Nonfiction
ALL MY SELVES
All of my selves are sitting on a balcony, passing around a joint.
There’s San Francisco, Berlin, Nairobi, Buenos Aires, Hyderabad, and Dallas.
Dallas summoned them. She takes a hit.
“Nice to see you again,” she says to Berlin. “You’re the one we never talk about.”
Berlin tucks her red hair behind her ears. She smells like vanilla-scented candles and freshly-baked frozen pizza. Her toes are frozen and she’s drunk off cheap apple-flavored vodka and the chaos of a first queer lover. She thinks every night will be as perfect as the night she watched Sauti Sol perform in Berlin. She’s so cute, she’s so dumb.
“Because I gained some relationship weight?”
“Naah bitch, you were never in a relationship!” Nairobi shouts. Hyderabad chuckles in the corner.
“Well, actually…” Berlin starts.
“Come on, babe. Come on.” Buenos Aires says softly.
Berlin hesitates, before dropping her shoulders. She gets it. She thinks she’s happy but she’s making questionable emotional choices, starting a domino effect of broken connections she can’t see yet. At least she’s alive though. She’s here. She’s going to sex clubs and shit. Berlin is watching this nomadic life, this promised land, finally start to happen.
“Y’all can’t blame Berlin too much, you know?” SF chimes in.
SF is wearing a hollow girl’s body with shifty eyes. She’s a patchwork, remembering how to breathe after trying to die, trying hard to stay alive. She’s putting together a solid list of things to keep living for, ways to keep fighting the assassin in her head. She’s leaning on everything and everyone she has. SF is fighting to leave and make it to Berlin, where she doesn’t have to watch shootings from her bathroom window. SF has something to prove, that she’s worthy. Of a second life, a second shot at this college thing, a second shot at queer love, a second shot at friendship, a second city. SF is thirsty for a do-over.
“All these selves are…do-overs.” This occurs to Dallas.
“Lazarus syndrome? Isn’t that too basic?” Dallas asks, disgusted.
“Uhm, we were raised in the church??? You know we love a good clean slate, nice little rebirth story,” Nairobi deadpans.
Nairobi is snarky, ill-tempered, and dangerously close to SF’s tipping point. She’s sworn not to return to Nairobi next summer. She’s heartbroken, she’s lonely, she’s frustrated, and she lives in her mother’s house. Nairobi is slicing off chunks of her identity to survive living in that house. She’s worn out from defending her identity, she feels like a child again, powerless, helpless. She’s remembering why she flew halfway across the world for a silly little degree. Nairobi can’t envision a Dallas self who voluntarily visits a church with her summer hosts. Nairobi gags. She hates the visceral feeling the memory of being forced to go to church evokes. Instead, she distracts herself chipping away at the encrusted paint underneath her stained fingernails. She spends a long time painting that summer.
“It makes sense to me though. I mean, we keep going to different places, so it makes sense to become different people,” Buenos Aires declares.
Buenos Aires is dangling a cigarette in one hand and a chilled glass of cheap box wine. Her palms are bruised from holding on tight to the rope by which her mental health dangles. She’s carrying out a consistent workout routine for a behavior change program assignment. She’s destroying her lungs but she’s shaking her ass often to reggaeton in clubs which is a healing ritual. Buenos Aires has made local friends to watch the world cup with. Buenos Aires has the highest gpa in our academic history. Mum and Dad love her. I mean, she’s a podcaster, and she went skydiving! Buenos Aires is shamelessly brave. We summoned her, and she came. When BA talks, all my selves listen.
“Thanks for being here,” Nairobi says softly. She takes a drag. Passes the joint to BA.
“Anything for you,” BA coos. Nairobi rolls her eyes back. All the selves laugh. Nairobi is so prickly. But you have to be prickly to survive Nairobi as a soft bag of flesh. Some people wear armor to protect themselves in Nairobi. Money, sex, power, drugs. Some people grow thorns and become prickly. It’s cheaper. You just need enough anger and sadness.
