By Magdalena Gómez
Attempts to torch were made. Firefighters fought back every time. The building, big, dense, well built like the tenants, refused to fall. We’d been through a lot worse. Mami grew up in a shanty town raised on wobbly stilts over open sewage colonialism’s backhoes dug toilets of diphtheria, malaria, dysentery efficient ethnic cleansing as the mainland canned sprays for every hole of women’s bodies. Desecrated for profit. The hole over our tenement toilet gaped wider each day. Upstairs neighbors got a “free show” each time we had to go. I took to it all like a gas soaked duck with umbrella and galoshes. Channeled Gene Kelly. Step. Splash. Sing. We laughed hard. Held dignity close. We had been through worse.
This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #2. To return to the table of contents, click here.