New Orleans, Day Four

I have three cuts on my leg. They look worse than they are. One big bruise on my right calf, the origin of which is uncertain. On my right arm another bruise is developing, the shadow of a circular rainbow slowly becoming visible, like a polaroid picture. I am being shaken. I am being battered. I am a battered woman in the best possible way.

They call me honey and sweetheart. But they also don't ask me whether or not I can lift and hammer and demolish. Because of this, these words, these identities, don't seem quite as demeaning as they usually do. For once, it is good to be a honey. Sweetheart has a strength to it, and is covered with dirt and termite dust. I am a woman; watch me tear this roof to pieces. Put a new one in its place.

I have never felt stronger, and in more ways than one.