Dogwood Beauty
I
“Clara, Clara Angel,” a mother called over to her daughter in the park. It was late
February and the dogwood trees were newly in bloom. A cold wind meandered its way
beneath the mother’s long black skirts and lifted them gently. “Clara, we can’t stay much
longer. It’s getting chilly.”
Clara was a child of nine-years- old with chestnut hair and fair skin. She had
large lips and a slender face that was dotted with freckles. At the moment she was
stooped down busying herself picking dandelions. She lifted her head after her mother
had called for the second time. As she walked toward her, in two great puffs she blew
on the dandelions so that the tiny fibers caught the wind and drifted off steadily until
Clara could see them no more.
“Yes Mother,” Clara answered when she reached her side. Her mother was a
stern, proud woman who always carried herself with an air of dignity. Clara knew from
seeing her dress for bed that her hair was long, flowing, and would sway with every turn
of her neck. Sometimes her mother would even let her brush it. But during all hours of
the day she kept her golden locks in a tight bun as if to purposefully conceal it from
Clara’s admiration.
“Do you know what type of trees these are?” she asked as she pointed a
long dainty finger upwards.
“I do not know Mama.”
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“They are dogwood trees and every May or late April they begin to blossom,”
she carefully explained.
“They’re pretty.”
“They are pretty, just as you are pretty dear.”
Clara looked up at the trees in wonder and blushed at her mother’s large
compliment.
“One day you will grow up to be a fine young lady and many men will admire
you.”
“They will?”
“Of course they will. I’m sure of it.” She looked down at her daughter with a
gentle smile.
Clara had never thought of any of this before. “Why would they admire me?”
“Because of your beauty.”
The concept of her growing into an attractive woman was new to her. “Am I to
be beautiful? You are beautiful. Am I going to look like you?”
“You will blossom into your own beauty just like these trees do right before
spring. And as these trees have many admirers, so will you. But of them you must pick
only one to be your husband.”
Clara thought about how much she liked to pick things. She loved flowers and
when she saw one that was particularly to her taste she could never resist picking it.
Sometimes she would come back from the garden with a basket full of carnations or
roses and she would put them in a vase for her mother. The idea of picking only one of
something, especially when it was an important decision frightened her.
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“But,” her mother continued, “now this is very important you listen.”
Clara lifted her head towards her to show her that she was listening.
“You must not ever do this before you are married.”
“Do what?”
Her mother paused to think of how to phrase her next words. “See when you
find the one you love you must persuade them to marry you. But there is a method of
persuasion that you cannot ever do. You cannot use your body”.
“What do you mean?”
“They will ask you for your body but you must not ever give it to them until after
you are married.”
Clara’s head spun in confusion. “What will they want with my body? You mean
they get to keep it? How does that work? Isn’t it my body?”
“In time you will understand just what I mean. But your body belongs to God,
and God doesn’t want you to share it with anyone until after you are wed.”
“What happens if they get it from me?”
“You must not let it. You will become impure and a sinner. You will lose your
beauty in the eyes of God.”
“Oh mother! How do I keep my beauty?” Clara asked as she held onto her
mother’s skirts in fear.
“Do as I told you. You find a man to love you but he must wait till you are
married to have your body.”
“But what if I don’t want to give my body to anyone?”
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“Oh Clara, it is your duty to fulfill to your husband. But since he is your husband,
you will still be beautiful.”
Her mother looked down at her and could see that she was troubled. “Take
these dogwood flowers,” she continued. “They’re lovely aren’t they?”
Clara nodded silently in approval.
“They are white and pure,” she explained. “But once they fall off the tree they
are no longer as pretty. Look on the ground by your feet.”
Clara did as her mother directed her. She could see many fallen dogwood
flowers or at least what remained of them. They were brown from the dirt and looked
nothing like flowers but only a scattering of petals.
“All you have to do is stay on the tree. You must not let anyone pluck you before
you are ready. And when you are ready you will be married by then. If you let yourself
get plucked before marriage, you will be just like these flowers are at your feet, a fallen
woman, and no one will want you or look at you anymore. Even God will turn his eyes
from you.”
