Blue Velvet:
A Love Letter to the Antifa
Dearest Truth,
We met online—well, you met me. I piqued your interest, so to speak. It was my art of course, and art I supported. My writing and publishing. You, the eternal critic, always searching for a new creative endeavor that fits your requirements. No one can be the viewer quite like you can. You can see all the details others might miss, my love.
Oh, my dearest, our 10th anniversary has come and gone. My how the time has flown, how we have grown. I find myself turning the memories over and over, slowly wearing the sharp edges down to a dulled feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I should have felt honored by such attention. But instead, I felt violated. But that was before. Before I knew you, my darling, before I knew...Truth. I was, I see now, the equivalent to walking alone with too short a skirt. I was asking for it. I just didn't know it. That was because I had yet to behold Truth, my love. The kind you have shown me. The kind of Truth that leaves one naked, revealed, for the hungry eyes of your brothers. At first, it felt wrong.
See, I had never known Truth quite like this before. The kind that likes to...you know...screw. And never gets tired of screwing. I didn't even know I was that kind of girl. Until I met you. Until you found me. Searched me out. Knew I was special. I know there are others you seek out, sniff out, to screw, sure. But I don't concern myself. Once you've had Truth like this, you don't mind sharing.
It took awhile, our courting. The first time caught me off guard. Took me by surprise. Took me from behind. Your anonymous, don't-you-fucking-look-at-me attitude was off-putting, controlling, coercive—for a free-thinkin', free-wheelin' gal like myself. Being followed. Stalked. Threatened. Attacked, with my reputation left for dead. My mind raped. Mind rapist. That's how I saw you...but I soon warmed up. Because soon you convinced me. I deserved it. You know me, better than I know myself. You see all the sin that I've tried so desperately to hide from the world. To hide from myself...I didn't even know it was there. But you, lover, you know Truth. And you've taught it to me. Me—a sinner!
But did not Christ supp with whores?
My eyes were opened, and I begged your forgiveness, my dearest Truth. Still I beg. Please forgive me. I know I've been a bad girl. I know I don't deserve it but...I'm ready to ask Truth into my heart. Just please, when you come into my heart...make it hurt. Like you do. Like we both know you will. You've ruined me for any other Truth.
Because not only did you introduce me to Truth, you showed me how it should really feel. You made me...like it. You made me...believe it. When you screw me, you know...you really get into it. You go so deep, screw me so good, grip so far into my head...when you leave...I can still feel your fingers. In my brain. Just how you like it.
Some might call it Stockholm Syndrome. Feminists might accuse me of internalizing the patriarchal paradigm. But we know better, don't we, my darling, my love? They tell me abuser's tactics include threats, intimidation, humiliation, alienation. But that's not you, my dearest Antifa, no. Some might say that you putting my family, my children, at risk for your own ends is sociopathic. Posting my address and pictures of my dear sweet, innocent boys, criminal. But, love. I know your end, and that your end is Truth! And this sacrifice, the safety of my own flesh and blood, only makes me love you all the more.
It's was Truth—your promise:
“You receive a love letter from me, you're fucked forever!”
My darling, my teacher. Always educating me on the paradox of obsession-repulsion. Teaching me to stop hiding. Teaching me real purity. Purifying me. I've tried to escape Truth, but you wouldn't let me. Always searching. Always watching. You knew it was for my own Good. The Good of all humanity. You have a calling. Those with simple, degraded, minds don't understand the sacred task you undertake. And all the trash you need to dig through to find...Truth. Spying on me, oh jealous lover. Illegally accessing my emails. Wanting to know what books I'm reading. What music I'm listening to. What words I see. What sounds I hear. What thoughts I think...
...some might call this abuse...
But after you've had your way with me, leaving me open, exposed...inviting, inciting your brothers to also take their turns. Take their fill. Leave me full. Because the more Truth the better, right? Before you, I didn't know what a Truth Slut I was.
But I was built for this kind of affair, my love. I grew up getting my mind fucked on the regular. That all seems so adolescent, immature now. Those fucks were also doled out in the name of Truth. And even then I deserved it. Just by being me. Just by reading words, writing words, hearing words, thinking thoughts...I had been defiling myself. And even then I was made to understand, that just by being me, I was wrong. Sinful. All that blasphemous thinking. It's Truth, that thinking of an unTruth, is just as evil as committing the act itself. And then there were all the heretical questions. Your unblinking eye sees, I'm still asking questions that are not to be asked. Still challenging...Truth.
But those others were never quite like you. Not all perpetration, penetration, is equal, my dearest, oh no. And your Truth is the biggest, the hardest, and when you ram it down my throat...and I look up through tears at your glowing, righteous countenance...I know it's for my own Good. The greater Good. And you in all your purity, know I deserve this. You see me as I really am. Subhuman. Fascist.
You've been there watching for so long. I forget...what I even thought Truth was...
But you'll never let me forget, what your Truth is.
But I worry. Would it lessen your pleasure, my darling, my dear love, if you discovered...well, I'm afraid to tell you. Afraid you will find me no longer worthy of your lavish attention. After all this time...I shall...reveal a secret! It seems so small and insignificant next to your Truth. But I feel I must, as Truth is of the highest regard and consequence. It's strange you've never found me out—in all your searching, scouring, snooping. That I've yet to scream it out—during one of your ritual, inquisitive, public trials. Lean closer...now I want to tell you...whisper it in your ear, my love, my Truth...
I'm not who you think I am.
I'm queer.
I have been out so long, I remember a time before micro-aggressions.
So long I remember being devastated by the torture and murder of Matthew Shepard.
I have Jewish ancestry.
My most influential teacher in high school was black and native.
I worked for a Mexican family and know more about Oaxacan cuisine then you do about Taco Bell's menu.
I can cuss you out in Kitchen Spanish.
Voted for Bernie.
My child is trans.
His therapists were asian, then Mexican.
I waged a rogue flyer campaign attacking, and almost went into labor protesting, US foreign policy after 911—when being unpatriotic was very unpopular. Even in Portland.
I held my baby, weeping, listening to the bombs dropping on Bagdad via NPR.
I've read Soul on Ice and People's History of the United States.
Totally hot for Noam Chomsky. But still think Henry Kissing is a son-of-a-bitch.
I've had reoccurring interment camps dreams since I was a child and fully believe I experienced one in a past life
I've seen John Trudell speak.
Both my kids are queer.
My nephew is black. And trans. And queer.
I've curated more political art shows than you've attended.
Our dentist—Vietnamese.
My doctor—Jewish.
While young, I spent time in black churches and am moved to tears by gospel music.
I'm obsessed with Mongolian music and culture.
I've lived in predominantly black neighborhoods most of my life.
I study Kabbalah.
Malcolm X is my biggest history crush.
When I was 5, I watched a documentary on PBS about the KKK. After, I worried incessantly about the safety of a black girl in my class. I remember her name. It was Tina Miller.
But I still don't know yours—your name. My beloved, my Truth.
But in my heart I feel..and in my fucked mind I know...you'll never let me go. Please. Don't ever let me go...
You're the Dennis Hopper to my Isabella Rossellini.
Yours forever and ever and ever,
Amelia Beechwood
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