoke tickling my nose; my head bobbing to the scratching of the June bug against the floor of the balcony. I just stood there. It wasn’t my place to intervene. Not yet.
What would compel you to land on my balcony when you can fly?
The June bug eventually died under the glare of the sun.
Too bad your wings couldn’t save you, little thing.
I repeated the same silent eulogy over the body of a bird I found some weeks later.
Sipping my matcha-ashwagandha-coconut-milk-and-date-syrup latte from a tall mug, I scanned the balcony and the small bird’s body of greys and browns.
Where’s my payment?
After the June bug, I disposed of numerous little bees’ carcasses found on my balcony and upstairs deck. An open-air cemetery. Annoyed with the amount of free labor done on behalf of Death, I resolved (loud enough to penetrate the deflector shield around my condo), moving forward, compensation would be required.
Without my consent, I’d been placed in the position of a modern-day Charon – the mythological ferryman responsible for ushering deceased souls to the afterlife. But even that raggedy-beard having, dusty-tattered-toga wearing, ancient Greek man was paid for his duties in coins. If Death turned my condo into an easement for its dead, and me into its courier/cleaning person, then it’s only fair I receive some form of recompense.
Does Death have a HR rep?
I’d like to officially escalate my concerns around equity and inclusion, because (life hack alert!) it’s one of the more discrete ways of getting your head placed on the chopping block. I’m a consummate quitter; however, this doesn’t feel like the type of role from which I may elect to walk away.
Onto whose deaf ears may I complain about the amount of unpaid work, and the gender and racial pay gap, experienced by its Black woman …Chief Transportation Officer? Executive Crossing Guard? Managing Dead Collector? The HR rep could also confirm my actual job title, as I’d like to update my LinkedIn. I could do with a good cackle.
Imagine all the thirsty-ass connection requests I’d receive after the Congratulate Sheila for starting a new position as Vice President, Navigation & Disposal Management at Death notification goes live. I can almost taste the delicious onslaught of white-collar-bullshit-praise. The “Congratulations!” from professionals who believe they’ve increased their proximity to power by having someone in their network who’s earned the honor of being exploited (by capitalism) at Death. (I’d certainly secure a feature on the LinkedIn Lunatics subreddit.)
But the answer, of course, is no – Death doesn’t have a HR rep. And the bird Death left on my balcony, for me to do away with, died empty-clawed. Not a pretty pebble; a cool leaf; or a fucking feather accompanied its body for tribute.
On the way to grab a broom and dustpan, I brought down my mug with enough force to propel the remainder of my still hot, homemade latte onto my white desk.
My knees buckled.
*
Blame the dead daddy.
For a few decades now, Papa has existed as a convenient repository for the seemingly wrong and cruel aspects of myself and life. My trust and anger issues, self-esteem qualms, eczema flare ups, etc., are often thrown in the dead daddy drawer until I’m ready (or forced) to pull them out and deal with them like a well-balanced, mature adult. Sheltering the responsibility for myself takes a lot of strength, stamina, and pain. And, I’m just a girl.
When I noticed Death’s pattern of dropping off its things at my condo, I briefly resorted to a pattern of my own – blame Papa (really, Papa’s body), the inaugural dead thing of my collection.
-
I had already fixed my mouth to tell my Mama “No!” when his body was freshly dead and still warm (probably).
We were now a few weeks out from that Day 0.
“Kiss Papa goodbye,” Mama whispered through clenched teeth. She was squeezing my six-year-old hand.
I wasn’t sure what level of thawed-out the body in the box was, and I wasn’t going to use my lips as a thermostat to find out. I held firm. Shaking my hung-down head, I kept my eyes on the trim of lace on my socks, which were covered by the shadow of the dark brown casket in front of us. I didn’t know much about anything, but I knew Papa wasn’t in that casket. I also knew the ask was inappropriate.
Death is nasty! Death is disgusting! Death deserves nothing from me! A kiss?! The frick?! (It would be another 1.5 years before I decided I was old enough to curse.)