“You know I had a shit time too, right?” BA says. Hyderabad stirs in her cushion on the floor.
“Did someone say a shit time?” She asks, yawning and stretching like a cat from a nap. Her hair is a chameleon, a transition between multiple colors. She smells like Vick’s vapor rub and ginger cookies. She spends a lot of time in bed, fighting the assassin and contemplating the meaning of home, love, and family. She barely makes it to class on a good day. She took an expensive, innovative electromagnetic depression treatment but the assassin is still lurking. And she can’t leave her queerness packed in the suitcase if she goes home because her mother might go through her things again, and then what?
“Yeah, you had a rough time. I like how you handled many things, though. You had…optimism. Drive. Strength. Grit. All things I am searching for here, but I can’t find in myself,” Hyderabad says.
The selves nod slowly. BA passes Hyderabad some wine.
“This is some good stuff. I know I used to make fun of the high sugar content but I miss this cheap nice wine.” Hyderabad admits.
“Ayo, you got into yoga?” Berlin interrupts, eyeing Hyderabad incredulously. Unrelated. We aren’t surprised. We know how randomly the thought trains stop abruptly in our head, how they change course, how often they collide, how difficult it is sometimes to trace the origin of a thought.
“Yeah, I did! I was stretching and lengthening, all of that!” Hyd says. “Also, I did a brief stint on YouTube as a food vlogger. And, I connected with some queer Africans in the diaspora!”
“To trying new things!” Dallas yells.
“See who thinks they’re an adult now because they went to a strip club,” SF jeers. There’s a slight, playful twinkle in her dead eyes. All my selves turn first towards SF, then to Dallas. If Dallas hadn’t tanned so much, she probably would be turning red.
“I know you’re just jealous,” Dallas counters, lowering her voice and meeting the twinkle with a smug smile.
“Oh my God, just tell us about it!” Hyderabad begs, inching closer to Dallas and sitting at her feet.
“Naah, in fact, let’s get down to business.” Dallas asserts. She sits up straight. “I called you here for a reason. I called you because I was drowning and I wanted to know how you kept swimming to the other end of the pool. Sometimes I’m swimming but the end of the pool keeps shifting, even though I know there is an end and it’s coming. I want to get better at swimming to the end of the pool.”
San Francisco hits the joint. She remembers the sound of sand crunching underneath her boots as she walked away from the beach, waving goodbye to the ocean before overdosing on her meds in her college dorm. She looks up at Dallas, who recreated and rewrote the beach memory with a lover this summer. There’s a silent thank you there, to SF for fighting enough to bring Dallas to the beach, and to Dallas for reframing our favorite place on earth. And to the unsung lover. And to the ocean. To all bodies of water.
Water.
All my selves are fluid like water.
“Maybe that can be it. Actual swimming.” BA chimes in.
“Say more…” Nairobi eggs on.
“The day I went swimming in Bellini, when I was still living in Palermo, at the height of the horrible shared living situation, the water just cleansed me. It can be spiritual. Or it can be practical. Or it can be recreational. Exercise. Hot water, freezing water. Didn’t matter. My body was just riding the waves. And when our dearest friend taught us to do handstands? When was a time before that when we had just….played? Had fun with our bodies like kids do?”
Dallas is following the suggestion. She has some experience with swimming. It’s the only recreational activity she can do here in the suburbs, and even then, only in the evening when the sun isn’t frying humans. Nairobi still doesn’t understand how the sun can set at 10 pm. Neither of the selves do, but Berlin would much prefer it to the freezing cold. She thinks these others are mad, honestly. Swimming? In this weather? She tucks a strand of red hair behind her head, reaches for a chocolate croissant, and moves closer to BA.
