Sylvia Wynter's Dream

In primary school the teacher parted the class in two, boys on the left and girls on the right; Miss starred at the girls with bulging eyes, her words pierced the classroom’s atmosphere; you are young ladies; you should not go the bathroom alone, why?; don’t wear uniforms above the knee, mek it long ketch yuh ankle, why?; when you sit on the chairs remember to close your legs, the rest of the class shouldn’t be tortured by your Hello Kitty, underwear; don’t provoke the boys; when you sit down and open to the world, they will look and touch; but it’s your fault, you left the kitchen window wide open.

So, when I reached home the practice followed, my knees clasped together like feeble hands, skirt tucked deep between; it didn’t stop being breached; he pried my legs open like a window; don’t tell anybody, not even your mother; matter-of-fact tell her because she won’t believe you; then he said, mi sorry, it nah happen again; that was the best lie I’ve come to know, it happened again, again and again like a periodic cycle; I drowned in silence after that. I sucked in my cries most of the time, forged lines when I sat and cringed or made an ugly face; I believed him, I believed the lie, but I felt like I was drowning under a sea, suffocating from this torture.

Dolly house with my friends turned into confession sessions, we took turns sharing what we thought was a special secret; I shared mine because I felt it was one of a kind; he touched me enuh, last night; he thought I was sleeping but I stopped sleeping at nights; I’m too afraid of the monster in my house; mi get used to it now; my friends turned messenger overnight and transferred all that was said to my mother; she believed and sought after the truth; I felt like I was in a courtroom with  him acting as the victim; the jury was set; when all was said they declared me guilty, and said it was my fault; my teacher was right.