Lookism: What Am I Even Doing?

CHERRY (9)

CHERRY: THE LIFE OF A FIGHTER

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Minuro Yasada

Our father gave us our names without the consent of our mother. From the moment we developed in the wound, that would be our fate. To be another stamp of disapproval up on the family tree for we were to be born female and not male.

Minuro spelled as the single syllable meaning to "climb" or "ascend". What is it that our father wanted me to climb or ascend to? Nothing in particular. In fact, he wanted me to do nothing at all. Which is why I was stuck with the name meant for a boy. I wasn't even worth coming up with something new.

That's where our problems started. Right then and there when we came out the wound. Our father stayed for the birthing process only to see if we truly would come to our vermin or if by some miracle the doctors had made a mistake. As soon as our gender was confirmed he simply left us be. Leaving our mother to suffer.

You'd think that a father could foster love for their child at least over time. No, he remained a drunk and bitter man. He always reminded us of the failures that we were for simply existing. In the eyes of our family, being a woman meant nothing.

In order to become perfect nothings for another man we were trained to be perfect subjects. Yes, subjects, as common people to a rich man's throne. Even the power of God which they inscribed in us told us that it was our fate as women to become givers. Givers who give everything to everyone but themselves.

My sister and I were never born as the submissive kind and I could tell our female family members resented us for it. While we took the beatings they looked at us with jealousy. As if to say, "How come they have the courage to speak for themselves when I don't?" Then they'd beat us for not being like them.

Cruelty is such a powerful thing.

So is built up rage.

Yet our rage never came to light until our mother announced herself pregnant a third time. Our father boasted about the arrival of a new son even though it was too early to tell. My sister and I fell to the background of all this noise and we took care of our mother.

Her pretend happiness hid her own boiling hatred. For that reason, she planted her own seeds within our spirits. When we were alone, she'd tell us great stories of women warriors and swordswomen. She nurtured us with history and power. She gave us hope to become something more than nothing.

But in the end, she's the one that ended up becoming nothing.

Dead on the doctor's table with her third doctor.

Two dead bodies at once yet me and my sister were the only ones to witness it. Where was her mother? Where was her father? Where was her brother? Where was our father? Why were we the only ones grieving in the hallway as they told us the news?

As middle schoolers we had more compassion than people twice or three times our age. How does that make any sense? Children shouldn't be the ones telling each other that everything will be alright? Children aren't the ones who whisper prayers to their mother up in heaven; not alone.

So here came our rage. Our rage that had so righteously grown. It was large. It was heavy. It burned with such radiance that it soon coated our fists in its likeness. But at some point your fists become too heavy so you pick up a weapon instead to help carry the burden.

And what happened to our father you ask?

He did what men do best. He took his nothingness to another woman and made her of the same liking. Without proper mourning, he transferred to another to drag them to the same fate. Almost as if moving one room to another; without hassle, without regret, without anything of importance.