“I see what you are saying. I think it’s also a lesson in surrendering and riding the wave. This summer I have learned breath control and muscle control so I have a better understanding of how to move through water. Plus some kids taught me how to cannonball which was initially terrifying and then eventually fantastic. Though I’ll also say that sometimes I have gone to the pool and I hated it that day. What does that mean then? Is the pool not enough?” Dallas asks. She folds her knees to her chest, and looks up at BA.
In fact, all my selves are looking up at BA.
“What?” She exhales casually over the joint. SF reaches out and takes the joint.
“We are waiting for you to tell us! What if the pool isn’t enough?” SF is especially invested in the outcome of this conversation. SF is desperately looking for a reason that will be strong enough to fight if the assassin comes again. Or when the assassin comes again. She wants to know if keeping on fighting is worth it, or a waste of time and energy.
“Sweetie, I don’t have answers, only more experience.” BA says.
“More experience,” Nairobi rolls the phrase over in her mouth.
“More experience?” Berlin struggles.
“More experience.” Hyderabad sighs.
“More experience!” Dallas exclaims.
“More experience…with fighting the assassin?” SF asks.
“More experience with fighting the assassin. I have more experience. Each self has more experience. Different battleground, different characters, different missions, same goal. Defeat the assassin and collect gems along the way. Enjoy the battle. Or just fight it. Or just show up. Each self you see here has finished a level of the game. They have experience with the assassin, yes, but also they have more experience enjoying the alive moments, and collecting gems.” BA says.
All my selves are pondering the experience. We just got here, we have little experience. The battlegrounds are different externally, but there’s an eternal internal battle between my selves and the assassin. The more experience we have, the better we get at fighting. Or the more experiences we have, the better we feel about having stayed here this long before the assassin catches up.
“So if the pool isn’t enough we find something else. We build experience. Or we stick it out with the pool until it works. Something. Anything. Everything.” Dallas concludes.
All my selves nod quietly. They let their gazes wander to meaningless things around the balcony.
All my selves are passing a joint around. Dallas has called them here. Dallas is preparing to summon Taiwan and prep her for battle and joy. She wants the strength and wisdom of all the selves. And she can’t wait to sit down with the other selves someday soon and see how many more selves join the table.
There’s San Francisco, Berlin, Nairobi, Buenos Aires, Hyderabad, and Dallas.
Dallas summoned them. She takes a hit.
“Nice to see you again,” she says to Berlin. “You’re the one we never talk about.”
Berlin tucks her red hair behind her ears. She smells like vanilla-scented candles and freshly-baked frozen pizza. Her toes are frozen and she’s drunk off cheap apple-flavored vodka and the chaos of a first queer lover. She thinks every night will be as perfect as the night she watched Sauti Sol perform in Berlin. She’s so cute, she’s so dumb.
“Because I gained some relationship weight?”
“Naah bitch, you were never in a relationship!” Nairobi shouts. Hyderabad chuckles in the corner.
“Well, actually…” Berlin starts.
“Come on, babe. Come on.” Buenos Aires says softly.
Berlin hesitates, before dropping her shoulders. She gets it. She thinks she’s happy but she’s making questionable emotional choices, starting a domino effect of broken connections she can’t see yet. At least she’s alive though. She’s here. She’s going to sex clubs and shit. Berlin is watching this nomadic life, this promised land, finally start to happen.
“Y’all can’t blame Berlin too much, you know?” SF chimes in.
SF is wearing a hollow girl’s body with shifty eyes. She’s a patchwork, remembering how to breathe after trying to die, trying hard to stay alive. She’s putting together a solid list of things to keep living for, ways to keep fighting the assassin in her head. She’s leaning on everything and everyone she has. SF is fighting to leave and make it to Berlin, where she doesn’t have to watch shootings from her bathroom window. SF has something to prove, that she’s worthy. Of a second life, a second shot at this college thing, a second shot at queer love, a second shot at friendship, a second city. SF is thirsty for a do-over.
“All these selves are…do-overs.” This occurs to Dallas.
“Lazarus syndrome? Isn’t that too basic?” Dallas asks, disgusted.
