My grandmother is justice, mercy, and wrath all at once. She is roaming warden and weeping raincloud and caressing hand. And gaping abyss. And stalking predator.

My grandmother tells me to be ladylike. My grandmother scans my person searching for a hair out of place, a phantom stain, or god forbid an uncovered shoulder, exposed cleavage, skin, fear, weakness.

My grandmother plucks safety pins out of thin air with which to tuck, and fold, and cover, and pinch, and prick.

My grandmother tells me to cover up. That there are men in the house. As if to say I should be considerate. That I should not tempt them. That I must not sway their gaze or poison their minds with unclean and ungodly thoughts.

My grandmother says there are men in the house like there are Nazis in France. Like there are British in Boston. Like fear the wrath of the almighty. Like cover your head and wait for the storm to pass. Like camouflage yourself because we are behind enemy lines. Like don’t you see them teeth, girl. Like don’t you know they draw blood. And tears. And insecurities. And nightmares. Not like there are uncles in the house. Not like there are grandfathers in the house. Not like there are brothers in the house. Because blood is thicker than water but harder to get out of the carpets. Like harder to find my coat behind all the skeletons in this closet. Like I keep tripping over the exposed roots of my family tree. Like this is the legacy bestowed upon young girls. Like this is rite of passage. This is the molding of a casualty. A generational curse. A sacred ritual that feels more torture than tradition. A slow burn and culture shock all at once. The binding of feet. The ironing of breasts. The mutilation of genitals. The broken women teaching young girls how to bend at the right angles. How to pray that they will not become prey, bow in repentance for this sentence of binded body and fraudulent flesh. That some people are just born sinful.That heathens don’t get into heaven. The feeling my mother gets when she realizes that my sister has grown into a body that she is not yet ready for. She is steering a condemned vessel marked for destruction. Careening at breakneck speeds around curves sharp enough to cut her. She is foolish little girl. Inexperienced novice to the consequences of her figure. I was diligent devotee of the meek girl doctrine. In adolescence I served as hostess to a feast of boys with hungry hands. Boys who refused to back down from a dare. Greedy groping palms made hoodie into security blanket. Until I thought that I could zip myself into my own flesh. As if to say out of sight out of mind. As if it would stop the grown man who catcalled me at 14. As if my turtleneck made a difference. As if turtle shells ever kept out a predator big enough to take what they wanted. As if I didn’t bring this on myself. Self conscious girls who stopped running in gym class. Tell them fast tailed girls to slow down. It’s just makes it easier to catch them. Boys will be boys and beasts will be beasts and blood will be blood. From burqa to bikini. At least I was pretty enough for the attention in the first place.

My grandmother is pricking needle, and stalking predator, and festering wound. One day she recounts a tale of a girl splintered into bite sized pieces and devoured with reckless abandon. That this girl couldn’t get rid of the scars.  

And this is when I realize that some shepherds shoot their sheep when they have broken their legs and are slowing them down. And some shoot just so the wolves won’t get to them.

My grandmother is justice, mercy, and wrath all at once. She is waning moon and flickering flame and troubled water and sturdy foundation. My grandmother scans my person searching for skin, fear, weakness, teeth marks. For some sign that she has failed me. She tells me to cover up. That there are men in the house. And that she can not stop them.That they are waiting for me to slip up.