By the way, I'm sorry I've been so quiet, guys... School's been insane. But maybe I'll be a little more talkative from here on? Or at least for a week or two before I disappear to summer camp...
In any case, I'm not dead. Not even close. I'm just quiet...
~Kara
(I like to imagine that in the world imagined below, chopsticks don't exist.)
Reposted with permission from the original author, Pyropractor
On Forks and Civil Liberties
Imagine that you live in a world where it's illegal to eat with a fork.
You're perfectly entitled to stab yourself with them. But eating with them is RIGHT OUT.
And all that's ever served to eat is rice, macaroni and cheese, spaghetti, and things of that nature. People eat them with their fingers, or just shove their faces down over their plates, and it's perfectly normal. Normal, that is, for everyone you know... except you.
Your parents frown on you for this. Your mother says, "I dipped my very first fork in onion juice before I jammed it into my thigh. Hurt like the devil, but every time since then, it's been much easier!" Your father says, "You really should stab yourself a few times, you know, in visible places. Otherwise people are going to think you're a sissy."
You have a constant, gnawing pain from hunger; you're lightheaded a lot of the time. But everyone is Hollywood-thin, because there's only so much rice you can eat with your fingers before you give up. You don't even stab yourself with your fork, though everyone else does it, and happily, but you don't because you can't afford the blood loss.
But mostly you don't do it because... well, it's just so unpleasant, no matter what the rest of the world says.
So one day you're at your brother's wedding. Everyone is celebrating, stabbing themselves with their forks, mostly in their forearms. The bride and groom stab each other. One drunken bridesmaid pierces her cheek clean through. A perfectly ordinary way of celebrating this joyous occasion... and certainly you have no idea of the changes the day holds.
Your brother pulls you aside. "Listen," he says, pushing a box into your hands. "We've gotten way more forks today than we can possibly ever use. Take this set, from the Welby family. They look too blunt to get through clothing. Anyway, we never really liked them. Pretentious assholes," he adds, before returning to the bustling reception.
You peer through the clear plastic of the elegant white box at the tableware within. The tines of the forks do indeed appear blunt, with just a minimum of rounding. Why, it's as though these weren't designed for pushing their way through flesh at all! The handles are curved, like the side of a woman's torso, or an acoustic guitar. The stainless steel gleams at you, at once both challenging, and somehow... inviting.
You spy a champagne glass of sherbet on a nearby table. Suddenly, the idea comes to you. A daring idea. An IMPOSSIBLE idea. You saunter over to the table, glance around to see if anyone's looking, then sweep the glass up behind you , hiding it from the crowd, and return to the dark, quiet alcove leading to the hallway where the coat check room is. You steal a little further down the hall, just to be safe.
As quietly as possible, you open the box of tableware, heart pounding in your chest. With trembling hands, you remove a salad fork from the cardboard grooves in which it rests. The whole set glitters at you with forbidden promise, even in the feeble light here. You hold your breath, and finally, just do it. The tines of the fork glide smoothly into the sherbet, as though they were designed for that purpose alone. Your mind is filled with images of some old master craftsman from a small Italian village, whose skill at forging tableware has turned him into a brilliant, sought-after designer. You wonder if it was Enzo Ferrari back in 1929, when a sudden chill yanks you back to the present: you've actually done it! You ate sherbet with a fork!
And... it was delicious.
Not just because sherbet is fruity and sugary and sweet... but because you actually got a full bite's worth without getting it all over your face. The smooth edges of the utensil don't even cut your lips in passing. It just feels so... so right.
"WHAT in the HELL?!"
The moment is shattered at the sight of your brother's livid face. "What if somebody SAW..." He yanks the fork out of your hand and jams it mercilessly into your shoulder, and only then does he seem to relax at all. "There," he says, "now you can be seen."
The pain in your shoulder pierces your whole body. You feel it in the soles of your feet. It tugs at your every nerve, like a dull sawblade being dragged across ceramic. But it is nothing... nothing next to the pain you feel from having your first glimpse of freedom discovered and seen as a source of horror.
But it doesn't stop you. Oh, you show a respectable public face - a face showing four parallel scratches down from your temple to your chin. But at home... at home, when no one's watching... you eat with a fork.
And it is BLISS.
For the first time in as long as you can remember... you feel GOOD. You have the energy to walk up a flight of stairs without getting dizzy. That constant, nagging hunger is conspicuous by its absence. You even feel like you have some strength.
And people notice it in you. They ask if you'd gotten some good news, or won some money. You seem to be happier... walking prouder, standing taller.
But you can't tell them why.
No, your new discovery about yourself will always be a source of secret shame. And you wonder just how long you'll be able to keep that secret. If people found out... you'd probably lose your job, the respect of your family, hell, even the whole community.
You consider just telling them. Maybe just your family at first. Maybe they'll understand. "I just want to be able to eat with a fork," you'll say. And immediately you can imagine your father's rage, your mother's hysteria, your brother's embarrassment. "Why can't you just stab yourself with the bloody things like everyone else?!" your father would bellow. Your mother would look even more panicked, worried the neighbors will hear.
"I don't want to stab myself, Father," you'd reply.
And that would set him off again. "Look, he'd say, in what must be an attempt at restraint. "You can still have the forks, see? Just, you know... shove them through your skin! You shouldn't be looking for extra privileges with the things!"
