"The Ground Will Hold You"
By
Samantha Mann
I lie on my back staring at the baskets of ferns hanging
above me. This is typical of how I spend time before class starts. Vines
connect the individual fern baskets giving the appearance that the plants are
holding hands. The connecting vines transform the singular plants into one sizable
organism. Perhaps this is supposed to be symbolic of yoga; individuals coming
together to form one cohesive entity. Staring up at the drooping ferns, I
wonder who is responsible for watering and trimming them, and if they ever drip
onto the bodies below. Yoga to the People
is precisely as obnoxious as the show Broad
City satirizes. A guy unrolls his mat next to me wearing nothing but a pair
of boxer briefs so tiny they could make a European blush. I own larger pairs of underwear. Over the past 12 months, I’ve spent more time
in close proximity to half naked men than I have in the last 10 years combined.
A young woman to my left rolls out her
mat and begins arranging a collection of amethyst crystals into a shape that
isn’t quite a pentagram. Watching her line up the purple stones and snap her hair
into a perfect Ariana Grande pony tail makes me feel old, and gives me a better
understanding of why people are always hating on Millennials. Knowing I left my
collection of crystals at home on my dresser, like a decent human, momentarily causes
me to feel superior. I close my eyes and try focusing on the island that is my
mat. Taking a deep breath, I attempt to be present in my skin, feel rooted
through my body, and melt into the floor. “The mat will hold you” I say
repetitively as I push all of the air out of my lungs. This is phrase teachers
frequently say, and I want to believe it. Being held is an intoxicating notion
that I’m currently having trouble trusting. “The mat will hold you,” I say
again to myself trying to sink a little deeper into my skin. Everything in the studio
is ostentatiously hipster, but I continue showing up for classes in an attempt
to make peace with my mind and body. It’s been a difficult task, finding
comfort in myself, since the assault.
Over a year ago I left a neighborhood bar blacked-out and
full of rage over nothing in particular. It was simply one of those times where
drinking flipped on my internal indignant switch and transformed me into the
person I hate most. This woman is hostile, loud, and has little concern for the
feelings of others. She picks nonsensical arguments and fantasizes about
self-destruction. Like Mariah Carey once said, “I don’t know her.” This
particular night wasn’t on the path to ending well to begin with, but it should
have only taken 10 minutes to walk home.
Events are blurred, but I did have an encounter with a man, which caused
my journey home to take much longer than anticipated. In my high school driver’s
ed. course, I learned that the majority of car accidents occur in close
proximity to the driver’s home. I wonder if this fact holds true for human collisions.
Prior to the assault, I had spent numerous evenings eating
pizza and happily drinking (or sometimes ragefully drinking) at this bar. It
was a favorite spot due to its spacious outdoor seating, rotating menu of
homemade pastas, and lack of people. The place was never filled to more than
half capacity. It also used to be a favored destination due to its convenient
location. This bar is fixed at the center of almost everything in my
neighborhood, which has made the past year complicated. Every day I’m forced to
pass this street in order to catch the L train and commute my body to its
various responsibilities. My wife and I have to travel past it during our Saturday
morning ritual of dog walking and coffee drinking. Further, our dog expects to
be taken to McCarren Dog Run at least once a week, which also requires a stroll
by the street of the crime.
McCarren Dog Run is a park where dogs can feign
independence, and I can actively engage or avoid human contact depending on the
day’s disposition. In this sacred space, zealous dog parents have the option to
chatter ad nauseam about their pet, free of judgments. The park acts as a safe
zone to let your embarrassing dog flag fly. I once looked a man dead in the
face and uttered the sentence “I’m worried he’s getting tired of watching Food
Network during the day.” The man I spoke with had the utmost respect for my
concern and added his own similar worry telling me that he rotates dog walkers not
knowing which one his pup likes best.
I don’t have to cross this particular street to board the G
train or make a trip to the grocery store. However, I am forced to walk passed
my neighborhood police station where I reported my assault and had an
unfortunate encounter with a less than empathic female officer. My brain is
stamped with meticulous details of her disorganized workspace and the hardness
of the chair I sat in while we spoke. Her desk appeared exactly how I imagined
a police officer’s desk to look; stacked high with papers and overflowing with
file folders, a computer 10 year’s too old, and a coffee mug half full. I sat and faced her while she stared at a
computer screen and typed. Her knees, the only part of her body turned in my
direction, almost touched mine. I ruminate about our conversation more than I
would like to, especially on tough days.
