Blue Daughter of the Red Sea: A Memoir

Book 1 Exodus of Bodies

Book 1 E  B T     in between and on the back of my thighs and on my buttocks. I can tell clearly that it isn’t pee since pee feels warm on the skin and this sensation is rather cool. I don’t dare to ask the pharaoh for permission to use the restroom because he is in the middle of giving his students a lecture. I sure wouldn’t want to endanger my behind to the exposure of his wooden stick. What if the wet material or liquid dripped down! The wet feeling intensifies on my skin, throughout my lower body. Tears swim in my eyes and I think how the punishment for crying for nothing, interrupting the flow of a lecture, would be at minimum a reproach accompanied by a few kisses thrown deliberately by a wooden ruler. Meti, how many continents are there on earth? The earth has stopped turning. I can hear the clock ticking, Tic-TocTic -Toc-Tic, counting down the seconds that precede the end. Meti, would you do us the courtesy of honoring us with your presence and tell us how many continents are there on earth? Seven. Can you name them? I beg you thing under my feet swallow me would you please please please! Boooom!!!!!! Africa, Asia, Europe, North America, South America, Australia, and Antarctica. I am invaded by the strangers that chose this moment and this room to conquer the territory around my thighs and my ass. As with everything else, time comes to its end, and class is over. It’s recess . The students run outside promptly as if the classroom is a cage and they are a flock of birds. I dodge my classmates and go to the restroom. Girls are lined up, each waiting for her turn to lock herself up in the tiny, private room, after those interminable hours in a crowded classroom.· 5 · 6 Exodus of Bodies
They all seem to be engaged in a discussion about fashion: Oh, the things they’d do to their bodies once they got out of those damned uniforms. They would scrape their skin till any trace of baby-blue shirt and navy blue skirt disappeared. They would adorn their hair with beads and introduce their undeveloped breasts and virgin thighs to pink dresses. I can’t wait. I run to the administration office to ask for help to solve my confusion. But I can’t bring myself to go past the door. I just stand by the wall and my hand stealthily reaches under my skirt and feels the back of my thigh. My fingers get a specimen of the wet stuff on my leg. It is yellow and flat, and it has invaded my thighs. For a moment, I consider the possibility it might be excrement, but I can’t smell anything. And I can’t possibly spoil the day for these people working in the office by asking them about the nature of the waste stuck to my skin. So I cry. Why do I have to bear such a slew of burdens? My peeing in bed. My high forehead, also known as Kilimanjaro by my brother’s friends, and a subject of mockery for the young and the old. My inflated stomach, a trademark of the starving people. Let’s not forget my imperfect form of speech, a stuttering tongue. And now, this flat, yellow stick falling like ice from the pores of my skin. Recess is over.The students run lazily back to their cages. I choose the promise of many a kiss from the wooden stick over the humiliation of walking in the classroom with yellow dew raining down my legs. I equip my heart with an armor and ask the woman at the front desk what is a flat, yellow thing that likes to stick to your thighs called? She can’t quite understand my abstract question. Could I speak clearly? How can I speak clearly when, like Moses, I have been denied the leisure of fluent speech, and God hasn’t bothered to provide me with a spokesperson named Aaron! Young lady, speak up! Have you lost your tongue? Have I lost my tongue? Of course, I have. I have lost it in the cruelty of your demeanor. It has been swallowed by the icy coldness of your glance, bashed into pieces by your fucking...