Mama and I played a quick, silent, and mostly motionless game of tug-of-war with my left hand in front of Papa’s church. Tired of my disobedience, Mama grabbed my hand and pulled me to touch the arm of the body in the casket.
I’ve never been a spitter. I was raised to believe that collecting the saliva in your mouth and shooting it at or on someone was the most vile, reprehensible, low act one could commit. I thought it befitting of Death. I wanted to spit at the body and the stupid casket. I wanted to spit on my hand, wipe it underneath my shoe, and stomp it out on the carpet of Papa’s church. I didn’t want Death to have any part of me. I didn’t care for Death’s audacity.
But even on the day of Papa’s funeral I couldn’t ensure a free pass from a whooping. My left hand, and my loathing for Death, burned.
My head remained hung.
-
A few months after my first significant touch with Death, Stormie came into my life.
I met her as a young kitten while over my friend’s house next door. My friend’s family found the kitten earlier in the day near some trash cans. Lucky for me, they weren’t able to keep her.
My neighbors had two Great Danes. The young kitten’s fur was a random splatter of every possible shade of brown (including, her main identifying marker, a dark brown mustache under her nose). The dogs would likely confuse her for a pile of Kibbles ‘n Bits.
She was discarded and “ugly” and looked like everything I felt inside. I was a little girl filled with fury. Hot with Death.
Mama made attempts to cool me down by permitting me things that prior to dead daddy were forbidden:
owning a Game Boy (but I was only ever gifted one game: Tetris);
eating at McDonald’s (but, because Mama and Auntie believed McDonald’s beef was donkey meat, and they’d never seen a chicken grow a nugget, I was only allowed to eat the “Fish Filet”); and, thankfully,
adopting a kitten (but the kitten would be my responsibility and would have to move outside as soon as she reached full cat).
Within an hour of our first meeting, Stormie – whom I named after my favorite nature element (water) – became mine.
-
There’s a correct answer to the question, “Where’re you from?” I hadn’t taught it to Stormie before her primary residence moved outdoors.
Outside our home’s front doors was a mat with a large crucifix decorating its center. The doormat with dead Jesus on a cross laid directly beneath another cross – made of palm leaf and blessed by our priest – affixed to the upside-down Sankofa heart decorating the screen security door that was made of steel. Through the screen door you could make out white Jesus’s face and burning heart on a prayer card push-pinned into our wooden, inside door. On each side of the front doors were large windows covered in cast iron bars (like every single one of our home’s windows). Underneath the front windows were small, ceramic cherub figurines, their heads bowed in prayer.
We needed iron bars, both steel and wooden doors, Jesus, his holy accessories, and angel homies for protection. I was fearful for full cat Stormie – her flea collar wasn’t going to cut it. The outdoors, like many areas in Los Angeles during the early ‘90s, were poppin’.
We lived across the street from a recreational park. Over at the picnic tables and barbecues, you could bear witness to a large brawl of some of the finest hand-to-hand combat. By the horseshoe courts, you could watch an unfortunate person get stomped out by a pack of Chucks. Near the baseball fields, you didn’t have to listen very closely to hear the gunshots. I heard people shoot people over there.
Behind our house, in the alleyway, you’d find broken glass; burnt debris; cars on cinder blocks; barking dogs behind shaky barricades donning chewed up “BEWARE OF DOG” signs; and young men jumping down from the adjoining walls, gates, or rooftops, into world-class sprints. The alleyway looked similar to the one where Ricky was shot-up while playing a lottery scratcher in the midst of being hunted down by some Bloods in Boyz n the Hood.
Back then our neighborhood seemed like a carnival of drug, gang-gang and police-gang activities. It was a place where if someone asked, “Where’re you from?” and you wanted to save yourself some trouble, the correct (and only) answer is: “I don’t bang.” (And if the police asked you anything, you said nothing. Because you don’t talk to the police.)
Stormie knew none of this. I sheltered her, coddled her, and did the best I could to keep her behind our sanctified shield. She was still my sweet baby Stormie but, once outdoors, she quickly became a product of her environment: a thuggish ruggish cat, bringing Death to our front door.