She probably doesn't recall, but I fumbled through my words
as I explained to her what happened to me the previous night. Compulsively, I rubbed
my eyebrows in an attempt to self soothe. “Why didn't you call 9-1-1 right
away?” were the first words she spoke to me after I finished stammering through
my account of the night.
This question caused my stomach to flip the way stomachs do
when you assume you’ve disappointed someone or botched something important. I
didn't have the energy to let her know that I hadn’t originally planned on
telling anyone what had happened to me the night before. Calling 9-1-1 did not
float through my mind as I hid in a driveway at 2 A.M. waiting until it felt
safe to walk the rest of the way home. That night, in the moment, I assumed my
experience was karmic retribution for a lifetime worth of self-destructive
behavior and hurting those around me. My brain couldn’t arrange the words to
let her know that asking people for help isn't always readily available in my
repertoire of self-help skills. She probably doesn’t remember what I mumbled
next and neither do I. I looked at the door and wanted to walk out, but my body
remained seated, compliant, and in place.
"Is it possible he was trying to help you up?" she
asked me after I explained to her that I had been drinking. My eyes watered and
stung for a moment before my mind stopped operating. I retreated inside myself
for the remainder of the interview. As
she jotted down my case notes I watched the ink move across the page and
remembered the feeling of an unwanted weight on top of me and the overwhelming
silence that filled me despite wanting to scream. My mind recalled the choppy
sounds of my own breath and the steady bouncing of my backpack against me as I
ran. I didn’t say any of this out loud to her. The thoughts didn’t feel like
they would be significant, and I couldn’t catch a hold of the words to form a
sentence. Was he trying to help you?
This phrase echoes loudest in my mind on difficult days.
“Look at her.” my wife said defensively as I had stopped
speaking. “Look at her wrist, and legs, and her back.”
I mumbled to her about having papers from the hospital and
noting that the street probably had cameras that someone could check.
While she continued to speak and write, I stared at the
slight bruise on my left wrist. Throughout the next few weeks my shins turned
from scabs to scars while the bruises on my lower back and wrist turned from
purple, to yellow, and finally back to unmarked skin. Overtime my superficial wounds have healed,
but I often wish I still had my bruises and scabs to look at. Losing them makes
feeling awful less concrete.
The officer doesn’t know that a few months after we spoke, I
saw a flyer put up by the police department on the corner of Union Avenue and
Grand Street. The paper caught my attention from across the street, and
although I couldn’t read the words from where I stood, I saw the photo and
immediately knew what it said. Standing fixed on the street corner; I read the
flyer through at least twenty times as the neighborhood bumped into me hurrying
through their morning commutes. Touching the paper, I contemplated taking it
down. An inclining to call the station and see if the flyer was connected to my
interview briefly filled me. It felt related. The description of this man’s
actions and photos matched my foggy impression of him. I didn’t have the name
of the officer or my case number and assumed no
one at the station would remember me, so I never called.
Our community fire station stands next door to the police
department. I often see the men buying groceries together and waving at small
children who are impressed by their gear. Seeing the fire fighters shop as a
cohort makes my insides gooey and provides some insight into the feelings of
straight women. As I watch the firefighters
I’m reminded that places and people can feel good.
In an effort to further expand this idea and reclaim my
physical space, I started taking rambling neighborhood walks. Similar to yoga,
I try to stay present in my body and feel the street beneath my feet. While
walking I have discovered the incredible city sunsets of late August and early September.
Although I had seen them on Instagram hundreds of times before, I couldn’t
believe the colors they produced IRL. I’ve collected new favorite sounds like the
rhythmic sweeping of Italian grandparents clearing their sidewalks of fallen
leaves and the clinking of tiles produced by street corner games of Dominos. When Hassidic families routinely shut their
gates as my dog and I walk closer to their homes I try not to take offense
reminding myself it’s probably nothing personal. The adults look away, but the
kids, who are typically wearing matching outfits, reach out their tiny hands saying,
“Kelev, Kelev, Kelev.” We smile at each other and my dog bounces over to be
pet. Dogs and children have no concern for social constructs.
During my walks I’ve inched my way closer to the bar, which
has since been converted into a coffee shop. My wife went in once and decided we
didn’t need to go back. Apparently, the interior hasn’t changed enough in
appearance or smell. The physical space of our neighborhood has been difficult
for her too. I keep edging forward towards this particular spot in a need to
regain mastery of it. When I walk I can’t decide if Brooklyn has broken me or
saved me. I remind myself that a person,
not a place, hurt me and that I was a little broken to begin with. These
streets will hold you, if you let them I repeat to myself.
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