The Brand

Reprieve

"I did not direct my life. I didn't design it. I never made decisions. Things always came up and made them for me. That's what life is."

-B. F. Skinner

"S and M is only the expression in the bedroom of an oppressive-submissive relation which can happen also in the kitchen or at the factory, can happen between people of any gender. There is obviously something titillating about these relationships, but it isn't the sexual components that makes them ugly, they're uglier elsewhere. Nothing sexual is depraved. Only cruelty is depraved, and that's another matter."

-Marilyn French

"To split yourself in two is just the most radical thing you can do

So girl if that shit ain't up to you, then you simply are not free

Cause from the sunlight on my hair to which eggs I grow to term

To the expression that I wear, all I really own is me

Ani DeFranco

1

Tribal Vibes tattoo and body piercing salon was jam-packed with clients, their significant others and various additional spectators. It was decorated with wall to wall used books, furnished with a few black vinyl sofas and love seats, a lot of natural light coming through its huge windows and hundreds of potted plants and draped vines. With the intention of boosting business, because there was no crime in making good business better, its owner recently remodeled his four hundred square foot space to include a coffee and juice bar.

It certainly had increased and changed his demographic and, as long as he didn't get a liquor license to boot, the bikers would continue to mingle peacefully enough with greater Hartford's Nouveau riche. That day, a Thursday, all sorts of folks plotted, schemed, gossiped and gawked; teens exerting their rite of passage, twenty something vegans looking for something else and the over thirty "no thanks, just looking" office break crowd stopping by to get a coffee or a wheat grass and carrot juice.

"Oh my God no, not there!" shrieked his latest client.

They were two friends, maybe lovers, and the odor of marijuana smoke fresh in their clothes and hair. Polly, the one who thought she wanted a clitoral piercing, was the prettier; small nose, diminutive chin, blonde haired and blue eyed, a small jeweled stud gleaming from the end of her left eye brow. The other, not having given her name, had brown eyes, wore a shoulder length mop of black hair streaked lengthwise with stripes of silver, a silver ring hidden under the shadow of her nose; her expression ghoulishly eager. The piercer, a kind man, handsome, suitably pierce decked himself, brown haired, neatly trimmed bearded and mustached, his eyes a disarming grey brown, still had Polly gently by her clitoris. Feigningly Bemused, he said:

"But, that's what you said you wanted; a clit piercing."

Polly stared fearfully down at the morsel of flesh between the man's latex gloved thumb and forefinger.

"This," he continued; shaking Polly's clit slightly, "Is your clitoris."

Polly simultaneously shivered, gasped and reddened as she turned to regard her friend, who had also just flushed with embarrassment as she folded the other's jeans and panties neatly upon her lap. It didn't surprise him anymore that there were still the client's, striving for worldliness and sophistication, who yet still didn't know their clitoris from their commissure.

"Tell you what," the piercer said serenely as he let go of Polly's dry little bud, "I know exactly what you're looking for. But, you tell me what you think."

The body artist, on his wheeled stool, pushed himself back from Polly's closing legs. From a stainless steel table on his left, he withdrew a single q tip from a canister of a hundred or so, lubricated it, and then wheeled himself back to Polly. He gestured for her to open her legs again. Polly looked to her companion for assurance. She got a shrug. Polly opened her legs. The piercer then scooted his way in closer, gently parted Polly's outer and inner labia, raised the lazy eye lid of her clitoral hood, and then carefully tucked the q's tip beneath it. The young women looked on, their fearfulness and shame abruptly giving way to puzzlement and fascination.

"Clitoris piercings are actually very rare," he explained, his hands steady, his kind eyes fixed on Polly's, "But, to get the most bang for your buck, you'd be much better off with a hood piercing. This, is the q tip test. You can see that most of the tip is covered by your clitoral hood.

This means you have enough tissue there for a vertical piercing. It would be very painless and very pretty, and fun, once you find the jewelry you want to see and feel there. See; how thin the tissue is? You can see through it. I mean; you're just right for this kind of piercing."

Polly glanced into the man's warm gaze, at the q tip jutting out from beneath her clitoral hood, and then back at the man. Presently, she nodded, a look of calculation changing her expression. Once more, she turned to regard her friend. The friend raised an eye brow, tilted her head, and assessed the artist poised at her companion's open legs, and then looked back at Polly and shrugged in agreement.

