Paying for top surgery is like going to debtor’s prison, and: Remi with Ghost & Joan of Arc

Abstract

Reviewed by: Paying for top surgery is like going to debtor’s prison, and: Remi with Ghost & Joan of Arc Remi Recchia (bio) in that you’ll never be able to pay it off,not really. You could apply for a loan and counttemporary zeros in your bank account, dwindlingto nothing while your interest puts on muscle. The debt,you’ll tell your mother, is worth the debt of your body.Maybe if you get drunk enough on the weekendsor weekdays or weak evenings you’ll start to fantasizebread knife and Ibuprofen, a homegrown operatingroom sterilized enough to siphon off excess tissue.You might sneak into the exclusive Safari Zooexhibit and aim your binoculars everywhere but the camels’pale, malnourished humps, then start a GoFundMeand Photoshop a flat camel with the caption,Liberate All Mammals Now. You might buy an uglytarp at Home Depot and drapeit over the bathroom mirror to shieldyour eyes from that perverse double-moon.Maybe you sign up for a monthly gym membershipwith what little money you have and work offthe fat. Maybe take diet pills. Is denial a placebo?You could commit insurance fraud. The arsonistsdo it all the time. You could look that sales repright in her marble blue eyes, say, yes, I’m a breast-cancer risk, I need the doctor to defuse these tickingtime bombs. This ticking in my brain. You knowit’s not really a lie. Maybe you’ll rob a bank or two,run away into fabled glory, getaway car ready to cutthrough the thick western night. You’ll smokewith your friends around the campfire as you countmurders of cash, flocks of dimes, schools of copper.You’ll make up secret birdcalls and warning signs.You could call your wealthy friends and make up an extravagantlie. A wedding, perhaps, or funds to build a new end-days bunker. A down-payment on a house.You’ll have to avoid the word “elective.”Or you could cut down on groceries by half,then three-quarters, then entirely. An extra [] per monthwill almost cover the operating room in about twoyears. You’ll watch your skeleton sharpen and eyesglaze over as you deprive, deprive, deprive. Throwin the trowel, Remi. Dig deep. The prison invitationsays, BYOM: Bring Your Own Manacles. Black tie optional. [End Page 81] Remi with Ghost & Joan of Arc I recognized him,” she explained, “because my Voice told me. It said to me, ‘There he is.’”1 My beard twitches at the row of glassed-in past selves on the mantel-piece & considers razing the down the whole display—each photo slandering secret boy body with girl, woman, daughter. Thin hands & thinner waist, I was a Joan of Arcwithout the courage. Just the voices. Remi, who. Remi, when. I have unfathered my father a girl. Daydreamed myself in a yellowconstruction hat & bulky tool belt. The jobs I never learned to fail. Perhaps one day I will (un)father a girl. I will (un)bless my wife with lineage,though she could easily birth a tiny someone of her own. I’ve heard adoption has its traumas, but so, too, does a lifetime of mistakenness. I trace my strongthigh where one it was accused of thickening, of widening like the fatted Easter [End Page 82] calf. Full of triglycerides. In truth, I’ve always been a map instead of a globe.I’ve never been one to carry a compass. The magnet is in my body. With every injection, I mythologize old shoes—ballerina flats with sparkles,size 8—worn-out purses—pleather & leather—paper umbrellas for fashion, not function. What is the line between myth & extinction?My family wouldn’t know me now. A blue-jean-wearing, church-going, straight married man has replaced the shy ghost that once quailed under the fireeyes of God. What is the line between ownership & grace? Joan didn’t flinch under heat wave or sly sword. She carried her visionslike a hawk caresses its prey in steel talons. I know we’re not the same...