Toy Fairies

My letter to you today about Nolan's cross-dressing grandfather reminded me of a time about myself that I have never shared with anyone. Not mother. Not father. Not sister nor the maid; who made money selling bangles under the coconut tree by Russell Avenue, when she was not in our house. But being twenty five and open about literacy and sexuality, empowers me to write to you about my life as Lola. 

Imagine me, thirteen, in an orange frill dress, swirling and twirling to songs of the land, with palm leaves swaying, power lines spinning, and the sun and moon violently rioting against a blue, cloudless sky. I am smiling at myself, and clinking scores and scores of bangles buttoning my hands, in a secluded corner of our gray, cemented roof. And I feel like Lola. A strong, powerful, independent girl, in the shape of a man. The frills give me power. The bangles make me stern. The powder on my cheeks makes me stiff, and upper-lipped like the Victorian girl from television. My hands are in a V sprouting from my chest, and I am spinning like a top. My feet are buried in sandals, and the frills form cones from my waist to my legs, churning air, fanning bees, and giving out an aroma of mandarin sugar. I am lip sticked in pink, caked in foundation, and pieces of handkerchief are pinned to my hair. And I am giggling at myself; my smiles vanishing in the tips of my fingers. The heaviness of the evening air feels like clusters of cherries slipping down the plateau of my light brown cheeks. And in a shrill resonant screech, I yelp out loud Lola, it's time. 

My neighbor from West Street sees me like that. And freezes. And tip toes away to her ground floor bed. Through her windows I see thongs and rosaries splayed across a tray of tiles. 

For five years after, the Rosenthals and Silvermans, know me as Lola. Little brown Lola, in orange frills and make up. In cloth hair and rhinestones. In white nails and necklace. In pearls and turquoise and violent diamonds. Spinning on a roof. Gaping at the sky. Twirling and spinning and whirling and coiling. Wriggling and swooshing and purling and roiling. Flapping my soul till I fall to the ground. 

This is me, Lola. Welcome to the other side of me.