Triangles, Hair Brushing

and being one's own pussy

Photo by Jackson David on Unsplash

In a recent workshop, I offered the poem, Nurture about wild things and rescues by Maxine Kumin as a prompt.

It brought to mind Karpman’s Drama triangle where the theory is that once you become a rescuer, a victim, or a perpetrator, you are condemned to being all three.

In this scenario, your helping gets you accused of something—meddling, self-aggrandizement, aggression, pride, even—could be anything, but now there you are, the perpetrator. It doesn’t take long to realize that now you’ve become the victim. They don’t understand I was just trying to help no one appreciates me and so on.

I’ve never rescued anyone or anything. I may have tried, but a rescue is often a thankless, fruitless undertaking.

You will be accused of something and then you will need to be rescued. Because isn’t that the underpinning of the desire to rescue—the need to be rescued oneself?

My father once said to me, “You are always taking in stray dogs.” I didn’t know what he meant. I was seventeen years old and I’d never had a stray dog.

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When I was twelve, I brushed that Barratt girl’s hair because it was tangled. I didn’t consider that I was the one who longed to have her hair brushed. Then there was Mary who said her name was M… M…Mmm… Mary. To me, she was no stray dog, only the brunt of the mean girls. She had pretty eyes and we both needed a friend.

I flip through the stray dogs of my life. Did I marry one, I wonder?

Him. He had eighty dollars in his pocket. He was thirty-three. Lived with his mother (bad breakup). I was thirty-nine. I lived alone. I thought him beautiful, somewhat feral with his stream of dark hair. Didn’t matter he had no money, no job, no home, I could take care of all that, right? Maybe he would love me. I could take him home, cook him a steak or some mixed vegetables. I bought him a red canvas shirt. He brought a birchbark lamp with his name in porcupine quills and plugged it in beside my bed. Maybe I would love him.

We each believed we rescued the other. From bad marriages. Loneliness. Hunger.

Maybe I’ve been the feral one, fierce as a ferret, in need of a friend, someone to brush my hair.

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I’m so tired of writing about this. I’m no substitute pouch for any hairless creature.

I won’t take in any more feral creatures. I was the wild child who ran into too many cages and locked the gate behind me.

Luckily, I pocketed the key.

Here’s a better story:

My friend, Helen, came from a Greek family but grew up speaking mostly English. She once went to a Greek restaurant on the Danforth and spoke in Greek, saying, “I’m by myself.” After the waiter stopped laughing, he told her what she’d in fact, said. “I’m my own pussy.”

This story comes to mind because at this age I’m finally, truly, really, honestly my own pussy.

I’ve never been good at math. Couldn’t tell a scalene from an isosceles. I may be a bit obtuse, but by the looks of that rescuer triangle, it’s safer and way more fun to stay in my circle and be my own pussy.

Photo by Thomas Drouault on Unsplash