twelve in the club

little girl, who taught you freedom?

what good am i to you,

with perky breasts, doe eyes, and still playing with toys?

what good am i to you,

if i don’t want you to want me?

what good am i to you,

if i don’t want to fuck you, too?

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if i could go back, i wouldn’t do it all again.

i wonder what it’s like to truly live a life with no regrets—to have always been wise or watched over.

everything i know, i bled for.

i was twelve, wearing a striped bikini from Aeropostale, drunk off of pink piña coladas in a hot tub at a hotel in the Bahamas. i was wearing a Von Dutch hat and my caramel colored hair was in a low bun, featuring the spikes of a typical ‘00s hairstyle. my grandmother was at the hotel casino, and i was left unprotected with the college kids on spring break. i lied and told everyone i was sixteen, which we all know still should’ve been too young, but everyone wants to fuck you when you’re sixteen.

when you’re sixteen,

you wear your naivety in a pulsating vial around your neck,

your desire for the “freedom” of eighteen is clawing out of your chest,

and your desperation smells like honey

to yellowjackets

lying in wait beneath your bare feet.

and there i was twelve, with big breasts, a flat stomach, a baby face—and a baby, i was—with a desperation to be older, hotter, cooler, and no one around to protect me from the desires that had been fed to me. i felt like i belonged, because everything i consumed told me to want to belong. i was a pre-teen for God’s sake—a term seemingly reserved for little girls who are at that age where men start becoming attracted to you and no one wants to call you what you actually are, a child. and, if no one calls you a child, you won’t know you’re a child—until twenty years later, when you’re staring out of a dark window into a soulless night with a glass of wine wondering how much of you would still be yours if you weren’t trained to be prey.

it was noon and my vomit was baby pink. i was hunched over in the bushes behind the hot tub, angry with my child body for not being able to handle the poison i was giving it. i dunked my head in the pool, and returned to the hot tub—smiling off my embarrassment. a buff white college boy in cargo shorts and a puka shell necklace, who’s name i’ve since forgotten, spent the rest of the afternoon glued to my side. in that moment, i questioned “what about me is attractive?”, but now i know, what about me wasn’t?—i was cute, younger, alone, and drunk. the sun began to set and i got redemption for my baby pink moment—buff white college boy invited me to go with the hot tub crew to a nightclub in Nassau.

wrapped in a towel, i urgently wandered around the hotel casino looking for my grandmother. my Old Navy flip flops were smacking the bottom of my heels as i was frantically turning the corner on each aisle. and finally, i found her. sitting at the slot machine with her coins, where she’s been sitting for hours, as i’ve been living a life she knew nothing about. i told her the “other kids” invited me to go dancing with them. while my words were calm, my eyes were begging her to let me go. why did i want this so bad? this level of desire usually arises from a familiar warmth on my skin, a known taste on my tongue. and yet, my happiness depended on a yes to something i’ve never felt. who taught me to want this so badly, to want to be wanted so badly?

little girl, who taught you freedom?

little girl, where did you learn that freedom was willingly walking into dark forests

filled with predators who will eat you whole?

my grandmother, more focused on her slots than a twelve year old’s whereabouts, said yes. and, as a mother myself now, i know she should’ve said no—i wished she would’ve said no. but, she said yes and i was free. i skipped to our hotel room and changed into the classic ‘00s henley over a tank combo, paired with some short shorts, my Von Dutch hat, and my flip flops. equipped with only my cell phone, that didn’t work anyway, and a cherry-flavored rollerball lip gloss from the beauty supply, i got into a white van filled with strangers.

i sat myself next to buff white college boy and willingly rode off into a very dark night, along very dark dirt roads to arrive at a local nightclub in Nassau. the nightclub was throbbing against the surrounding blackness, overflowing with beautiful, vibrating people pouring out of every crevice. inside, the nightclub looked like one of the many music videos i had watched on MTV or BET. as i was grinding my underdeveloped hips on buff white college boy, matching the vibrations of the nightclub, he turned my neck to kiss me—and, i secured my spot as the coolest girl in middle school. coolness in girlhood was measured by how grown-up we can look and how grown-up we can act. and, i was twelve in the club. i was cool because i carved a space for myself in places i didn’t belong—or did i? perhaps, the best trap is one disguised as freedom.

