Once Upon a Time in My Oceania

Trigger Warning: this article contains adult content and references to sexual abuse and domestic violence Her eyes are tired, her gaze locked on the gray tile below, and silence is stretched out between us while we stand there. It's Sunday morning and in the crowded space of our church's ladies restroom there's two other young girls quickly checking their hair in the only mirror in the building. One sixteen year old is raving over the pale pink nail polish she convinced her parents to allow her to paint her nails the day before. The other disappointingly remarking that she's not allowed to indulge in the luxury but is sporting a rich perfume that is not only turning my stomach, but also choking me to death. I recognize the scent since I have an aunt who wears it. Letting out a discrete cough, I rest the back of my head against the floral wallpaper behind me, my only thought on finishing up as soon as possible with my own primping once my turn comes before the worship

Surrender My past life was a big contradiction. Being told one thing, but seeing it done a different way. Certain things felt as if their very definitions went against each other. Love, for example, was said to be without limits and yet, there were limitations everywhere I looked. Who was deserving of it (no one), who received it (some, but not all). Mercy was taught and said to have been given, but each mistake was scrutinized.  The very moment you were shown grace by an almighty power, then the real war had begun, they told us. Be prepared for a fight, we were warned, because there's nothing more hated than a Christian. I came to find that the list of enemies was long, that it continued to grow, and eventually it became apparent that everyone hated me. Believing that because you are the "peculiar people" that you were hated only isolated a group more. There were restrictions on how we worshipped, who we could worship with, and what we were worshipping about. It wa

Trigger Warning: child physical abuse They were the biggest set of blue eyes I'd ever seen. I'm watching him closely, but giving him his space as we sit across from each other on the unpadded brown carpet. His tiny pudgy hands push two cars around; one red, the other green. He's nearly three and according to my communities word-of-mouth rules, too old to be in the nursery. But here we are, me in my last teen months eyeing him like a hawk and him, going about quietly playing. He doesn't look odd and for the life of me I don't understand the rumors. There's no way this semi-quiet little boy, making tracks on the floor with matchbox cars is demon possessed.  Suddenly, without a second thought, I chuckle and those big blue eyes find mine again. Caught. This time I just smile when I'm unexpectedly handed a monster truck that was just fished out of a wooden toy box nearby. I remember that play bin. It's been around since I was a child, but rarely I see

Information Control My palms are sweaty, my face grows warm, and the embarrassment takes control while I'm hopelessly searching my brain for the answer to the question that I was just asked. I haven't got a clue, so now I'm oddly smiling and offering up a helpless shrug. "I don't know," I finally say after awhile and the dumbfounded look from the person across from me makes me want to disappear. But, not knowing is the truth and although, yes, I have lied in the past, coming up with an acceptable answer, I've learned lying can dig you deeper into a hole of unexplainable excuses that isn't easy to climb out of.  I choose honesty this time.  "I don't know that movie." I repeat and now it's my turn to uncomfortably laugh with the stun expression the person I'm in a conversation with is wearing over that fact, that when it comes to most pop culture, I don't know much.  For many years, movies, theaters, any music other tha

My Oceania wasn't Winston Smith's Airstripe One that settled on what used to be London.  Mine looked more like rural towns, bumpy backroads rarely paved and farmland stretched out on every side. There were fields of peanuts where the smallest breeze kicked up dust, leaving a sheer coat of dirt on the windows of your vehicle while you drove past. It wasn't cool or damp often unless it was early Spring or an unusual cold front that would move in after a Summer thunderstorm would interrupt your mid-afternoon plans. And instead of rows and rows of townhouses and complexes made of brick—crumbling or otherwise—there were old farmhouses, weather worn boards showing and the commonly peeling paint trademark that would pop up every few miles or so in between towns and right outside of their limits. This isn't the town I lived in but rather the well memorized trek that led to the one place mine and my family's lives revolved around. Oddly, the destination isn't threateni