The body artist himself shrugged and moved on. He conducted a more thorough inspection, to be certain that Polly had no veins in the area he'd be puncturing. Finding none, he cleaned the area. Gathered his sterilized NRT, needle receiving tube, unpackaged a 14g captive bead ring, and then asked Polly to part her knees further. Focused, the piercer fit the business end of the tube beneath Polly's hood and, being able to see the end of the small metal cylinder through the membrane, he centered its position over the young woman's clitoris so that whatever jewelry she chose would ride nicely against it. Then, gently and securely poised, he prepared to push the needle; just as an insistent knock rattled the door. Again, Polly gasped and both she and her friend jumped in their seats. The body artist had learned his patience, and so slowly sat back, his needle still gone unengaged in his gloved hand. Sighing, he prepared to go to the door as Polly pulled her sweater down over her exposed sex. But, the knob turned, the door opened and, holding a glass of juice in her hand, entered a handsome young woman dressed in a black long winter coat.

"Wheat grass," she said, "Really Vance? This isn't tasty at all."

"Vic?" said Vance; stunned, "Oh my God, where have you been?"

"I've been busy." Victria answered, "I need to talk to you."

Victria took a sip of her juice as she eyed the two other women in the room. A soured expression crossed her face, and Vance wasn't sure if it was because of the taste of her drink or because of the presence of the two other women."

"Okay." Vance replied, still astonished by his little sister's sudden appearance, "Just; let me get this piercing done."

"Does Mom know you do this?"

"Kind of."

Again, Victria assessed the two young women.

"I'll be outside." She said, "Excuse me; ladies."

Victria left the room and went back to the bar to exchange her juice for an expresso. Then, wandering through the building, she came upon what appeared to be Vance's office. Stepping inside, she scanned the prints of tattoos that covered his walls, and then made herself comfortable on the couch set opposite his desk. There, she sipped her coffee and waited; examining her brother's renderings of thorny roses, barbed wire, dragons and birds of paradise and the framed copy of his psychology degree hanging over his desk. A few moments more, she saw Vance round the corner and lean against the door jam. His arms folded, the jewels in his right ear, right eye brow and bottom lip catching the room's light, Vance appraised his little sister with an expression of concern.

2

There is no mistaking that a dichotomy concerning the perception of shit exists. We are dismayed to find another's unflushed, but we bask in the glory of taking a good one of our own. One can be a total shit head while another can be the shit. We can work a shit job or we can do something for shits and giggles. It can be holy as much as it can be not given. It can be everything one owns, and it can encapsulate the extent of one's knowledge of a subject or procedure. BDSM? That's some crazy shit! While we know our shit, we don't know shit. And that naked girl right there, the one, hand cuffed and locked in that cage; she can't do shit. But, the truth is; she can.

I've been in deeper shit than this, she thought; the crying done, her eyes dry, her cheek still painful to the touch. I still can't believe, she thought, I actually bit her. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. Inside her mouth still lingered the taste of Victria's flesh and blood; metallic, copper, like a mouthful of sex, only angrier. Melody sighed. She'll have to get rid of me now, she supposed. Or; not: maybe I'll be understood and corrected. I don't know. I thought you were supposed to shoot the dog that bit its master. Melody shuddered before finishing the thought, and then began to cry anew. It'll be a long walk to the shelter. I'm not aggressive. I'm just afraid. I didn't mean it. We do; we do need a revision to the contract. We need to institute a behavior intervention plan. I'll be better Victria, I swear. I promise, I'll be good. I was good, before. Before; I was good.

Discrete Trial 1:

a. Melody places one PECS picture card and one PECS word card on the table in front of Lianne.

b. Melody says "point to the ball."

c. Lianne responds by pointing to the picture card.

d. Melody says "That's right! Great job!"

e. Brief pause before a new discrete trial begins.

Discrete Trial 2:

a. Melody places the same two cards on the table in front of Lianne.

b. Melody says "point to the card that has the word ball written on it."

c. Lianne responds by pointing to the card with the word ball written under the picture of the ball.

d. Melody says "You're right! That's awesome!"

