Forbidden
My tragic flaw has always been confession...
Playing with a Ouija Board was forbidden when I was a child. As were most forms of mischief and magic. Growing up in a conservative christian household meant the briefest mention of a fortune teller could even cancel a beloved television show forever.
“But mom,” I would beg. “It was only a one episode story arc?”
Remember what happened after the Simpsons aired the “Big Bang” episode in the early 90’s? Well, you’ll have to tell me sometime.
My little sister Margaret was particularly devout. Being one of three sisters meant constant comparison and a daily competition for the position of the “golden child.” The good Indian girl, for today. If watching television during my formative years was like reenacting the Red Scare, Hollywood's finest arbitrarily dropping like flies between every commercial break, she was Senator McCarthy, and she was out to find the Commies one after school special at a time. I didn’t speak to her for a full afternoon after she ratted out one of the Animaniacs for levitating.
“Mom!” she wailed. “Rachel’s watching a show with a witch!”
Devastated, I settled for the bronze, watching from the sidelines as my sister was awarded her proverbial gold star. I retreated to my room to regale my row of Beanie Babies with every detail of Margaret’s betrayal, and to take solace in my real friends, my library. At least these people understand me, I thought to myself, flipping through The Chronicles of Narnia for the fourth time.
But my tragic flaw has always been confession.
"My almond shaped eyes widened with the knowledge of good and evil."
One of my favorite memories as a child was watching Father of the Bride with my sisters. We loved to dress up like brides and repeat all of the funny and, as I consider in retrospect, culturally insensitive remarks of Franck Eggelhoffer and his assistant Howard Weinstein.
Most would agree this is a wholesome family film; however, there is a moment where Steve Martin awkwardly advises his daughter as she leaves the house, “don’t forget to fasten your condom.” The wife in the film admonishes her husband for his cheekiness. At the time, I didn’t know what the word meant, but I definitely understood context clues.
Being a product of a homeschooled education, I followed what my parents always advised in situations such as these: I consulted the dictionary. Our family dictionaries were two expansive reliquaries I couldn’t even lift on my own. Carefully, I tipped Volume One open, A-L. The nearly transparent pages fluttered through A and B, but were beginning to stick to my fingertips as they approached C. I scoured the tiny print, vaguely aware, for some reason, my palms were sweating, my perspiration smearing the pages. Finally my eyes finally arrived at the word in question:
Con.dom n. a sheath commonly of rubber worn over the penis (as to prevent conception or venereal infection during coitus)
This was the first time I read the word penis. And coitus, for that matter, but one sexual awakening anecdote at a time. Slamming the dictionary shut, I ran to my bedroom door and closed it, sliding down to the carpet and wrapping my brown arms around my shins. I inspected the new dark hair sprinkled starkly across my knobby knees. My almond shaped eyes widened overflowing with the knowledge of good and evil. The age of innocence was behind me now. I was Eve, and my lips smacked with the taste of another world.
Immediately, I could feel my face flush, my adrenaline replaced with regret, my dimples deepening with the rouge of shame. Sweat moistened the base of my neck before slowly trickling down my décolletage and rolling across the plains I was promised my breasts would one day reside. I had two options here:
Option 1
Leave this room and just act natural. Move on with my life as a young woman who has read the word penis and bare my secret quietly to myself with the dignity of an English novel.
Option 2
Confess my true nature. I will declare myself a vicious trollop and will atone my sins for the rest of my days as a nun, married to God.
I crossed my arms yet again, this time hugging myself and shutting my eyes tightly. Images began to dance tantalizing my senses, a purple and gold flying carpet flutters in front of me, Aladdin’s white satin tunic billows in the evening breeze, the purple feather of his turban brushes intimately against my cheek. He beckons me, one eyebrow raised expectantly. Behind him, the stars sprinkled across the sky spell my name.
He cracks a crooked smile and asks, “Do you trust me?”
"I was Hester Prynne, and I had a Scarlet P embroidered on my overalls."
I changed into a fresh shirt and gave myself a look in the mirror. “You can do this, Rachel. You can be normal. Just be yourself.” I cracked the door open and peeking out from the threshold before slowly tiptoeing down the hallway. My sisters were eating afternoon snacks in the living room and watching Margaret’s favorite show, Murder She Wrote. My mother called me from the kitchen.
“Rachel, I need help with dinner.”
I flattened against the wall of the hallway feeling certain this was a trap. She knows everything, and she’s bringing me before the altar to make an example out of me. It’s my testimony or my soul.
“Ok, I uh, just need to wash my hands.”
Quickly, I ran into the bathroom. I pressed down on the soap dispenser one, two, three times and ran my hands beneath the hot water, lathering and scrubbing between fingers, across my palms, and up to my wrists before rinsing them. My hands looked clean, but you could never be sure. I repeated the process and dried them.
“Rachel, where are you?” Mom yells from the kitchen.
I walk down the hallway, every family photo a watchful, knowing set of eyes, mocking me as I approach the kitchen. I was Hester Prynne, and I had a scarlet P embroidered on my overalls for all the town to see.
“Right here, mama. What are we having for dinner?”
“Pizza. You feeling sausage or pepperoni?”
Was this woman trying to kill me? Spastically, I ran into the living room searching for a place to hide, but Jessica Fletcher was on the screen sitting in a mahogany confessional speaking excitedly to a priest in hushed whispers.
“He confessed? She asked the priest. To murder?!” The music swelled and Jessica flashed the camera her signature knowing look before breaking for a denture commercial.
Margaret slowly ate her grapes one at a time. “Mmmmhmm. Now he needs to confess in a court of law.” She waved an Aunty’s finger at the illuminated screen.
All at once, the world was too much, the earth tilted insecurely on its axis. My chest was tight like a pressure cooker overfilled with lentils. A dead man walking, I entered the kitchen, barely reigning in tears, and confessed my sins to my mother. Every last sordid detail. To say the least, she was horrified and said the last worst words one wants to hear as a child who has just read the word penis and fantasized about running away with an Arabian prince:
“We will discuss this with your father when he comes home from work.”
And there we all were in the same room: me, my parents, and the word penis.