Azaleah loved to sing. She would sing as she went through her morning routine, watering her plants and making tea. Her humming summoned the animals from their slumber to beckon for food. As the day went on, her voice continued to provide the soundtrack for her work at the nursing home.
Back home, it continued into second shift, caring for the plants and animals around her. Even though they seemed to enjoy it, she knew the real reason was to drown out the doubt and anxiety in her inner dialogue. As long as she held a melody, the memories from her childhood would not creep in.
Although her mom named her Azaleah, it naturally didn’t stand a chance. Her friends called her Zay. There were many ways in which Zay and her mom didn’t connect. It may have started with her name, but it was the last thing her mom said that had burned the biggest scar.
It was the implication that mattered. See, Zay could not shake nor shrug away the times her step-father would sneak into her room and “play adult games” with her. Finally, when Zay was 16, she built up the courage to tell her mom. By then, the scars were so deep and the pattern so consistent, her mom couldn’t even see it, nor believe it, even when doctors verified it. Zay moved out shortly after.
Many years and melodies later, Zay built up the courage to fight for other girls. She started the group “Daughters’ Bodies are Sacred.” Of course, there were people who either misunderstood or were truly hateful who said, “Father Figures’ Bodies are Sacred.” That was to be expected.
It wasn’t until her mom wrote the update on Facebook “ALL bodies are sacred” that she understood just how far people could swim down a river of denial.
And it hurt.
But still, she sings.