By Laurie Rachkus Uttich
“Lety loves Lilith, Adam’s first wife, the one who was created from the same dust as Adam, his equal who liked being on top during sex. There are many versions, but the story we like best is when Lilith leaves Adam after he demands her submission, and she flies out of Paradise and wanders off to live a solo life by the Red Sea.”
It’s Chemo Day and my sister-in-law Lety and I walk into the center like we own the place. We don’t do hoodies or Crocs or silk scarves. We do big wigs and black tanks and RBG t-shirts and bellbottoms and blue eyeliner and red, red lipstick no one can see under our masks, and we fucking bring it. We’re the energy we need and they can say Stage Whatever all they like, but we stopped accepting other people’s definitions of us years ago.
This is Chemo #8 and the clothes change, but we wear the same boots every time, because the chemo is working and we’re not superstitious, but we know how to leave well enough alone. Lety wears combat boots like the warrior she is, and I wear flower cowboy boots like the hippy former Midwesterner I am. We’re Yin and Yang, soul sisters, and she might have a sleeve of kickass tattoos while I meditate and carry crystals, but I’m also the granddaughter of coal miners. My boots might be pink, but their tips are sharp.
Today, Lety’s a blonde and I’m a long-locks brunette, but I still wear the Pussy Hat one of her student’s crocheted over my wig, because it makes her laugh and we’re headed back into battles we thought were already won. A man in the lobby stares when I walk by, but I don’t drop my eyes like I usually do, and the moment passes and the words I want to scream remain stuck in my throat.
Chemo takes a long time and we do random things. I try to write, she draws. I scold her badly-behaved boobs like I do every time for getting us into this mess. We both have journals and books and backpacks with almonds and Pringles and one honey crisp apple we won’t eat. I look at our boots and think about how big my feet are for a woman just 5 foot 2, and I remember the African proverb that says, Never marry a woman with bigger feet than your own or she will become your fellow male.
I tell Lety and we roll our eyes and I remember this Spanish saying that advises a man when selecting a woman—or a sardine—to pick the small one, and then we wonder if we talk about how toxic masculinity also hurts boys and men enough and how crazy it is that Margaret Atwood’s still right and men are worried we’ll laugh at them and we’re worried they’ll kill us… and, Jesus, when did it all start? We’re tired of the way Eve’s still being blamed for that apple. I mean, who wouldn’t want to tap a Tree of Knowledge while Adam ran around naming things that didn’t need names? And then blame became shame and women became naked and men named them “weaker vessels” and witches who couldn’t say no to Satan… and they hanged them or burned them for their “forcible speech” and did you hear that the Taliban in 20-fucking-22 just made women journalists in Afghanistan cover their faces on the news? And, let’s not forget our own Marjorie Taylor Greene in the Land of the Free and her “We came from Adam’s rib” and “Women are the weaker sex” horseshit… and, God, Lety and I, cannot wait until one of Marge’s daughters grows up and calls her on her bullshit and we both agree it’s women like Marge who convinced women to bind their feet for a thousand years… and, by the way, did you know Barbie’s shoe size is a 3? and isn’t it weird there’s no Knocked-Up Barbie or June Cleaver Barbie? I mean, Marge tweeted, “The greatest choice a woman can make is becoming a mother,” and, sure, she’s batshit crazy, but it looks like the Supreme Court agrees… and is it good or bad Barbie took a pass on parenthood? We’re not sure and we’re happy mamas, but we still like that Barbie had 72 jobs and no babies.
We’re quiet for a while. History is so heavy to carry, especially while you’re living it. And then I say, “You know, I feel like I’m Lilith, but I’ve lived a life as Eve.”
Another person would need me to explain this, but Lety says, “Oh, God, write that down so you don’t forget it,” and I try not to cry about the gift she is to me. Lety loves Lilith, Adam’s first wife, the one who was created from the same dust as Adam, his equal who liked being on top during sex. There are many versions, but the story we like best is when Lilith leaves Adam after he demands her submission, and she flies out of Paradise and wanders off to live a solo life by the Red Sea.
God decides taking a rib from Adam might make the next woman more compliant and creates Eve, Adam’s second wife, the one who stays by his side, even as they’re evicted from the Garden, and raises his children. I look at my big feet and think of my three sons who grew up and evicted themselves from my own little Paradise. Barbie ran for President seven times. And me? I was Team Mom twice.
Today, Lety tells me one myth says Lilith is a demon who goes on to murder babies and, God, we’re so, so tired. “Really?” I ask her, already beginning to Google where I learn Lilith also swallows the sperm of men who sleep alone. And, of course, that’s the story. A woman who saw herself as an equal, a man who disagreed, and a society that created a context-free, cautionary tale of what happens to women who think their bodies are their own. And, of course, the man is sleeping and not responsible for even his sperm.
Is it possible to live solo by the Red Sea? Is it even habitable? I wonder, but Lety’s on her last infusion now and she looks tired, so I don’t ask.
I sit and I watch this warrior I love, this witch with forcible speech, this truthteller who never covers her face, this inquisitive Eve, this oh, hell, no Lilith… this Latinx, this artist, this advocate, this teacher of Title One school kids, this mother of three, this wife who holds my brother-in-law’s heart. I watch the chemicals flood her body and I will them to drown the cancer, to split the sea into a Before and After. And I bless her feet, even bigger than mine, and I thank The Universe there’s nothing small about her.
###
This essay is primarily a love story for my sister-in-law, but I wouldn’t be able to look outward and extend beyond the self without speculation. Likewise, I wouldn’t be able to look inward and connect traditional myths and current events to my role as a woman and feminist without speculation… and I wouldn’t have landed in a place that makes me question my own complicity. I’m drawn to speculative nonfiction, because it engages the mind at work and at play and when you get out of your own way, something unexpected happens. You might even call it magical.
Laurie Rachkus Uttich writes poetry and prose and is the author of the poetry collection, Somewhere, a Woman Lowers the Hem of Her Skirt (Riot In Your Throat, 2022). She teaches at the University of Central Florida and leads creative writing workshops at a maximum-security correctional center for men in Orlando.