Something Autobiographical
by Ruth Nineke

Available soon on Amazon

White Meat, Pt 1

Some mornings I’d ride my bike through his neighborhood, careful to never go down his street, on his block. I’d observe the beauty, the calm and silent serenity of that picturesque reality he’d been given. The wide streets, the clean curbs, the large houses, and maintained lawns. The satellite dishes. The lush trees, everywhere, delivering oxygen to his people.

How could he not know, or want, or appreciate the advantageous place he’d landed in life?

Everything came back to money for me. I wanted to have more, so much more that treating myself to a new dress didn’t feel like something that would be a setback. I wanted to have so much money that I had more than two pairs of “good” pants. I wanted stylish pants that flattered and fit me and washed well and lasted long. I wanted enough money that I didn’t have to eat the same things everyday or feel guilty for eating out or ordering in.

I wanted enough money to live my life and enjoy the world and still be able to one day own the place I lived.

But more and more it feels I will choose to enjoy my life because all I have are present moments, fleeting-to-new memories, and he has that house and his history and a lifetime of memories in one place with people who know him and he takes it all for granted.

I was so jealous of them all. Those blue collared working class white boys with their union jobs and their union fathers and their uncles and cousins and cop friends and stability.

All they had ever known was that quaint and quiet, simple, uncomplicated, it-takes-a-village, good life. They had it so good that they couldn’t even ever imagine another life another way.

And I hated them for their blindness. I hated them for their fortune. I hated them for their attraction to me and mine, and for my attraction to them because they were not the charming, intelligent and virtuous demigods which romance novels and soap operas and JC Penney catalogs would make me believe existed.

I’d had certain ideas of what these men were going to be and they were every possible opposite. They were a disappointment. They were basic and vulgar. They were avoidant and vile. They were indifferent, self-centered, and dismissive.

Worse than all that though, they were impotent.




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