Read Online I'm Supposed to Protect You from All This by Nadja Spiegelman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nadja Spiegelman
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me and thought that this was both because of my femininity and my lack of it.
â
Oui, mon chat?
â she said, beckoning me to come sit by her.
âI have to tell you something,â I said.
âWhat is it?â she asked, concern in her voice, her hand on my knee.
I wasnât sure I could find the words. âIâve been . . . Iâve been . . . Iâve been ripping out all of my hair. You know, all of the hair that grows . . . down there,â I said. For months, for nearly a year, I hadbeen tearing out my pubic hair by the handful, furious with my body. The skin was raw and scabbed.
I felt her stiffen, saw the discomfort in her posture. I had crossed a line with her, for neither the first time nor the last. I could not seem to learn where she stopped and I began, what I should and should not share.
âIs this also while youâre touching yourself?â she said, her voice held even.
âNo!â I said, horrified at the idea that my mother would think I masturbated, although I did.
Perhaps this was the wrong answer, or perhaps my mother felt uncomfortable with herself for having asked. Either way, she shut down, withdrew her hand, went cold.
âThen donât worry about it,â she said.
âButââ I said.
âI said donât worry about it. Why is it a problem?â she said.
âI feel . . . Iâm . . . I feel . . . horrible,â I said.
âThen stop doing it,â she said.
âI tried. I canât,â I said.
âYouâll stop eventually, when youâre ready to,â she said dismissively. I could hear in her tone the disgust I had so feared. My face flushed pink, and I flooded with shame. Tears spilled down my cheeks.
âItâs really nothing to cry about, Nadja,â she said absently. âItâs not very serious.â She got up from the floor and went to the kitchen, calling my brother in from outside to help her make dinner.
â
P ARIS WAS ONLY AS BIG as home and school and back again. Françoise knew the butcher and the women at the bakery. Sheknew the Parc Monceau, with its bright off-limits grass. She knew the sleepy streets where doctors and lawyers lived with their wives and well-dressed children and small dogs. She did not know how to get to the foot of the Eiffel Tower, though she could see it, toy-sized, through the low buildings of the seventeenth arrondissement. She rode the Métro to school, and yet it never occurred to her that the line stretched on past her stop, snaking into uncharted parts of the city.
But that May of 1968, in the center of the city, a wild fever was spreading. The news came through the radio and the papers. The students, it was said, had laid siege to the universities. The factory workers were on strike. The radio was on constantly, the latest events an increasing buzz at the dinner table. The students were ripping up the pavement. The students were throwing Molotov cocktails. And then the news broke that De Gaulle had threatened a siege of his own. Josée had been about Françoiseâs age when the Germans took Paris, and Paul a few years older. They knew what it meant, a city surrounded by an army.
âGo to the store,â Josée said. Françoise hesitated. Her mother always gave her a list when she sent her shopping.
âWhat should I buy?â
âEverything you can find,â Josée said. âNothing that might spoil.â
At the store, the line already stretched down the block. All the neighborhood grandparents were there. They had their baskets; they looked straight ahead. They appeared prepared to wait hours without complaint. It was as if everyone around her had fallen into the steps of a dance that she had never known existed.
The trains went on strike, the schools shut down. Fresh provisions were becoming scarce. Tanks had rolled up to the cityâsperimeter and no
â
Oui, mon chat?
â she said, beckoning me to come sit by her.
âI have to tell you something,â I said.
âWhat is it?â she asked, concern in her voice, her hand on my knee.
I wasnât sure I could find the words. âIâve been . . . Iâve been . . . Iâve been ripping out all of my hair. You know, all of the hair that grows . . . down there,â I said. For months, for nearly a year, I hadbeen tearing out my pubic hair by the handful, furious with my body. The skin was raw and scabbed.
I felt her stiffen, saw the discomfort in her posture. I had crossed a line with her, for neither the first time nor the last. I could not seem to learn where she stopped and I began, what I should and should not share.
âIs this also while youâre touching yourself?â she said, her voice held even.
âNo!â I said, horrified at the idea that my mother would think I masturbated, although I did.
Perhaps this was the wrong answer, or perhaps my mother felt uncomfortable with herself for having asked. Either way, she shut down, withdrew her hand, went cold.
âThen donât worry about it,â she said.
âButââ I said.
âI said donât worry about it. Why is it a problem?â she said.
âI feel . . . Iâm . . . I feel . . . horrible,â I said.
âThen stop doing it,â she said.
âI tried. I canât,â I said.
âYouâll stop eventually, when youâre ready to,â she said dismissively. I could hear in her tone the disgust I had so feared. My face flushed pink, and I flooded with shame. Tears spilled down my cheeks.
âItâs really nothing to cry about, Nadja,â she said absently. âItâs not very serious.â She got up from the floor and went to the kitchen, calling my brother in from outside to help her make dinner.
â
P ARIS WAS ONLY AS BIG as home and school and back again. Françoise knew the butcher and the women at the bakery. Sheknew the Parc Monceau, with its bright off-limits grass. She knew the sleepy streets where doctors and lawyers lived with their wives and well-dressed children and small dogs. She did not know how to get to the foot of the Eiffel Tower, though she could see it, toy-sized, through the low buildings of the seventeenth arrondissement. She rode the Métro to school, and yet it never occurred to her that the line stretched on past her stop, snaking into uncharted parts of the city.
But that May of 1968, in the center of the city, a wild fever was spreading. The news came through the radio and the papers. The students, it was said, had laid siege to the universities. The factory workers were on strike. The radio was on constantly, the latest events an increasing buzz at the dinner table. The students were ripping up the pavement. The students were throwing Molotov cocktails. And then the news broke that De Gaulle had threatened a siege of his own. Josée had been about Françoiseâs age when the Germans took Paris, and Paul a few years older. They knew what it meant, a city surrounded by an army.
âGo to the store,â Josée said. Françoise hesitated. Her mother always gave her a list when she sent her shopping.
âWhat should I buy?â
âEverything you can find,â Josée said. âNothing that might spoil.â
At the store, the line already stretched down the block. All the neighborhood grandparents were there. They had their baskets; they looked straight ahead. They appeared prepared to wait hours without complaint. It was as if everyone around her had fallen into the steps of a dance that she had never known existed.
The trains went on strike, the schools shut down. Fresh provisions were becoming scarce. Tanks had rolled up to the cityâsperimeter and no
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