My Name Is Venus Black(30)
When we really love and accept and APPROVE OF OURSELVES EXACTLY AS WE ARE, then everything in life works. It’s as if little miracles are everywhere.
Seriously? I imagine little miracles like butterflies floating around my head as I trip along through my easy life where everything works, all because I love myself. Then my eye falls on another sentence on the same page:
The very person you find it hardest to forgive is the one YOU NEED TO LET GO OF THE MOST.
Oh, really? I’m tempted to throw the book across the room, but I don’t. Partly because it was a gift from Sharon, and partly because it’s still my fondest secret hope that someday I’ll become the kind of person who can believe this shit and make it work for me.
I’m way too restless to read, anyway. It almost feels like I’m waiting for something huge to happen—but supposedly it already has. I got released from Echo Glen. So why does it feel like my happy balloon got popped seconds after it was full?
I’m already at loose ends and I’ve only been free less than three hours. I could go to eat somewhere. But earlier at my going-away party, I ate a bunch of cake along with lunch, so I’m not at all hungry.
I set the book aside and get up and try to open the one window, but it has been painted shut. I finger the crumbling windowpane and look out at the sunny afternoon, trying to recapture the wave of joy I felt earlier. But all I feel is empty, which I just can’t understand. I gaze down at the heads of people on the street directly below me. I can’t see their faces, but I can tell by the purposeful way they walk that they know where they’re going. They have things to do and people to see.
Eventually, it dawns on me, the reason I feel this way. The transition program at Echo Glen taught me all kinds of practical life skills for when I was free. Like how to type. How to keep a checkbook. How to cook a roast. But clearly they forgot to teach me the most important thing, which is how to get a life in the first place.
* * *
—
AFTER A WHILE, I realize that I do have somewhere to go. I need dress clothes—especially if I am going to look nice for what Doug called “job-seeking.” I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress.
By the time I locate the nearest Goodwill in the phone book and trek there on foot, I’m sweaty and irritable. Inside, it smells musty, like stale perfume and old ladies. The clothes are organized by color. I start in the purple to magenta section. One of the first dresses I find that fits me is a high-collared belted dress of scratchy fabric. Once I have it on, I realize it’s reminiscent of one Inez used to wear.
Wouldn’t it be funny if I bought a dress my mother donated?
I have more luck in the blue section, where I find a plain navy Brass Plum shift dress in a size 6. It’s sleeveless with a scoop neck, and the material is light enough for the warm weather. When I try it on, it’s a little short—because my legs are a little long. I also realize that I will need to buy a razor. There wasn’t a reason to shave much at Echo Glen. But Annette Higgman is going to be the type who probably shaves almost every day. And uses skin lotion, too.
In order for the dress not to be too short, I need some dressy but flat shoes. The selection in my large size is dismal, but I finally settle on a pair of black patent-leather sandals that are a little tight but will go with a lot.
Obviously, I should look for a restaurant that provides uniforms—or I’ll go broke buying clothes.
By the time I get back to my hotel room to change, it’s past time to hit the streets. As I walk down Broadway, I pass a couple of taverns—but the dark windows and seedy atmosphere keep me away. And the men. I know I don’t want to work around a bunch of beer-bellied, leering men.
At Echo, I endured a lot of unwanted male attention. I got so sick of the ogling, the comments, the jokes about my body. Granted, I didn’t have to share a room with the boys, but I had to attend school with them. Eat with them. I got so tired of glaring that my eyeballs ached.
Eventually I come to a Mexican restaurant and go in the front door. A Mexican woman at the hostess stand asks, “Uno?” A quick glance around the restaurant confirms the servers are all dark-skinned. I turn around and walk back out, my face flushed with embarrassment.
In the next hour, I visit an all-night diner, a loud steak house, a fancy restaurant with a French name, and a casual Italian restaurant with blue-checked tablecloths. No one is hiring, but the steak house allows me to fill out an application.
Under “job history,” I’m tempted to list my kitchen duty and extensive experience with an industrial-sized dishwasher at Echo, but I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t impress anybody. So I take Carla’s advice and list the restaurant in Renton, claiming to have worked there as a busser for six months.
When I answer the question about felonies, I put “None.” Where it asks about schooling, I find myself stuck again. While at Echo, I graduated high school with straight A’s and then went on to complete enough credits for almost a year of college. But I wasn’t about to list Echo Glen High School. I realize I should have figured out in advance where Annette Higgman went to high school. Based on the address, I take a stab and list Snohomish High.
Answering this question is painful because it reminds me of everything that stands in the way of my fondest dream. I desperately want to go to college and study science and astronomy, but even with financial aid, I couldn’t afford it. And even if I could, since my GED and other transcripts are under the name of Venus Black, I’d have to go as myself, which I’m not about to do.