Petricia

Carefully, nervously, and cautiously I slide my wobbly legs onto the feet straps of an auto-wheeling chair that spins me across the room. “These darn robots,” I thought as my breakfast rolls to my throat after the excessive spin for a 967-year-old woman. Back in the old days, we roll our own wheels, ain’t that right?

“Your Majesty, Your Majesty, it’s time for our stories!!,” a herd of children come flapping around me like little chickens. These were my very great grandchildren. Um, that’s Rosie, that’s Llama, that’s Milenna, and that’s . . . as far as I’ve got. I am an old woman, and remembering 200 children’s name was not something I signed up for. Oh, why “Your Majesty”? I lived until now to tell them stories they would never have heard before, I think I deserve to be a queen. Anyways, it’s time for the monkeys to hear their story:

“Did I tell y’all about Barbara Waterman?”

“Yes, Your Honor (Majesty can get boring sometimes). She broke the record of having the most raisins in the world.”

“Ah yes, I do remember that. Great woman.”

I sigh and flatten my midi dress, which is apparently out of style now, and proceed to rack my memory a story I could tell them. Then it hits me.

“Petricia”

“Petricia?”, the kids said in unison as if they were some kind of military veterans.

“Let me tell you the story about Petricia,” I said.

It was a day 400 years ago, I don’t know nor care how the weather is like since it was 400 years ago, but it was on this day that Petricia woke up. She woke up completely effortless. No anger, no frustration, no oppression. Petricia was a .. free woman. You see, back in the old old days, woman weren’t free. They were anything, but free. But Petricia was different. She wanted to be free, and she knew she was destined to be free. So she woke up and all that. She got up to prepare for her work and all that. And you know what she wore? (They shake their head in anticipation). She wore a tight blue skirt and this beautiful corduroy blouse that showed off her skin tone. She was confident, and she was gorgeous. So when all that ordinary stuff went on with Petricia. Y’all know what she did? (They shake their heads) She went to work! Because ain’t no woman can live in this world without going to work, I’ll tell you that. So she got out –”

“Your Highness, this is boring,” one of the kids yawns with its dull little eyes, “this is basically the story of every woman on Earth.”

“Shush, you little racoon. You don’t anything, and don’t talk back to me or I’ll tell yo mama,” I grunt. They shrink their necks in timidness and a long silence followed.

Petricia made her way down to work. She had to walk, you see, down the roads. And she was beautiful, you see. The way she walked and how her heels clicked, she was the goddess of that street. So she walked, click click, and she walked, click click, until –

“HEY SEXY, WHERE YOU GOIN’?” (The kids jumped and impressed by how loud I could be)

Who was that, you ask? Believe it or not, it was this RANDOM man on the street who took notice of Petricia and tried to grab her attention by yelling so. Petricia was used to this, so she kept walking and striding her strides, ignoring the man once and for all. But the man, the man was livid. No one has ever, ever neglected him. He was fearless, he was to be feared, he was a man and he was the alpha. So the man huffed and puffed, his face got red and veiny, and all you could see was the anger in his eyes.

“WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, BITCH? YOU’LL DIE ALONE ANYWAY!!,”the man screamed in resentment.

“Granny, you can’t say that to the kids,” one of their moms called out to me from her working room, worried that their children heard “bitch” as if she has never heard it before.

“They’ll need to learn it, Madeleine,” I replied and went back to my story.

So she kept on walking, like a goddess she is, and reached her destination. She sat down in her cubicle and worked very hard so she could earn the money she deserves. Until this random guy came up to her cubicle, his hair glued back and his teeth too white, and asked Petricia on a date. She said no. The guy kept on insisting, questioning her why she would not go on a date with him, and that had money to afford both of their lives so she didn’t have to work so hard anymore. She said no.

“Why does he keep asking her when she said no already, your Majesty?” my favourite little one, Pris, asked.

“Ah, Pris, yes, good question. It was because back in the old old days, boys did not understand the meaning of ‘no’, because the world has said ‘yes’ to them too many times, they never knew what ‘no’ meant”

Anyway, the guy left embarrassed and irritated, because that means he had to cancel his reservation at this Michelin star restaurant. For the rest of the day, he talked crap about her to his co-workers, about how much she was a bitch and how one day she would come back begging for him.  Petricia kept on working, and that one, she was determined. She wanted that money and she was going to work for it. Then her boss called her over for a paycheck, and kids, you had no idea how happy Petricia was. She imagined herself bubbling in the bathtub with a good glass of wine, and she would go on a shopping spree and buy all the books she wanted. Petricia daydreamed about it as she walked to her boss’s office. This man was fat and stubby, and he liked to smoke the cigar. He tossed her an envelope that had her name on it. Petricia took the package with joy and realized how thin it was…  but she had worked so hard for the past month. And she noticed her colleague’s envelope, the guy who just asked her out, was thick with bills. She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by her boss:

“Not today, Petricia”

And so she walked back to her cubicle with her dreams of a good glass of wine gone.

“Why did that guy get more money than her? Why is her boss such a toad? WHY?”

The boys in the group of children look horrified. The realization of their ancestors shook them to the core as they passed glances at the girls, who are vexed. This is what happens when you tell kids the truth.

“What happens next, Grandma?” This only happens when they are completely entranced in something and forget about everything around them.

“Nothing. That’s the end,” I look at them dead in the eyes and swirl around, heading to the kitchen to grab some toast. Behind me, I hear screams of frustration, sound of tables being kicked over, noises of confusion, and anger, mostly anger. One of them, the leader supposedly, hollers: “GO ON EVERY SEARCHING TOOLS TO FIND A WOMAN NAME PETRICIA FROM 400 YEARS AGO WHO WAS TREATED LIKE SHIT.”

“JAMES, DON’T TALK LIKE THAT IN THIS HOUSE,” his mom calls out.

I chuckled and sighed, looking at their little fingers searching for a name called Petricia on anything they could put their hands on. Little do they know, they didn’t have to search for Petricia, they only needed to search women who were treated like shit and there they have it.

The stories of many, many more Petricias.

I turned my wheels and head out of the door. As I walked down the streets, I see successful business women driving down the hill and I see men asking women out, and when she said no, he accepted it and wished her a good day. I see women wearing what they want and being complimented in a non-sexual manner by other people walking by. I see little girls wearing whatever colors they want, little boys wearing whatever colors they want, and little kids wearing whatever color they want. And I see — my little grandchildren running towards me, losing their breaths, waving out at me:

“Your Majesty, Petricia wasn’t the only one!!!”

THE END