Atlas and Alice, Issue 16
Myna Chang
Playground Justice In the grit of a 1975 farm town, 9-year-old girls weigh about 60 pounds, even wicked little girls with bad women for mommas, divorced mommas, but the boys that age are bigger, taller, and they’re allowed to bring their footballs to the playground, because there are no rules for boys on the playground, they can do whatever they want, after all, the playground is where you learn about yourself, Mrs. Gibson says, the boys can kick and hit and play with their blue Nerf footballs because that’s where you figure out who you are; but girls can’t bring toys outside, especially Barbie dolls, everyone knows Barbie will get broken—it’s her own fault—even when Barbie tries to stay away from the boys, especially when Barbie hides, she still gets hit and kicked, she still gets broken, and teacher says you know better than to bring a doll to the playground, what did you think was gonna happen, you wicked little girl? and the boys are just doing what boys do, you’re not really hurt, quit whining; so I try not to be wicked, I really do, but John finds me every day and punches my arms, kicks my legs, leaves his mark, every recess he laughs, and I tell him he sounds like Susie Wagner’s dad’s goat because I can’t stand his bleating jeer in my ears anymore, so he hits me in the chest, aims for my scratchy training bra, where my breasts are trying to bloom, and maybe the impact knocks me down, I can’t be sure, all I see is black, swirling tight, pierced with pinprick mercury bursts, dark sky, stars sharp and I curl in on myself, too late, again too late to dodge his fist, but I can still breathe so I do, I take a breath and uncoil, straighten my back and scream; but that’s the wrong word for it: my noise is heavier, weightier, anguish and rage unleashed, dissonance exploding out of my 60 pound body like Coca-Cola from a shaken can, bubbles bursting, spewing it hurts, I hurt, you’re breaking me, and I forget that I’m a person, that
30
