Stepfordized: Part 8 (Patreon)

Eliza had a hard life growing up in London. Her parents were so poor that they couldn’t afford a babysitter for her when she was 4 years old, so her father had to carry her with him on his daily paper route in a small trolley that dragged behind his bicycle. During this time, her mother would go to college and try to earn a degree only to get hit by a car and die when she was 8. Her father found another girlfriend only six months and immediately began insisting that she accept Tabitha, a 20 year old ditz with HH cup breasts and the brains of a sedated cat in heat as her new mom. Eliza and her 12 year old brother  would talk and process the change together with the grieving daughter saying at one point that she didn’t understand what their dad saw in such a stupid girl. Her brother Alphonse merely sighed and paused before saying “….I…I’m pretty sure I know why he likes her.”

“Why?! She’s dumb! She’s LAZY!” Little Eliza cried.

Alphonse looked away and sighed again. “She’s also…pretty. And that’s what matters to dad right now.”

(1)

Naturally, she grew to absolutely despise Tabitha inside and out while the revelation that the fat tittied, South End bimbo was narcoleptic and would fall asleep literally anywhere at any moment. This, coupled with other inherent vices of being brainless arm candy, led to her eventually burning the entire flat down one day after starting to grill some chicken and then passing out on the couch. Eliza was outside with her friends at the time and didn’t even see that her house was in flames until it was a pillar of smoke surrounded by firetrucks. No one made it out in time.

For years, Eliza bounced from foster home to foster home either causing trouble or running from it. Eventually, after a lifetime of being brought home by the cops to abusive families and inevitable sexual assaults, the young punk emancipated herself and grifted her way to saving enough money to leave London for a quiet place away from the city. She’d imagined a nice little cottage on the outskirts of Rye, living her life as a creepy, reclusive spinster who spends her time writing poetry and gothic horror smut. Those hopes too were dashed not by cataclysm or tragedy, but by the simple fact that moving to a place and affording a place were not the same thing.

Eliza had been running con jobs and scams to make money, which was easy to do in the city. But if she wanted to actually be able to continue paying rent, she would need something far more substantial that wouldn’t make her the ire of a town with a population of only 4000 people. She had to qualify herself. She needed a degree.

Reaching out to what few relatives she had left, Eliza got into contact with her great aunt who’d moved to America years before she was born and asked about the possibility of staying with her for a while as she went to school, offering to pay her rent in housework and living assistance until she’d finished her degree. Aunty Wanda, an older, unmarried woman herself, was more than happy to take in a family member, demanding far less of Eliza than the girl had expected.

Life with Wanda was good and helped soften the traumatized punk’s edges to the point where she could at least TRY to function as a member of society. But this was significantly harder to do in a town where white Christian patriarchy had a complete death grip on the culture and the only three women in town not eager to supplicate themselves before the mighty penis were an 87-year-old black lady, an emo redhead, and her purple-haired friend, both of which were 5 years older than her. Eliza, having lived on the opposite end of town and lacking a car didn’t have the means to try to associate with the white girls across town, so she simply kept to herself until protest season came around in Spring.

A couple of years later, Aunty Wanda died gracefully old age, leaving everything she owned including the house and a decent amount of money to Eliza. Though initially devastated, Eliza promised herself that she would put all that she was given into making a difference in the world and living life the way SHE wanted to.

This, however, was still more difficult than she’d thought it would be.

Eliza chain smoked her third cigarette of the night, staring at the card she’d been given by Donna. She vaguely knew who Donna Celeste was, but had never seen her in person. Any previous mention of her was generally just another steppy housewife thing on tv or the radio meant to placate women into following orders to breed and conform to social norms. But now looking at the card as she had been for hours, she couldn’t help but remember what Donna had said.

“Shame, isn’t it? How this country favors one complexion over another so harshly that it stifles the voices we so desperately need to hear.”

The words rattled around in her head. The voices that needed to be heard.

By taking the offer, she’d be jumping into the lion’s den and working for a woman who seemed to adore and perpetuate the current status quo as well as support the subjugation of women. Or would she? Eliza had no idea what Donna was like on or off the air. What was the show actually like? And if she was so bad, why would Donna claim that a voice like Eliza’s was one that needed heard?

Of course, she thought, if she DIDN’T take the offer or at least follow up, she’d lose the opportunity for a job that might have allowed her to recoup her dwindling inheritance just because she wouldn’t let herself give a chance to a person she knew next to nothing about and had never done anything to her. Not only that, she’d be giving up the chance to actually have her voice heard by the entire community in a way that they might be receptive to as opposed to standing on the street corner with an inflammatory sign and a bad attitude and hoping that changed the minds of the populace to her way of thinking.

