Justice, Faith and Power
"The pride of a free woman is the pride of a woman who feels herself to be the equal of a man. The pride of the slave girl is the pride of the girl who knows that no other woman is the equal of herself."
- John Norman
"It is easier to live through someone else than to complete yourself. The freedom to lead and plan your own life is frightening if you have never faced it before. It is frightening when a woman finally realizes that there is no answer to the question 'who am I' except the voice inside herself."
- Betty Friedan
*****
1
Inside Melody's mind, she was beaten, battered, bruised and soar. She was bound, ankles and wrists. Around her head was tied a soft scarf, perhaps silk, but sheer. The scarf was cool on her skin, but did not obscure her sight, at least not as much as she would have liked. Yet so it was, captivated by her memory, concepts altered, perceptions reversed and intentions denied by her own malicious little gremlin thoughts. Melody's scarf blindfold, she'd imagined into place as much as the own worst enemy of herself altered its quality to sheerness, the vail gone, the threat of truth laid out before her inner view.
Melody was set with her back against a sun baked wall of grit battered brown brick. The sky stretched out above her, cloudless and shimmering blue. She knew the Rocky Mountain peaks were somewhere behind, the high Colorado plains, around her and the wide horizons of Kansas and Nebraska ahead ever eastward. Melody also knew that the highway, in all its beneficent lack of cruelty and judgement, ran behind the wall at her back and flowed eastward beyond the barriers of chain link fencing that penned in the square of playground before her.
She could see them, little children, dangling from the jungle gym, climbing and hanging. They slid down the slides, palms and the backs of their bare legs squeaking against the steel, their faces devoid of youthful exuberance and their eyes glazed over. They sat in the swings, lazily dragging their little feet or kicking themselves into a slow spin on the roundabout. They were all waiting, toe headed, buzz cut and pig tailed, staring down into the grass, across the yard or through the empty off kilter squares of the fence.
Melody too, was waiting. Or was it an extended postponement? No, it was an interruption, a suspension. Waiting for what, Melody? Waiting for what? What was the point of a blindfold if you could still see through it? The scarf fell away then, and with it, the children disappeared too. Then the light changed. The sky changed. The surface of an ocean crowded in like a big circus tent. Melody watched its rippling, churning current from her place against the brick wall.
Under the dim, bruise purple aquarium light inside her head, Melody felt the obdurate steel around her ankles and wrists. Those, she didn't imagine away, since, thanks to her mistress, feeling fettered had become a comfort. But where she was inside her head, was another matter. Another day was dawning, and then there would be another high noon. And this time, this time she would be gone too. He'd done it on purpose, left her behind, just to make it all that much harder on her.
The playground before her had become little more than a former junk yard turned vacant lot, as if a tornado had pulled up the jungle gym and the slide and all the rest, and cleaned it of its worst, leaving little islands of grass and weeds, chunks of metal pipes and cement strewn all about. Then Melody saw her little dog, Spanky, sniffing the ground, finding a stick to chew. Smiling, Melody watched his approach, and then his heeling against the wall by her feet. You are my little big dog, she mused, and yes you are. Huh baby? Yes you are.
Then she noticed how she was dressed, blue gingham, and, as her skirt fluttered in the wind, Melody saw that upon her feet were her ruby red slippers. Her smile faded then. Her tears began to fall anew, cleaning a clear path through the dust and dried blood on her cheeks and lips. Melody shut her eyes tight. Presently, she felt the gentle pressure of a warm wet washcloth upon her face. Someone cared. Of course someone cared, silly. Open your eyes. I'm afraid. What's there to be afraid of? You'll probably imagine Victria here along with you, dressed just like you or like... Oh, don't think that.
Melody saw the sudden gun flash, Victria's body naked in its light, the wicked witch's pointed black hat on her head, its wide black brim tilted forward. If I go back, she'll shoot me. No she won't! You're crazy! Of course I'm crazy. I don't want to leave here. He's going to come for me and finish me here, and that'll be that. It'll be better that way. Still, Melody wouldn't open her eyes. Still, the gentle hand wiped the blood and grime from her face. Maybe it's the old woman. I guess, maybe. Maybe it's the pretty tall one. She would certainly make the Good Witch's gown look much better. It could be I guess. Or, it could be him. Fine. Let's get this over with.
Melody's eyes snapped open, and there he was. But, he wasn't who she expected. Still, he, a very tall, lean, black man, dressed in a black tux and tails, a jeweled string tie around his neck and a stove pipe hat on his head, was no less startling. She knew he was of African descent, not because of his complexion, but because of the shape of his clean white toothy smile. Of course his face and hands were black, but rather they were the black of the night sky, of outer space, his eyes two distant twinkling stars. Melody looked down at his hands, the left holding the washcloth, soiled with her dirt and blood, the other holding a glass of what smelled like rum, hot rum, steeped in chili peppers. Melody stared at his hands and was sure that if he'd taken hold of her, she'd flow right into his fingers and disappear forever into oblivion. So are you my way out?
"You know, you really should go back now." He said, his voice smooth, somehow West Indian and coming from everywhere.
"Who, who are you? Melody asked.
The man, the figment, laughed, his bright smile broad and fathomless, as it shook the ground. Spanky started to bark. He got to his feet and tried to get his teeth on the hem of his pant leg, but the little dog couldn't find purchase because the man's body was apparently intangible to the dog's touch.
"I'm your principal." Answered the man, "Your suspension is over. It's time for you to come back to school."
Melody suddenly felt the steel shackles loosen, and then drop from her wrists and ankles. She looked into his bright star eyes.
"Somehow," she said, "I don't believe you."
The tall man laughed again, this time more heartily. The ground quaked, and Melody fell at his feet. Spanky was bounced about, his feet scrambling.
"Very well then," the man continued, "Then I am the great and powerful Oz!"
Melody got back to her feet and brushed herself off.
"No," she said, "You're not him either. Oz was dressed in green. Are you, are you God?"
That time, the man didn't laugh. Melody began to nervously twirl her hair around her left index finger and stare into his nebulous face.
"Maybe." He said, his little star eyes gleaming light years away.
They were both silent for a time. Spanky began to sniff around and through the man's feet. Melody continued to twirl her hair, something she hadn't done since she was a child, as she watched the tall man drink his peppered rum.
"Why are you denying yourself the freedom of the world?" he asked her finally, "Why are you hiding here so deeply inside yourself?"
Melody looked away.
"If you were God, you'd know why." She answered.
The man hummed a small laugh, and made the earth tremble slightly under Melody's feet. Spanky sprang into another fit of anxious barking.
"I am God enough to know," he said, "Silly girl, why and why not."