“Uhm, we were raised in the church??? You know we love a good clean slate, nice little rebirth story,” Nairobi deadpans.
Nairobi is snarky, ill-tempered, and dangerously close to SF’s tipping point. She’s sworn not to return to Nairobi next summer. She’s heartbroken, she’s lonely, she’s frustrated, and she lives in her mother’s house. Nairobi is slicing off chunks of her identity to survive living in that house. She’s worn out from defending her identity, she feels like a child again, powerless, helpless. She’s remembering why she flew halfway across the world for a silly little degree. Nairobi can’t envision a Dallas self who voluntarily visits a church with her summer hosts. Nairobi gags. She hates the visceral feeling the memory of being forced to go to church evokes. Instead, she distracts herself chipping away at the encrusted paint underneath her stained fingernails. She spends a long time painting that summer.
“It makes sense to me though. I mean, we keep going to different places, so it makes sense to become different people,” Buenos Aires declares.
Buenos Aires is dangling a cigarette in one hand and a chilled glass of cheap box wine. Her palms are bruised from holding on tight to the rope by which her mental health dangles. She’s carrying out a consistent workout routine for a behavior change program assignment. She’s destroying her lungs but she’s shaking her ass often to reggaeton in clubs which is a healing ritual. Buenos Aires has made local friends to watch the world cup with. Buenos Aires has the highest gpa in our academic history. Mum and Dad love her. I mean, she’s a podcaster, and she went skydiving! Buenos Aires is shamelessly brave. We summoned her, and she came. When BA talks, all my selves listen.
“Thanks for being here,” Nairobi says softly. She takes a drag. Passes the joint to BA.
“Anything for you,” BA coos. Nairobi rolls her eyes back. All the selves laugh. Nairobi is so prickly. But you have to be prickly to survive Nairobi as a soft bag of flesh. Some people wear armor to protect themselves in Nairobi. Money, sex, power, drugs. Some people grow thorns and become prickly. It’s cheaper. You just need enough anger and sadness.
“You know I had a shit time too, right?” BA says. Hyderabad stirs in her cushion on the floor.
“Did someone say a shit time?” She asks, yawning and stretching like a cat from a nap. Her hair is a chameleon, a transition between multiple colors. She smells like Vick’s vapor rub and ginger cookies. She spends a lot of time in bed, fighting the assassin and contemplating the meaning of home, love, and family. She barely makes it to class on a good day. She took an expensive, innovative electromagnetic depression treatment but the assassin is still lurking. And she can’t leave her queerness packed in the suitcase if she goes home because her mother might go through her things again, and then what?
“Yeah, you had a rough time. I like how you handled many things, though. You had…optimism. Drive. Strength. Grit. All things I am searching for here, but I can’t find in myself,” Hyderabad says.
The selves nod slowly. BA passes Hyderabad some wine.
“This is some good stuff. I know I used to make fun of the high sugar content but I miss this cheap nice wine.” Hyderabad admits.
“Ayo, you got into yoga?” Berlin interrupts, eyeing Hyderabad incredulously. Unrelated. We aren’t surprised. We know how randomly the thought trains stop abruptly in our head, how they change course, how often they collide, how difficult it is sometimes to trace the origin of a thought.
“Yeah, I did! I was stretching and lengthening, all of that!” Hyd says. “Also, I did a brief stint on YouTube as a food vlogger. And, I connected with some queer Africans in the diaspora!”
“To trying new things!” Dallas yells.
“See who thinks they’re an adult now because they went to a strip club,” SF jeers. There’s a slight, playful twinkle in her dead eyes. All my selves turn first towards SF, then to Dallas. If Dallas hadn’t tanned so much, she probably would be turning red.
“I know you’re just jealous,” Dallas counters, lowering her voice and meeting the twinkle with a smug smile.
“Oh my God, just tell us about it!” Hyderabad begs, inching closer to Dallas and sitting at her feet.
