Author: Olavia Kite

What right does anyone but me have over my body? Who decides what my future should look like and how I should handle my relationships? Why is everyone revolving around us women and judging us as if we didn’t have minds of our own, as if our bodies didn’t belong to us?

Emergency contraception has been prohibited in Colombia, and my head is boiling with anger. I’m angry because a society that will not take responsibility over its hungry and uneducated children is telling us that it’d rather have more unhappy citizens (both mothers and children) abandoned to their luck than give a woman freedom to make a decision over her own priorities.

To use the “child as God’s miracle” as an argument against abortion and/or emergency contraception is to deny the fact that children are human beings and not just cute little pets to cuddle. It’s like getting married for the sole joy of having a wedding. Children don’t only need the smile of a loving mother (who will of course be thrilled to have her life truncated because of this unwanted step) in order to thrive, but also slightly more basic things like food and clothes and good education, which in many cases the mother cannot provide. I wonder if those who go preaching about how beautiful it is to have a baby know what it really means to give birth to a person. A person’s lifetime usually spans a few decades, so I don’t see what’s so fantastic about letting yourself and somebody else down from their very appearance on Earth and for so, so, so long.

I refuse to let tissue grow inside me if it is bound to become a fundamentally unhappy human being. My parents have given me so many opportunities and so much joy that I cannot conceive the idea of denying my own children the amazing kind of life I have had. I cannot fathom why anyone should be denied such right, and most important, why women should be denied the right to treat their bodies as what they are: their own.

In Colombia, a woman’s future is deemed to be worth less than that of a pair of cells. This is how important we are to those who rule over us.

Sometimes I feel like, despite having done my fair share of travelling, I haven’t actually been anywhere. Maybe it’s just because every time I’ve planned to travel I’ve ended up in the middle of nowhere.

I took those heavy books to our trip because I didn’t want to come out to you as shallow, which I ended up doing anyway. You had written a dedication on the book you had sent me—you perceived me as intelligent, interesting, and strong, it said—and I wanted to live up to that image. And the problem was exactly that: trying to emulate that person you had conceived out of my writing. My usual disregard for other people’s opinions about me suddenly turned into an uncomfortable bout of self-conscience, perhaps because I was so fascinated with you, or the idea of you, or even the mere possibility of having someone to be corny with after all this time.

I mention this, even though it doesn’t matter anymore, because it still stings. It still stings that I actually thought less of myself in your presence because you were such a big scholar and I was just an undergrad student who knew nothing about anything. After all, you—you of all people, genius among geniuses, crème de la crème—had chosen me for this holiday fling, and I didn’t know if I’d be able to measure up to your standards, so I thought I’d cover up my tiny ignorant self with academic books and unfinished homework at a time when I was even doubting whether I had chosen the right path for my future. I was a fool to think myself unworthy of you, because eventually you deemed me so.

So there you have it. I am shallow, and I don’t get jokes, and I seldom exercise. I’m non-conformist and grouchy, and I don’t read nearly as much as you do. But you should have seen all that naturally coming out of me, and not oozing through the cracks of my imperfect mask of shame. I’m sorry I tried so hard to please you.

What bothers me the most is that I still see you in my dreams, and in those dreams you finally take me for who I am. But who cares now whether you could like me or not in spite of myself? A writer could not ever spend her life beside a man who lives in utter silence.

My computer sort of died on me last week. Actually, it was the fan that died; the computer still worked as long as I left the hair dryer running on cold mode behind it. Aside from the unbearable noise it was an acceptable solution, but I took it to Tokyo for repair, anyway. The chosen place was, of course, not the Apple Store, as ¥45000 for a fan change didn’t sound too good, especially knowing that I could perform the operation myself if only it didn’t take so long to get the spare part shipped from America. So I went to this tiny, tiny place at a back alley in Akihabara and left it there. The guy at the shop was really nice–the whole thing reminded me of my desire to become a computer technician (not an engineer) while pursuing my Literature degree. I wanted to take clothes making lessons as well, but I never got to fulfill these plans because of the scholarship. So anyway, here I am now with no computer, waiting for a phone call to rush back to Tokyo, hoping that everything turns out fine in the end and I can go back to my usual compuuterized life.

These days haven’t been so hard, though. I’ve spent my time reading books, playing guitar, and even discovering new pastimes: My first attempt at bijouterie this morning has been succesful. I’m now wearing trinkets I’ve made myself!

I’m actually grateful for this obstacle, for it has taken me away from what was looking like an addiction, back to more creative endeavors.

It also helps to receive phone calls from Cavorite from time to time. This means I won’t have time to forget that voice and that laugh that stir swarms of multicolored butterflies in my stomach. Have I mentioned that he makes me so very happy? Well, he does.