Hey Christian Boy!
from Bikini Kill: A Color and Activity Book (Issue #1)
I pulled a dead girl through the ocean. When I got done I was really tired. It was cold outside and my head hurt. I saw you on the bus. I knew better than to look at you. You told the man next to you that I had a funny way of walking for a girl, but it was how my hair looked that seemed to upset you most.
I am trying to remember how the lines looked around her mouth. Clamped shut, no entrance. I am memorizing what little I know about how she died so I can tell someone, these stories always seem to be missed by the newspapers. I am trying desperately to remember her name and how real and heavy her body was, but your voice is loud and distracting. It tangles everything up.
You are wearing some kind of camouflage looking thing. You are talking about the war. Words like glory and pride spray at me like a gross breath from the back of the bus.
Her name was Angela. She was from Maine. She was slowly being smuggled to the west coast on Greyhound buses. She went under the name Yvonne so he wouldn't find her. He caught up with her in Montana.
You say you will always fight for your country. You will fight for Mom to keep ironing your clothes, fight for the right to beat a woman to death should she disobey you, fight to drink yourself silly in any bar you want, to roam the streets at night calling women "pussies" and "whores," and men who are smaller or younger than you, "faggots."
She'd felt safe in Montana for a while and had a job at a cleaner's there. Angela was five feet four, had pale skin and brown stringy hair. There were three women with her, Anne, Margery and Sue F. They were from the shelter and had come to help her move her things out. Since she was moving on a bus most of her stuff was getting donated to the shelter. It made Angela cry when she said she wanted the shelter to have the few things she'd accumulated over the past month and a half. It really was all she'd ever owned by herself and she'd wished she could give them something better.
You say you are fighting so that we can still speak freely. I have never been able to speak freely, that got belted out of me long ago. There are stories about women who stray from the path of silence.
I guess the way it happened was that he came in and made them kneel on the floor in front of him. Then he shot down the line. Margery-one. Sue-two. Anne-three. Angela didn't get it so easy. She got it up the cunt so she had to lay in her own blood with his big face bobbing over her for at least a couple minutes.
"Take off your clothes Angela" "No"
"Take off your clothes Angela" "No"
"Take off your clothes Angela" "No"
"But the pussy in Nam sure was good." I am nearing my stop. I want to tell you you're an asshole, but I know better.
Her name was Angela, she had green eyes and stringy brown hair. She was from Maine.
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