“Naah, in fact, let’s get down to business.” Dallas asserts. She sits up straight. “I called you here for a reason. I called you because I was drowning and I wanted to know how you kept swimming to the other end of the pool. Sometimes I’m swimming but the end of the pool keeps shifting, even though I know there is an end and it’s coming. I want to get better at swimming to the end of the pool.”
San Francisco hits the joint. She remembers the sound of sand crunching underneath her boots as she walked away from the beach, waving goodbye to the ocean before overdosing on her meds in her college dorm. She looks up at Dallas, who recreated and rewrote the beach memory with a lover this summer. There’s a silent thank you there, to SF for fighting enough to bring Dallas to the beach, and to Dallas for reframing our favorite place on earth. And to the unsung lover. And to the ocean. To all bodies of water.
Water.
All my selves are fluid like water.
“Maybe that can be it. Actual swimming.” BA chimes in.
“Say more…” Nairobi eggs on.
“The day I went swimming in Bellini, when I was still living in Palermo, at the height of the horrible shared living situation, the water just cleansed me. It can be spiritual. Or it can be practical. Or it can be recreational. Exercise. Hot water, freezing water. Didn’t matter. My body was just riding the waves. And when our dearest friend taught us to do handstands? When was a time before that when we had just….played? Had fun with our bodies like kids do?”
Dallas is following the suggestion. She has some experience with swimming. It’s the only recreational activity she can do here in the suburbs, and even then, only in the evening when the sun isn’t frying humans. Nairobi still doesn’t understand how the sun can set at 10 pm. Neither of the selves do, but Berlin would much prefer it to the freezing cold. She thinks these others are mad, honestly. Swimming? In this weather? She tucks a strand of red hair behind her head, reaches for a chocolate croissant, and moves closer to BA.
“I see what you are saying. I think it’s also a lesson in surrendering and riding the wave. This summer I have learned breath control and muscle control so I have a better understanding of how to move through water. Plus some kids taught me how to cannonball which was initially terrifying and then eventually fantastic. Though I’ll also say that sometimes I have gone to the pool and I hated it that day. What does that mean then? Is the pool not enough?” Dallas asks. She folds her knees to her chest, and looks up at BA.
In fact, all my selves are looking up at BA.
“What?” She exhales casually over the joint. SF reaches out and takes the joint.
“We are waiting for you to tell us! What if the pool isn’t enough?” SF is especially invested in the outcome of this conversation. SF is desperately looking for a reason that will be strong enough to fight if the assassin comes again. Or when the assassin comes again. She wants to know if keeping on fighting is worth it, or a waste of time and energy.
“Sweetie, I don’t have answers, only more experience.” BA says.
“More experience,” Nairobi rolls the phrase over in her mouth.
“More experience?” Berlin struggles.
“More experience.” Hyderabad sighs.
“More experience!” Dallas exclaims.
“More experience…with fighting the assassin?” SF asks.
“More experience with fighting the assassin. I have more experience. Each self has more experience. Different battleground, different characters, different missions, same goal. Defeat the assassin and collect gems along the way. Enjoy the battle. Or just fight it. Or just show up. Each self you see here has finished a level of the game. They have experience with the assassin, yes, but also they have more experience enjoying the alive moments, and collecting gems.” BA says.
All my selves are pondering the experience. We just got here, we have little experience. The battlegrounds are different externally, but there’s an eternal internal battle between my selves and the assassin. The more experience we have, the better we get at fighting. Or the more experiences we have, the better we feel about having stayed here this long before the assassin catches up.
“So if the pool isn’t enough we find something else. We build experience. Or we stick it out with the pool until it works. Something. Anything. Everything.” Dallas concludes.
All my selves nod quietly. They let their gazes wander to meaningless things around the balcony.
All my selves are passing a joint around. Dallas has called them here. Dallas is preparing to summon Taiwan and prep her for battle and joy. She wants the strength and wisdom of all the selves. And she can’t wait to sit down with the other selves someday soon and see how many more selves join the table.