Life Between Two Worlds — as Directed by My Aunt

In the calculated folds of existence, my aunt splayed open our shared future like architectural plans strewn across that Formica-topped table in the kitchen. Her voice, devoid of all but purpose, guided me through the corridors of Claremont High School, where rituals felt more like elaborate rites of bureaucracy than beginnings. There were interviews and stiff and bureaucratic interactions that told me little of what to expect but much of what was expected of me.

Then, one day, she broke the silence on the burgeoning matter of my femininity. “You need a proper bra,” she said, both an admission and a directive. Relief washed over me, mingled with a kind of embarrassment that came from being so transparently seen. Under her scrutiny, the intimacies of the lingerie section metamorphosed into a cathedral of dignity.

And my teeth, the constant ache I’d resigned myself to, found themselves the subject of debate between my father and my aunt, his voice a disembodied echo. “Best to get them all out,” he said, relegating my teeth to the role of squatters in their own home. “No, four will be replaced. The rest will be fixed,” she declared.

She taught me the high art of housekeeping. We adopted a division of labor. Saturdays, then, became sacred text, each chore a stanza, each movement a line of verse. We alternated our roles in this domestic drama: one week, she took the kitchen, the laundry, the bathroom, and the toilet while I moved in a dance of vacuuming and dusting. Wednesdays were…