**************
THAT is what I imagine gay people go through every day when conservatives tell them that the right to marry someone of the opposite sex should be enough for them, and that marrying the person they actually love is "extra rights."
You're perfectly entitled to stab yourself with them. But eating with them is RIGHT OUT.
And all that's ever served to eat is rice, macaroni and cheese, spaghetti, and things of that nature. People eat them with their fingers, or just shove their faces down over their plates, and it's perfectly normal. Normal, that is, for everyone you know... except you.
Your parents frown on you for this. Your mother says, "I dipped my very first fork in onion juice before I jammed it into my thigh. Hurt like the devil, but every time since then, it's been much easier!" Your father says, "You really should stab yourself a few times, you know, in visible places. Otherwise people are going to think you're a sissy."
You have a constant, gnawing pain from hunger; you're lightheaded a lot of the time. But everyone is Hollywood-thin, because there's only so much rice you can eat with your fingers before you give up. You don't even stab yourself with your fork, though everyone else does it, and happily, but you don't because you can't afford the blood loss.
But mostly you don't do it because... well, it's just so unpleasant, no matter what the rest of the world says.
So one day you're at your brother's wedding. Everyone is celebrating, stabbing themselves with their forks, mostly in their forearms. The bride and groom stab each other. One drunken bridesmaid pierces her cheek clean through. A perfectly ordinary way of celebrating this joyous occasion... and certainly you have no idea of the changes the day holds.
Your brother pulls you aside. "Listen," he says, pushing a box into your hands. "We've gotten way more forks today than we can possibly ever use. Take this set, from the Welby family. They look too blunt to get through clothing. Anyway, we never really liked them. Pretentious assholes," he adds, before returning to the bustling reception.
You peer through the clear plastic of the elegant white box at the tableware within. The tines of the forks do indeed appear blunt, with just a minimum of rounding. Why, it's as though these weren't designed for pushing their way through flesh at all! The handles are curved, like the side of a woman's torso, or an acoustic guitar. The stainless steel gleams at you, at once both challenging, and somehow... inviting.
You spy a champagne glass of sherbet on a nearby table. Suddenly, the idea comes to you. A daring idea. An IMPOSSIBLE idea. You saunter over to the table, glance around to see if anyone's looking, then sweep the glass up behind you , hiding it from the crowd, and return to the dark, quiet alcove leading to the hallway where the coat check room is. You steal a little further down the hall, just to be safe.
As quietly as possible, you open the box of tableware, heart pounding in your chest. With trembling hands, you remove a salad fork from the cardboard grooves in which it rests. The whole set glitters at you with forbidden promise, even in the feeble light here. You hold your breath, and finally, just do it. The tines of the fork glide smoothly into the sherbet, as though they were designed for that purpose alone. Your mind is filled with images of some old master craftsman from a small Italian village, whose skill at forging tableware has turned him into a brilliant, sought-after designer. You wonder if it was Enzo Ferrari back in 1929, when a sudden chill yanks you back to the present: you've actually done it! You ate sherbet with a fork!
And... it was delicious.
Not just because sherbet is fruity and sugary and sweet... but because you actually got a full bite's worth without getting it all over your face. The smooth edges of the utensil don't even cut your lips in passing. It just feels so... so right.
"WHAT in the HELL?!"
The moment is shattered at the sight of your brother's livid face. "What if somebody SAW..." He yanks the fork out of your hand and jams it mercilessly into your shoulder, and only then does he seem to relax at all. "There," he says, "now you can be seen."
The pain in your shoulder pierces your whole body. You feel it in the soles of your feet. It tugs at your every nerve, like a dull sawblade being dragged across ceramic. But it is nothing... nothing next to the pain you feel from having your first glimpse of freedom discovered and seen as a source of horror.
But it doesn't stop you. Oh, you show a respectable public face - a face showing four parallel scratches down from your temple to your chin. But at home... at home, when no one's watching... you eat with a fork.
And it is BLISS.
For the first time in as long as you can remember... you feel GOOD. You have the energy to walk up a flight of stairs without getting dizzy. That constant, nagging hunger is conspicuous by its absence. You even feel like you have some strength.
And people notice it in you. They ask if you'd gotten some good news, or won some money. You seem to be happier... walking prouder, standing taller.
But you can't tell them why.
No, your new discovery about yourself will always be a source of secret shame. And you wonder just how long you'll be able to keep that secret. If people found out... you'd probably lose your job, the respect of your family, hell, even the whole community.
You consider just telling them. Maybe just your family at first. Maybe they'll understand. "I just want to be able to eat with a fork," you'll say. And immediately you can imagine your father's rage, your mother's hysteria, your brother's embarrassment. "Why can't you just stab yourself with the bloody things like everyone else?!" your father would bellow. Your mother would look even more panicked, worried the neighbors will hear.
"I don't want to stab myself, Father," you'd reply.
And that would set him off again. "Look, he'd say, in what must be an attempt at restraint. "You can still have the forks, see? Just, you know... shove them through your skin! You shouldn't be looking for extra privileges with the things!"
**************
THAT is what I imagine gay people go through every day when conservatives tell them that the right to marry someone of the opposite sex should be enough for them, and that marrying the person they actually love is "extra rights."