The color faded from Clara’s face. This plucking seemed like a painful process to
her. She worried she would not be able to prevent it from happening and that she would
fail God and her mother. Her skin was dogwood white as she ruminated all of this. A
single flower slowly floated down and landed in her hair. Normally she would have been
delighted at this, but as she touched it she remembered that flower
wasn't pretty anymore.
II
5
You hold the bouquet precariously in your hands. You can feel them shaking.
You see white roses and then your vision eludes you. Your childhood flashes into your
eyes. You see those trees. Those trees you’ve visited a thousand times over in your
memories. Those trees that made you who you are, became your everything. That had
formed your identity and grew in your existence. That you cast in your mind every time
he would touch you. Anyone would touch you. That told you innocence is everything.
That temptation is sin till you became insensible to it completely. That made your only
desire sanctity. You are now holding branches of dogwood. You can smell their sweet
gentle fragrance. You inhale and it swells in your lungs. Impregnates you with that
burden, that burden you've never forgotten to carry. You are again holding roses. You
throw them over your head in revulsion. The bouquet disperses into thousands of
dogwood flowers as they burst from your hands. They float everywhere beneath the
canopy tent, each one spinning, trickling in every direction, floating with such grace,
defying every sense of gravity, every sense of time. They continue to fall till they cover
every surface. Even landing in glasses as they sink slowly in red pools of wine. They
are entirely ubiquitous. You have no escape. They are everywhere. They are always
everywhere, in your conscience forever blossoming. You hear a woman squeal. You
turn around to find the noise. She looks happy to catch them. You remember again
where you are. You contrive a smile at her. She grabs you and kisses you on the cheek
and tells you that maybe her turn will be next. But you can’t congratulate her. The words
won’t form in your mouth. Your lips forbid you to speak. You don’t feel that your life is
beginning. You feel that it is at an end. That you will never be special again. Never be
pure after tonight.
6
Everyone tells you that you look beautiful. They touch your hands, your arms,
your hair, your face, your body as they tell you this with beaming eyes. But you can’t
feel joy by this bountiful praise, only sorrow and subtle violation. Because tonight is the
last night you will ever be beautiful. After tonight you know that you will never be the
same. Feel the same. Have the same body. They told you that you were beautiful so
many times for years and years before this night because you could stay true to your
commitment, to your promise. That God was proud of you because your body has been
preserved, has been kept sacred. They held you up as an example, as a model of
virginity and virtue for all to follow. But that will all get taken away tonight. You will no
longer be this. Be untouched. Everything will change. You feel time passing as if your
heart was ticking. The moment is coming.
Your stomach sickens as you watch the long hard knife cut into the red velvet
cake, as if it were severing your life in two as it slashes deeper into the flesh, splitting
asunder who you were and who you will have to be. What your path has always been.
Has always been expected and directed. Has forever been the purpose of all this
intense saving and saving for. And you know now that it is to be nothing more than an
obedient and dutiful wife. To serve God. To serve him with your body through your
husband.
You watch as people feed themselves with this cake. Devour it with pleasure.
You refuse to eat your serving.
III
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I look into the mirror inside the bathroom of this hotel suite. I remember what I
used to look like. Lips too large for my face. I hated my freckles. I never thought I was
pretty. But what my mother had said eventually came true. I did grow into my own
beauty. My lips fit well on my face now. I’ve been told many times how kissable they
are. And I’ve used them much, never letting any man experience more.
Having any sexual feelings has always been a place of struggle for me. I used to
be able to feel that excitement in my body, that breath beneath my skin. But it made me
feel guilty. I would instantly feel the need to restrain, to stop myself from feeling from
fear I’d feel too much and give in to the temptation.
I knew better what love was then. We would spend hours talking to each other. I
could be a different person with him than I could be at home or church. I felt freer.
Nowhere else did I feel as alive than when I was with him.
But it got to the point where he would want to touch me too much. I’d have to
constantly move his hands off my body. He wanted me too badly for what my faith
would allow. It began to drive him mad. He touched himself beneath his pants in front of
me once in utter anguish. I remember feeling enthralled by the sight of it, but I quickly
remembered that God was in the room and it was not something I should be seeing. It
became too challenging to be around each other. I felt that I loved him at the time, but I
had already made my promise and chose God. I never saw that boy again. But I think of
him often. I think of the closeness we had and how he made me feel beautiful.
