escape

It was 7 a.m. when I boarded the train for Houston. Nervous, heartbroken, physically wounded by the man who beat me the night before. It was my last chance to make a break from him. At almost 17 and newly unpregnant less than a year post-Roe, I knew there had to be more to life than this small town, that violent man, and dope. I was addicted to two of the three, but most afraid that the third would be my downfall. Small town life. Unbearable.

I am an outsider, always have been. No matter the setting, my internal gears are set in such a way that I am out of step and not in synch with the majority of you. These days, I relish those differences: nonconformity, independence, attitude, anger over injustice, the artist living in my soul and driving my perception of the world.

I've always been able to don the insider's cloak ~ I learned it all at my mother's knee ~ and I can pass. But it is superficial, a shell sufficient to deceive the majority (because most people don't really want to take the time to see the soul of another) and that's fine.

Shells, the superficial, these are the trappings of too much of life these days. They let us all move among one another without really connecting, and that's fine too. I don't want to connect with most people. If you live at the mall, if you have a photo of the Bush family on your keychain, I don't want you in my life.

My escape train crossed the border of Oklahoma, headed to Fort Worth. The club car opened as we crossed the Red River. The train trips of my childhood and young adult years were defined by the time I spent in the club car. Too young to drink, but just the right age to banter with the always smooth and sophisticated men who tended bar, I felt in that place that I could be anything I wanted to be.

Funny how something so mundane could have such an impact. The club car on the Amtrak rolling through Texas made me think that I truly could escape, could move beyond the limitations of my parents' expectations, of the destructive relationship that tortured my spirit and bruised my body, of my addiction to drugs, of my own conviction that I would never have any other kind of life.

The bar man on this trip was one of those visionaries, the ones who see beyond the shell. "What's wrong, baby, what's bothering you?" There were just the two of us and he was so kind and so I told him. We talked. He talked. He talked about his life, about how a man treats a woman. He talked about his time in the big cities around the country, about nightclubs and an other kind of life. An other kind of life. Not the life I had, not small town tied up constricted wounded dope and man addicted hopeless life like I had at almost 17. Another kind. Different. One where outsiders would find connection, community with others who wanted something different, something free.

I left the club car after dark. We were passing through a small town north of Houston. Standing in the passageway between the cars, leaning against the metal door, the rough-textured steel pressed against my thighs and grounded me. It was cool and the wind in my hair felt fresh and the scent of spring lifted me, as did the brilliant moon overhead. We rocked through the intersection of main street, moving slowly. Cars were stopped, backed up. Horns were honking. There were people on the sidewalks, neon signs lighting the way to Cocktails and Pool and I thought not for me, not this kind of place, this kind of life. I will escape and my life will be different, better. It will be good. A promise and a prayer for escape. A promise kept, a prayer answered.