Forgetting Lou Lou

Forgetting Lou Lou

forgetting lou lou

Lou Lou was a wolf, but she looked to everyone else like a little girl. They liked for her to wear pink dresses and little white socks with lace trim. They thought it was cute when she made growling noises and woke late at night to stare through the bars of her crib at the pattern the moon made through the curtains of her bedroom window. They didn’t think it was so cute when she came home from playing on the hill under the oak tree with her dress torn and splashed with mud. Maybe she’s a tomboy, said a well-meaning Aunt. Let her wear pants and act like a boy until she gets it out of her system.

Being eight, nine, ten-years-old, these were the golden years for Lou Lou. She climbed to the very top of the oldest, biggest oak tree on the hill behind her house. She collected the pellets of the owl that roosted there and pulled them apart with tweezers, carefully extracting the tiny bones of shrews and voles and snakes from the matted hair. She prowled all day in the tall weeds collecting caterpillars and watching the long tongues of butterflies unfurl into each flower to sip nectar. She spent nearly all her time quite happily alone. Alone, she could breathe and listen to the wind, pondering the memories that rose effortlessly in her body: the feeling of running on four legs, so fast the wind roared in her ears. The sensation of delicately gnawing with her teeth at her own fur, removing foxtails and fleas and dead skin. Strongest of all were the memories of smell: the scent of tree bark after rain; the hot, anxious scent of mice hiding in the brush; the musk-and-metal scent of her own fear. Lou Lou could not help comparing the memories with her senses now: how everything felt flatter, weaker, as if she were sniffing the world through a pillowcase, as if her body were half numb. She often sat in the old oak, flexing her hands and observing her flat, short fingernails, wondering why she had felt, from the moment she could remember remembering, that something was missing.

In high school Lou Lou began to doubt. The other girls seemed to really like makeup and boy bands and played a game where you drew letters on a piece of paper and chose a number and by a series of eliminations could divine who you would marry, whether you would live in shack or a mansion, what kind of car you would drive, how many babies you’d have. Lou Lou didn’t want babies. She didn’t give a rat’s ass about cars except for how it felt to drive one fast, at night, with the wind blowing through the open windows and music blasting. It reminded her of running with four, powerful legs- memories so distant she now thought of them as dreams. In her dreams she was herself: enjoying what felt good, roaming alone at night, sleeping when she was tired, eating to her fill, waking to the world as it was, being in it as she was. Lou Lou found she preferred hanging out with the boys: they were wilder and more physical. She liked to drink with them and make out with them, but she didn’t want to be someone’s girl. This pissed off both the girls and the boys, for different reasons. Lou Lou ended up with a reputation.

It would have been one thing if people ignored her: but they punished her. From the moment she woke she was pelted with evidence of her wrongness: pics of her drunk or kissing someone in text messages addressed to her and copied to fifty numbers not in her phone, and then the trolling. The dial-ups and hang-ups. #slut. #bitch. #whore. Boys she didn’t even know, from other high schools, stared at her at the bus stop until she made eye contact, then made a vee with their fingers and wagged their tongues through the crotch of it. Deep in her gut a clenching heat would rise: images of grabbing those boys by the throat and slamming their heads against a wall. Biting deep into the flesh of their shoulders or arms. Violent thoughts rode with her to school and home again. After she finished her homework, she’d climb the old oak, listen to the owl call above her head to another owl in a tree across the valley. Their voices soothed her into regret. There must be another way.

Lou Lou decided to forget. It seemed the best solution. A well-meaning teacher had once told her, if you find yourself in a conflict ask yourself: does this problem come up with just this person, or does it come up with everyone? If she was brutally honest, it was clear that Lou Lou herself was the problem: since the beginning she had not been normal. She had not behaved as everyone thought she should. And all she had to do to fix it was stop acting like a wolf, stop remembering, stop dreaming, become a girl.

Lou Lou started wearing short, tight skirts and heels. She could no longer climb the oak in the evenings, so instead she sat on her bed watching how-to videos on hairstyles. Lou Lou stopped driving fast at night with the windows open, and stopped hanging out with the boys. She watched the girls: how they talked, how they laughed, how they flicked their hair, and she copied them carefully, but always toning down her own expressions so as not to overshadow theirs. Lou Lou innately understood hierarchy, body language. Soon Lou Lou’s bad reputation was, if not forgotten, forgiven. A couple of the girls at school invited her for sleepovers. She stayed up all night the night before making sure she knew what pajamas to wear, what to bring, what subjects to talk about, how to act like it all didn’t matter while it all mattered very much.

Lou Lou began to have nightmares. She dreamt of being chased by packs of wild dogs. She dreamt of horrible lapses of responsibility: that she kept small animals but had forgotten to feed them and they had starved to death in a cage in her closet. She dreamt of staring into the bathroom mirror and watching her teeth turn into sticks of chalk. She woke to a temporary relief: she had not really done those things, had she? With her thumb she rubbed the bony slickness of her canines. She got up and made coffee, and watched the rain out the window while she drank it, feeling as she always had, that there was something missing, an important memory whose details had faded beyond recall.

After graduating, Lou Lou got a job waiting tables. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go to college. She wasn’t sure about anything. Each morning she dressed carefully. Did her hair and makeup carefully. She had become good at looking happy as she delivered food to customers, cleared away their dirty plates, smiled with her lips carefully covering her teeth. She was praised often: good girl, sweet girl. After work each evening she stared out her window at the oak tree on the hill. The owls still called to one another across the valley. A well-meaning self-help blog she was reading said, memories are likely to contain accidental fabrications, many errors, and a great number of “filled-in” details which we simply subconsciously invented. Lou Lou refocused her eyes, regarding her own reflection on the inside of the window.

small, fierce things are here!

small, fierce things are here!

I am so proud and grateful to Achiote Press for making this book something I could hold in my hand. It began in 2013 when I sailed the arctic circle with a group of artists and came back empty… or I thought I was empty. For months I couldn’t write. Then osmall, fierce thingsne day I saw an image in my head. I hadn’t done any drawing for years, but I felt compelled to do something, anything, since the words weren’t coming. And then something happened: once the image was on the page, it began to tell me a story. I wrote the story down. Another image came… and so on until there were twelve drawings and twelve stories. As many of you know, I then created a hand-made book, bound with fishing line I found snarled on the arctic beaches. That version sold out, but the small, fierce things weren’t done with me. In the following months, the images continued to present themselves to me on my long walks, on the bus, in meetings, in my sleep, and I kept getting them onto paper, and each image had its story. Eventually, there were twice as many small, fierce things, and with the help of a wonderful publisher, they are now here in book form for everyone. I hope they burrow, claw, sneak, or steal into your heart and head the way they did into mine. I hope they remind you of what it is to be restless and curious and hopeful.