kiki


Sometimes. I feel like Kiki. Stuck between belonging. Not fit for my life now. Grown out of my life then. In the middle of being. Something.

Evangelicals call it an unequal yoke. Being not-alike because not-alikes don’t work the balancing act so well. They’re all about religion and race and the Tower of Babel but they never say anything about social strata or marquee or what happens when a girl from the mountains, who used to carry water to bathe in, meets up with an artistic Englishman who doesn’t blink twice at spending $1700 a night just so he can have a plasma screen.

My then-life is a movie set to him. The small and the coal. The dirt and the poor. “Who can’t find two hundred dollars?” A friend was having trouble with the rent. One hundred and seventy dollars short. “How can anyone struggle to come up with that kind of money?”

He calls them the uninspired. “You’ve heard of the American dream,” he says. “People just don’t want it enough.”

He’ll never be those kind of people. He’ll never ‘not want it enough’. And he’ll never understand the ones who do.

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