Stormie was a conduit for Death, adding dead little things to my new collection. The gophers from the holes in our front yard. The birds seeking shade under our grapefruit tree. The lizards and squirrels that liked to fuck around with the avocados and guavas. From the mouth of my sweet baby – which months prior was dripping with milk I fed her through a syringe – dropped dead body, after dead body, after dead body onto our doormat. And I knew they were for me.
But my responsibilities as an adoptive cat parent included rubbing Stormie’s neck; opening her canned dinners; and directing her poses for pictures. I didn’t sign up to dispose of her kills.
My mouth would fill with rancor every time I opened our screen door and found Death at my feet. Again.
Nasty, disgusting, undeserving Death. I’d swallow my slimy saliva in gulps; squirming and squealing, with my eyes closed, until Mama or Auntie got rid of dead body, after dead body, after dead body.
Do you know what happens if you spit on a crucifix?
I don’t. To spit on something, you must first face it.
*
I cried into the puddle of my spilt latte, and over the body of the bird. I cleaned and disposed of the mess Death left behind. Washing my face in my primary bathroom, I fixated on my gold pendant necklace hanging between my collar bones in the reflection of the vanity mirror. It’s engraved with the Virgin Mary’s bust. I never take it off. In my peripheral, to my left: a three-tiered skin care organizer with oils, serums, toners, essences, and creams. To the right: a vintage gold French vanity tray, holding perfumes, colognes, and essential oils. Tools bought to conceal the scent and visage of my own rot.
How many times have I died in this condo?
*
I repeated the same question as I mentally parceled through my collection of dead things, naked in the dead zone of my balcony bouncing my shoulders. Before the bee, before the bird, before the beetle – there was me. I’ve tried to forget about the many versions of myself of which I’ve been forced to dispose. But, in addition to the little things left by Death, there are reminders everywhere inside this condo.
The designer wedding gown garment bags, which are hanging in my walk-in closet never opened. They belonged to the me who for months was supine and stiff, on my cognac-colored L-shaped couch, wanting to be thrown away. The king-size bed that’s in my bedroom. It belonged to the me who was part of a couple; and to another me who for weeks laid on its farthest edge, wailing, flailing, and sweating, unable to push myself up and get back on my feet. The heavy legal treatises and practice guides on the lowest level of my office’s bookshelf. They belonged to the me that stared at empty walls for hours, not wanting to endure, paralyzed by the fear of what’s on the other side of perseverance – more Death.
Death has been trying hard to get me to “return to bare bones,” as Pema Chödrön heeds in When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times. Relax with Death when confronted with it, she suggests. Do not resist the fact that things end; get comfortable with everything changing all the time.
Everything? ALL the time? How?
I understand being “alive” is being present to the fact I’m dying over and over again. I understand that living is observing through the lens of “me” a theater of transformation. (And it often feels like the darkest of comedies. I really wish I could just sit back, eat my dried mango slices, and laugh at it. The “HAHAHAHAHA” type of Icarus laugh one does when the wax and feathers you thought you could depend on fail you and you’re falling, arms outstretched, to your bodily death.)
I also understand Death wants me to kiss its forehead and play games with it. To look at a June bug on its back and see a beautiful beetle dancing all the way to Death (to the beat of “Track # 4: Big-Body, Lil’ Bitch” from If Wings Could Scream). To feel a calmness in its presence. Because after the beetle, after the bird, and after the bee – it’ll be me. Again.
-
There is a benevolence of Death that my body hasn’t yet learned to trust. As I sit here typing in my condo’s office, I’m dying again; sitting in my own rot, seeping into the outdoors. Deflector shield be damned, I’m sure I’ll soon pull in another little thing on behalf of Death to remind me of and comfort me through the necessity of my next transformation. (Hopefully this time it’ll come with some coins.)
Maybe the next me will be able to look Death in the face and spit at it. I’d love that for myself. And I believe Death would love that for me too.
In the meantime, I plan on ordering a new doormat.
Damn. 👏🏼👏🏼💜