Recycled Esmeraldas
Recycled Esmeraldas
There isn’t much rain in Disney’s version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Which is a shame, because I would’ve idolized Esmeralda even more if she’d been dealing with Parisian storms.
Her life is nothing but hardships for so long, even outside of what we see in the movies or read in the books; how would she handle it? Did she retreat so far inside herself, or flee so far outside herself, looking for answers, for signs of something to be worth witnessing, like I used to as a girl? There’s no easy way to represent that, I know, but Esmeralda, I feel, could’ve been the perfect candidate. She’s in tune with the worlds outside, inside, in between, as above, so below, if anyone had the answers, it was her.
I wished I could see that, see Esmeralda not the picture of sass and attractive combative confidence, but divining with Quasimodo, during one of their night talks when the burdens of the worlds outside and inside became too much and they have to remind themselves of life’s purpose. They’d be soaked to the bone (all of Esmerelda’s curly mane flat and inky and octopus-rubber on her skin) but the water pooled in the palms of the damned boy would be her scrying bowl, a tiny thing that, after she cleared her lungs of all her stale breath and went cross-eyed from how hard she stared into it, would become a gaping maw, lick sensations and numbness up her skin until she ceased to Be.
What would she see, tranced in the rising pool of water, never still enough to give a clear view because the heavy rain would dash away even the hint of something? It would be release in its purest form. It would be nothingness, just the practice of looking away.
I also wanted to see Esmeralda dancing as herself. Not street-dancing for money, just rehearsing her moves. What does it look like when she has a misstep? What does it look like when she gets the lyrics of her song or the rhythm of her tambourine wrong? Does she snort to herself, looking to about a foot above her shoulder as if still expecting an audience? Does she do nothing, just robotically start over? Does she do both, outside appearing the wound-up doll but inside always accompanied, always a performance piece? I agonized over trying to know. I tried to walk on the concrete sidewalks outside because that was the closest to cobblestone roads I could get in suburban Georgia.
I would carry my inherited dream catcher in my pocket and twirl it like she did when telling Quasimodo where to find her when he finally decided to escape. Escape, I wanted to escape, but to where? I didn’t exactly know; I knew that me as I was couldn’t go anywhere in particular. What, some scrap of a girl just packing up her shit and leaving? Nah. But I could escape if I wasn’t the me as I was. If I was some other kind of me, and if I made up a person, a reason, a place to escape to.
I resolved to become that scene, creating as many Esmerelda’s as I wanted, printed out of the leather sheets of my skin; the same afro-latina girl, green-eyed, blue-eyed, golden-eyed, short, swirly-haired half-woman who scries the musings of nothingness in rippled water.
When I was younger and more inclined to act on impulses when alone, I tried to catch enough raindrops for my scrying, but when my impatience won I just settled for tipping my head up and feeling the stray drops hit my eyelids because back then I could not cry without permission.
(It wasn’t that my ability to cry didn’t work, it was that I was raised early on to be ‘strong’. Like how Esmeralda is ‘strong’. If someone stomps on your foot after you just explained to the teacher that you impaled it on a nail, when you recover you kick him so hard in the shin he calls you a “Bitch” as he flares his nostrils and simpers at your feet, and you learn that swearing isn’t a magic art only adults have.)
I was a foreign, spy-queen at the lunette of the guillotine that was my window, smelling tar shingles and wondering if thunder could shape glass into a blade. Wondering if my greatest sin was peeking into other’s lives or giving them lives to peek into in the first place. Wondering, too, if life had a purpose other than creating reasons to question its worth.
When I did not die at the end of those storms, I found guidance in my fear and anticipation. I heard the voice of Death, whoever that may have been, and the voice of the Sky, whoever that may have been, and I have been this woman, this girl, who sees all the sides of nothing.
Recycled Esmeraldas (rough draft)
There isn’t much rain in Disney’s version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Which is a shame, because I would’ve been all the gayer for Esmerelda if she’d been dealing with Parisian storms.
Not dancing, not crying, but divining with Quasimodo, during one of their rooftop talks. They’d be soaked to the bone (all of Esmerelda’s curly mane flat and inky and octopus-rubber on her skin) but the water pooled in the palms of the damned boy would be her scrying bowl, a tiny thing that, after she cleared her lungs of all her stale breath and went cross-eyed from how hard she stared into it, would become a gaping maw, lick sensations and numbness up her skin until she ceased to Be.
What would she see, tranced in the rising pool of water, never still enough to give a clear view because the heavy rain would dash away even the hint of something? It would be the future in its purest form, nothingness, just the practice of looking.
I also wanted to see Esmerelda dancing as herself. Not performing for anybody, just rehearsing her moves. What does it look like when she has a misstep? What does it look like when she gets the rhythm of her tambourine wrong? I agonized over trying to know. I would walk on the concrete sidewalks outside because that was the closest to cobblestone roads I could get in suburban Georgia, carry my inherited dream catcher in my pocket and twirl it like she did when telling Quasimodo where to find her when he finally decided to escape. Escape, I wanted to escape, but to where? I didn’t exactly know; I knew that I as I was couldn’t go anywhere in particular. What, some scrap of a girl just packing up her shit and leaving? Nah. But I could escape if I wasn’t the me as I was. If I was some other kind of me, and if I made up a person, a reason, a place to escape to.
I resolved to become that scene, creating as many Esmerelda’s and Quasimodo’s as I wanted, printed out of the leather sheets of my skin; the same afro Latina girl, green-eyed, blue-eyed, golden-eyed, short, swirly-haired half-woman who scries the musings of nothingness in rippled water.
Various damned boys and girls, not disfigured visually but needing nurturing, needing someone to tell them what they were meant for, what they were made for, who they should strive to be and to love and to want.
When I was more inclined to act on impulses, I tried to catch enough raindrops in my hands for my scrying bowl, but when my impatience won I just settled for tripping my head up and feeling the stray drops hit my eyelids because back then I could not cry without permission.
(It wasn’t that my ability to cry didn’t work, it was that I was raised early on to be ‘strong’. I was the eldest daughter; I was the only daughter. I was the daughter of my mother and my father and they didn’t cry so neither must I. We are warriors, we shout and rage our pains, and we fight through our difficulties. If someone calls you names you salt their crops. If someone stomps on your foot after you just explained to the teacher that you impaled it on a nail, when you recover you kick him so hard in the shin he calls you a “Bitch” as he flares his nostrils and simpers at your feet and you learn that swearing isn’t a magic art only adults have.)
But anyway, I was a foreign, spy-queen at the lunette of the guillotine that was my window, smelling tar shingles and wondering if thunder could make locked glass kill. Wondering if my greatest sin was peeking into other’s lives or giving them lives to peek into in the first place.
When I did not die, I found guidance in my fear and anticipation, I heard the voice of Death, whoever that may have been, and the voice of the Sky, whoever that may have been, and I have been this woman, this girl, who sees the future in nothing.