Luella Harper was nice enough. She was kind to her students and good to her staff. But, she was lazy; stringing the days along until retirement. She had eight children in her resource room. It was a resource room, in name only, sometimes, when the principal was making his rounds. But, in reality, it was an MD room, a self-contained classroom for students with multiple disabilities. At least that's what it was in Luella Harper's reality; the verging on snow birding in Florida, reality. To her young paras, her adult support, it was another reality. You just sit there and do jack shit while the rest of us do all the work with the kids. There were three of them, Luella's adult supports: Zulaika, Kathleen and Melody. And still, within that reality, was another: the reality of Mel and Lianne.

Lianne, as pretty a little girl as they came, age seven, long brown hair, big brown eyes; had also been born with a set of cognitive circumstances her parents hadn't at all anticipated. At sixteen months, they had suspicions. By twenty-four months, Jim and Judy Childress, had concerns. Lianne fought everything; eating, walking, talking and potty training.

There had been many nights at home when both Judy and Lianne, each being put through the rigors of the other's resistance, were inconsolable. The district's birth to three program could do nothing but include Lianne. Once there, Lianne resisted, fought, resisted again and retreated; isolating herself in a carpeted corner, under a bean bag, flipping through a single picture book of tropical fish.

That, was essentially how Leanne's educational program went until early elementary: staff giving it their best shot to teach her something until they let her be, once she resorted, again and again, to scratching and biting as a means of avoidance. Then, finally, shortly after her sixth birthday, the educational psychologist conducted her assessments, which led to a certified BCBA coming in to make additional observations and conduct his assessments, which ultimately led to the irrefutable conclusion that Lianne was coming from somewhere within the autistic spectrum.

Both Jim and Judy appeared relieved once given the news at a subsequent program review. It became their conviction then that, now that what was going on with their daughter had a name, she could be helped. But, the expressions, from across the table, the school psychologist, the vice principal and the BCBA, did not reflect that same hope. Beyond Jim and Judy, the only even remotely positive attitude in the school's PPT room that day was that of Leanne's new special education teacher, Luela Harper.

Shortly after, Luella Harper began to do what she could with what she had. She took her notes from the BCBA, went to his suggested web links, gathered his recommended text from the district's academic resource library and printed multiple copies of his template forms. Once she made her cursory review, Mrs. Harper decided that, while she would of course write Leanne's program, Ms. May would study all the material she'd collected, do the direct instruction, and then write up all the data on her student's progress. Luella didn't care how it appeared to her adult supports. That, was how it was done. Certified staff programmed and support staff executed the lesson plans; leaving Luella more time to snack on chocolate and search the Internet for antique porcelain figurines.

As Mrs. Harper expected, Melody took the materials without question, studied up and went about her work with Lianne, while Zulaika and Kathleen complained as they read to, fed or diapered their own severely needy students. What she hadn't expected however, was that Lianne was showing increasingly obvious signs of progress. The child's transition had been God awful, of course, for everyone. But, once Melody had gotten Lianne into her routines, the girl became settled into the classroom environment, fought instruction less and less and evolved from a wholly non-verbal child to one that spoke disconnected, though much welcomed, echolalic strings of random phrases.

"You certainly have taken that young lady a long way." Remarked Luella one day, six months later, "You know her parents are very happy with the program."

She was seated at her desk, during a quiet lunch with Melody; a turkey and cheese sandwich in one hand, Ms. May's latest data under the other. Melody was picking at her school lunch of tofu imitation chicken and potato nuggets when she turned to regard Harper. Their eyes met. Melody regarded the older woman's age gaunt yet pleasant face, and nodded. It was true, with or without the data. Melody had established a rapport, over the preceding five months, through regular communication with Judy Childress. Both she and Jim were elated. Lianne was communicating by behavior when she needed to use the bathroom. She was washing her hands with minimal support. She was sleeping more at night, using a fork to eat with and, though she was only repeating bits and pieces of whatever they were saying, Jim and Judy were loving the adorable sound of Leanne's imitative speech during dinner.

"Thank you." Said Harper, meaning it with her eyes.

Melody raised an eye brow, poked a bite of fake chicken into her mouth and shrugged. Chewing, she daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin. Looking away from Harper, Melody then began to nervously play with the ends of her long golden brown hair.