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how much of my girlhood was fed to me?

how much of what i desired in my heart was stuffed down my throat?

how many of my fruiting thoughts were seeds planted by hidden hands?

i look at my childhood through a mother’s eyes and i’m often horrified. strict mothers were once unprotected daughters—give them grace. i used to say “i’m shocked that nothing bad happened to me”, but truly, bad things did happen. it just could’ve been worse. i didn’t die, so i laughed it off. but, having a daughter of my own made me stop laughing. we’re often too embarrassed to speak on the decisions we made as girls because we have been conditioned to believe we should’ve known better. a girl is always supposed to know better. look young, act older. it would be inconvenient if girlhood was about acting our age. no one wants to fuck you if you act your age.

how much of my girlhood was designed by a man?

how much of the way i’ve been taught to look, act, be was carefully designed by a man who wants to fuck me? toys, tv shows, music—much of what is made for girl consumption, is designed by men. through a mother’s eyes, i see how much of girlhood isn’t about being a girl, at all. i see how much of girlhood is about being a girl dressed up as a woman—insatiably craving the freedom to wear the outfits my dolls were wearing, to go to the parties and clubs that my dolls were going to. if it’s all my fault, why don’t dolls created for little girls look like little girls doing little girl things?

how much of my girlhood was training me?

how much of my girlhood was a hook in my mouth, slowly pulling me to be carved and eaten?

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i was sixteen—actually sixteen—and i worked at a nightclub in Washington, D.C. those who hired me knew how old i was and they paid me in cash. my parents didn’t know where i was on these nights, i lied. lying was something i got really good at doing to have freedom. because for a girl, freedom often looks like being in places you shouldn’t be, with people you shouldn’t be with. and, there i was, sixteen in the club.

every other weekend, i watched as eighteen year old girls in mini skirts packed through the door—because girls got in free before eleven. at the time, i also worked at a chocolate store in the local mall on the weekdays that i didn’t have classes. we gave out free samples of all of our chocolate, for a reason. we give you a free piece of chocolate and we talk to you. we talk about our new flavors, we talk about what’s on sale, and with every chew, you’ve been fed much more than you put in your mouth. it was there that i learned that nothing is free. a business is always selling something.

i was there in the backroom of the club. low lights, dirty Persian-style rugs, scratched leather couches, and stacks of cash practically used as decoration on dark, wooden tables. the owners were smoking cigars in Italian suits and running the money counter. the club promoters, club staff, and nightly celebrity hosts adorned the couches. and little me, was quiet and unsure in the corner, waiting to be paid. the few hundred dollars they paid me to work the door was nothing compared to how much money they made in a night. at first, i thought this was strange, considering half of their patrons walked through their doors for free and were too young to buy drinks. but, men had to pay to enter the doors—older men—men had to be over twenty-one to enter. it was there that i learned that if you look around and you can’t figure out what a business is selling you, they’re selling you.

little girl, who taught you freedom?

this nightclub, like many, was selling access to young girls in mini skirts who needed older men to buy them drinks. they were selling access to girls seeking what they are taught is freedom. whether i was twelve or sixteen in the club, everyone who worked the door looked me right in my baby face, and let me in. because it didn’t matter if i was actually eighteen, my presence fit their objective. i was young and an older man was willing to pay them money to have access to me. i spent years trying to be free, only to find that i was willingly walking into traps set for me. and it was there i realized, i wasn’t rebelliously carving out space for myself—they’d been expecting me.

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good little girl, with strings of silk on your wrists and hips

let us play.

that’s my good little girl,

i’ve trained you well.

this is fun, aren’t you having fun?

good little girl, play with me,

you are free.

in the darkness with me,

you are free.

spill your cherry red blood for me,

you are free.

good

little

girl,

be careful where you learn freedom.

source: juno calypso

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