I went through a length of time where I chose not to see anyone. It was easier
that way and not nearly so painful. But when I was nineteen my mother had told me that
I better start looking for a husband. I had a few more boyfriends after that. They at first
8
seemed perfectly obliging to wait till marriage for me. But in time it became too much of
a struggle for them too and they eventually ended for that reason. They needed
appeasement and unfortunately weren’t quite ready for marriage. They left me
heartbroken. I had thought each worth saving myself for.
It brings me bitterness remembering those who had left me but knowing that I am
pure has been my solace. Though my heart had hurt, I told myself that at least I still
have myself, have kept what is mine. In times of emptiness knowing that made me feel
whole.
With each man entering and leaving my life I’ve become more stoic. I hardly feel
in that way anymore. When I kiss, my lips no longer burn with passion. That breath that
was once beneath my skin has stifled. When I am touched I no longer feel guilt because
I no longer feel pleasure. It’s made it easy to refuse. To be patient. To get to the place
where I am now; a virginous newly married woman.
“Clara, Clara Angel, are you all right in there?”
“Yes. This dress is very difficult to take off.”
I feel sick hearing this summoning. I don’t want to come out. I look in the mirror at
my unclothed body. I have nothing but my wedding lingerie on. When I was told that I
was to wear special lingerie for this night it quite exacerbated me. I had never indulged
in these types of showy garments before, never having the need to. I’ve never let
anyone see me naked and only a few times have I let myself be in my underwear in
front of a man, each time ending disastrously with me quickly having to redress myself. I
study my appearance in the mirror. I see myself with a new attraction I have never seen
before. I feel sexy. But it feels very wrong to be looking this way. Vulgar even. My
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breasts are unnaturally pushed up. I am in an unpractical lace corset which has been
making it difficult to handle my increase of breath. My bottom is exposed in barely
concealing underwear. I am wearing what I was told is a garter belt and it is holding up
a pair of sheer white stockings. I was instructed by my mother to leave my high-heel
shoes on. She had picked this outfit for me. She told me it was a special outfit to
celebrate giving myself away. I don’t feel comfortable wearing this. I don’t want to walk
out the door and have him seeing me like this. It feels indecent.
As I continue to stare at myself in the mirror, I see my skin grow paler. I look like
a ghost in all this white and it seems only fitting as I feel that death is approaching me.
“Clara, I’m excited for you to come out. I want to see you.”
Oh but I don’t want you to see me. I don’t want a part of any of this. I don’t love
you. I find you merely reasonable and I was pressured to go through with this. She told
me you would take great care of me. You who are fourteen years older than I. You who
are the only one I’ve been able to find who would agree to this. To all this waiting. To all
this saving and saving. You who I have said and thought that I love to know now that it
was nothing more than resignation. To understand now that I had killed myself when I
said “I do”. I don’t. I don’t want this. And in my attempts to please my maker he
has forsaken me.
“Clara, I can hardly take it any longer.”
But I must fulfill my promise. This new promise I have assigned myself. I walk
with trepidation out the door and I bring myself to the foot of the bed.
10
He kisses my breasts and they sting. My body stings everywhere he places his mouth.
And though I've been told that my union between this man is sacred, nothing that is happening
feels holy. I feel nothing but his greed as he relinquishes me of these hellish garments.
I am naked now and I feel like crying. I want nothing but to cover myself and
leave the room but I do for God’s sake what is instructed of me and I lie on the bed.
I hear the sound of him unzipping pierce through the room. I can hardly see him
at all through the darkness. He is naked and I am thankful that this darkness has
obscured it all. Because though I can hardly see him, I know I find his undressed body
to be unpleasant, ugly even. He gets up on the bed and slowly opens my legs. And I
know there is no going back. That this will happen and that I am powerless to stop it.
That I must succumb. Must surrender.
I feel it draw near me preparing itself to enter.
Drawing near me closer.
Towards me.
Floating.
Floating.
Floating.
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