Diminution and Amplification

A few years ago I bought a t-shirt at a zine fest. On the front was the message "I will not make myself smaller." The shirt was a light green color, and had an image of a plant on it. The bold message spoke to me. "Hell yeah!" I thought to myself, "I won't make myself smaller!"  I wore it once and then donated it to a thrift shop. The message was dishonest on me, a woman who juggles her wallet, pocketbook, and several loose bags to make a quick getaway and not be in anyone's path at the grocery checkout. I am almost always making myself smaller, so I won't be a bother. My body is large. I'm tall and towering and stalk-like. My feet are a size ten, to hold up the height so I won't topple in a stiff wind. I am worried I am blocking you with these words. Let me grab them real quick and dash off over here, ok? So sorry.

Oops. I lied! There are more words, because there's Pointy Mary, Rita Poem, Chintz Davenport, Tom Mato. Pointy gets what she wants from you. Fill out this form, in triplicate. Pointy wanted to wear that t-shirt with the message on it, but it wasn't red, it was green, which is a very unflattering color on her. Rita will tell a man who has just spent fifteen minutes talking down to everyone at the table that he has just wasted everyone's time with his shit wits. Chintzy adores the spotlight, and takes it wherever she finds it. She orders Manhattans and wears bright red lipstick. Tom is male and can report on anything from poison ivy to dead mice and people will listen and comment.

When I am complimented for something -- an act of kindness, a performance, a poem, a meal, those accolades go to the audacious parts of me. Last week I received a glowing email from a stranger, and the day before yesterday I was told after a performance, "We're so glad you could make it this year! You're our favorite." I don't know what to do with these compliments, so I imagine them as trophies I hand over to all these larger, and somehow more deserving, parts of me. Jennifer is happy to stay out of your way, in her closet with a notebook and pen. When Chintzy, Rita, Tom, or Pointy take the stage, Jennifer stays in the wings. 

I'm not sure how to explain this, with all these points-of-view. Who is writing this? All of me. Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello.

I like Manhattans because they taste like the smell of an old dresser. Call me Jenny or Jennifer or Jenn while I sip one, but you're going to have to order for yourself because I don't want to muscle my way through the crowd at the bar. I got here early to avoid it. There's no way I will get the attention of the bartender. How dare I interrupt? They look busier than an octopus hanging laundry.