"For what?" she asked.

"All the great work you do that I don't." answered Luella.

Melody smiled inwardly and let go of her hair. Cover Your ass; is what they say. So, given the time she'd spent reading up on the spectrum, putting Lianne through her paces and recording the data, hers was covered. As for Harper's, that wasn't Melody's problem. And, it wasn't even Luella's problem. She still had her experience and seniority. She still wrote an appropriate Individualized education plan and drafted achievable goals. How hard can it be, Melody mused. Figure out where the kid is. Set a target for where she needs to go. Fill out all the blanks, cross the t's, dot the i's and always have the data to show the authority that wants to see it.

"You know Mel," continued Luella, "If you get certified as a BCBA, you can just about write your own paycheck. All you really need is to go through one of those accelerated special education teaching programs, do your practicum, get a couple of school years in, pass the behaviorist test and you can just about work anywhere."

Melody would have asked what a BCBA was, if she hadn't been embarrassed for not knowing. I should, she scolded herself, and having read all that material Lue gave me to read.

"Anywhere?" Melody asked, smiling, her gaze wandering off somewhere to the right.

"Are you kidding?" Luella laughed, "Autism has become so globally prevalent, you've got teachers from China, India and the Middle East traveling all the way here, paying big bucks, to learn what they can from our behavior gurus!"

After lunch, Melody had a few moments to phone surf. A BCBA is a Board Certified Behavior Analyst. Duh, I should have figured that out for myself. Hmm, Arizona State has a program. So does UMASS. Ooh; federally funded? Courses and tuition paid for by the government; all program fees waved after five years of employment in the field? Hmm, let's see. A. Degree requirement: Possession of, at minimum, a master's degree that was conferred in behavior analysis or other natural science, education, human services, engineering, medicine or a field related to behavior analysis and approved by the BACB. Okay.

"Time to get back to work!" said Melody as she took her seat across from Lianne.

She was observed by Kathleen and Zulaika to have had a fun time in music. Now, music over and Melody's lunch over, it was time to resume the trials. Sure, echolalia was alright, but not appropriate if you couldn't use it to make a request. Melody, through her reading and her discussions with Luella, understood that part of her job was to draw Lianne to the outside of herself, the self that had awareness of and could be engaged by others.

But, exactly how to do that was the question. What motivated Lianne? Staying in her inside motivated Lianne; picture after picture of tropical fish motivated Lianne and brushing her own hair motivated Lianne. So, which one could she get her to ask for today?

"Lianne?" asked Melody, "Use your words: do you want to see fishies or brush hair?"

Melody paused. Lianne slowly swayed in her chair, her big pretty eyes staring in no particular direction, her palms drumming a disjointed beat upon the low table between them. Then, suddenly, she said:

"Do you want to look at fishies or do you want to brush hair?"

Good, thought Melody. An echo is a start. She's still in a good mood, but let's step it up, hopefully without her freaking out again. It was just the afternoon before when Ms. May wanted Lianne to use her words, but she ultimately ran away screaming to the book corner and buried herself under the pillows.

"Lianne?" continued Melody, "Choose one: see fishies or brush hair?"

Again, she paused. Lianne too paused. Then, seconds later, the child quickly went through a short repertoire of physical behaviors she'd demonstrated through past lessons: touched her head, touched her shoulders, touched her nose and felt the table before her, pushed her fish picture book, and then scraped the table with the brush. But still, no spoken choice. Melody marked her DT sheet. Okay, trial three, she thought. Everyone else was in the room, each set of adult supports and students doing their thing, but Melody was oblivious to them all.

"Lianne?" she repeated, "Choose one. Use your words; see fishies or brush hair?"

That's when the screaming and gnashing of teeth started, just as it had the day before. Again, Lianne pantomimed answers to questions she wasn't being asked. But now, she was upset about it, as if offended by Melody's audacity to ask her such a thing as to make a coherent and meaningful utterance. How dare she? But, why be offended? Why not come outside of yourself to do something you like? Why go through what you already know? Because you don't know the answer or because crossing the line to a social outside hurts your autistic brain too much to try? On and on Lianne screamed and howled, almost, oddly enough, operatically. She rose from her seat. Melody, ready for a scratch, ready for a bite, rose too from her chair.