A Heap of Broken Images

We play the eye contact game, you and I. I look at you and you look at me briefly, hesitantly, then break gaze. When you think I’m not paying attention to you, you look at me. Sometimes I notice your stares and pretend not to; sometimes I’m utterly oblivious.

When I know you are looking at me, I involuntarily run my fingers through both sides of my hair, right at the temples. This game proceeds in fashion until one of us approaches the other and speaks. I usually make the first move.

Even though you had a steady partner, I teased you. Even though I tested the bonds of fidelity, you responded. You were much older than me and the first male I had ever been interested in pursuing. In situations like this, the person in my position often asserts that I “should have known better”. I’m not sure I buy that.

If we want to think in terms of blame, I was equally at fault.

Belfast explosions make me rush out in the streets—hoping someone I know hasn’t been maimed or killed. The blasts often disconnect phone and power service. I do not often leave my quadrant.

I do not want to see you harmed—but you fight with an assault weapon and defend the boundaries of this Catholic-controlled sector. Loyalists do not stray into the domain of the ski-masks and code words, under penalty of death.

The first time we had sex, you bragged about it to all your friends at the pub.

She was a right Fenian whore.

Though I was embarrassed, I didn’t show it. I am young, but not in spirit. More than a few people I know have been killed in an effort to free Ireland.

Espousing brainwashing doctrine, I speak in manifestos. I am too young to know better. The moronic arrogance of youth insists that if I believe enough in the cause, all of my dreams will come true. I do not focus my intense zeal towards the Pope—rather I cast a religious hatred towards Britain.

The movement tells me that if we put enough pressure on London, they eventually acquiesce. Hundreds of years of history belies this assertion. My boyfriend expresses a vague allegiance to the cause of the PLO. I’m not completely sure we would know what to do if several Arabic men in head scarves forced their way in and asked for our support. I don’t question him. You don’t ask questions of the INLA. Our faction was asked to disband, but we refused.