“…God fucking dammit.” She said, stubbing out her cigarette and exhaling one last plume of smoke.

Eliza sighed and typed in the number on the card.

“Alright sweetie, I just need you to go down this hall until you see a glowing X on the ground. Once you’re there, you’ll wait in place for your cue to enter. When you’re called, make sure to enter with a big smile and give Donna a hug like you’re friends, but don’t make it last too long. Take your seat, but make sure you look relaxed like…..like you’re in your own home and you’ve just gotten out of a nice, hot shower. Do your best not to speak over Donna. If she disagrees with you, let her speak first and do not look her directly in the eye unless you are complimenting her or making a complimentary action. Once the initial hug is complete, do not try to make physical contact with her unless she offers it first. Ope! We’re getting close to time. Hurry up and get to your place. Go, go, go!

And smile!”

The stage manager was a sweet woman with short hair and an especially domestic floral skirt beneath her almost business-professional green blouse. From the moment Eliza had arrived at the studio expecting to audition for the radio slot, women from every department nearly pounced on her. Donna hadn’t said anything about appearing on her show but before Eliza could even mutter a single word in surprise, curiosity, or protest, she was rushed into the dressing room where makeup artists and hair stylists immediately sat her in a chair, removed her glasses, and got to work. Initially, the intrepid activist was repulsed by the amount of contact happening without her consent, but being fully aware of the hustle and bustle that goes on behind the scenes of a tv set and seeing the frazzled faces of the crew, she dropped her defenses and allowed them to do their jobs.

There were no fewer than five stylists and makeup artists working on her hair or makeup at a time, and despite her impulse urge to snap at them for moving her around like a ragdoll, she quickly found herself not entirely hating the attention. The only two people to ever actually know how to do her hair in a way that looked alright were her mother and Aunt Wanda, so she was pleasantly surprised when the hair stylist had absolutely no problem pulling it back into a sort of flared dreadlock ponytail. Similarly, the makeup artist worked lightning quick the entire time that Eliza had her eyes closed while a pair of delicate nail artists gave her a full manicure.

She decided that it was all in all… Not the worst experience ever.

Eliza stood on her glowing X looking into the homey-looking set while Donna addressed the audience and cameras. After making several jokes about the weather and recent social faux pas at a big local gala or social event, she gestured to a screen showing an expertly crafted montage of Eliza’s works throughout the city, including one where the ebony punk stole a reporter’s camera and ran off with it.

“Our next guest is a local spitfire and champion of women’s rights. You’ve seen her PASSIONATELY displaying her rebellious, daring views all over town. But today, instead of passing her by, you’re going to hear what she has to say straight from the warrior herself. Ladies, please welcome my very good friend Miss Eliza Baker!”

Eliza marched proudly out onto the set to thunderous applause and the surprisingly progressive sounds of Lupé Fiasco’s “Streets on Fire.” It was difficult not to be smiling from ear to ear at such a reception, she thought as she walked over and gave Donna an admittedly exaggerated hug, demonstrating the affection and friendship she was told to sell to the crowd. Donna was, in her opinion, remarkably pleasant to touch. She was warm and her entire body was soft and cushy while her perfume was some magical mix of whatever it took to make a South End girl accidentally blurt out “Bloody ‘ell, you smell amazing, oh my god!”

She immediately recoiled at the realization that she’d said that out loud, her mouth shooting to cover her lips in embarrassment.

“Oh no worries! It’s actually called Blood and Bone. It was meant to be from a Halloween collection but it took six months to get here so I’m getting my use out of it now. See me after and I’ll give you a bottle to take home.” Donna gushed, seemingly just as enthusiastic to see Eliza as Eliza was to be on tv.

The applause slowly died down and the girls took their seats once more. Donna folded one leg over the other and looked over at her guest with a smoky, sultry gaze.

(2)

“So Eliza. You have been a women’s rights advocate for some time now, but that is an immensely broad category with many different interpretations. What is it that you actually stand for and what are you hoping to accomplish?”  Donna asked, suddenly devilish in her intensity.

Eliza wasn’t put off by the immediate transition from hyperbolic pleasantries to hard-hitting questions. In fact, she’d expected something like it to happen, trapping her in a powerless situation where she publicly made a fool of herself. But where the crowd expected her to begin sweating or fumble her words, she simply smiled calmly as the lights in the studio began to dim slightly, focusing in on the two women.

(3)

“Well Donna, it’s less about what I want to accomplish and more about what I want all women to ‘ave. Too often I see young women going out and immediately ‘aving children or getting married when they’re simply not ready to tie the ol’ knot. I ask the questions people don’ want asked. Where’s the adventure? Where’s the romance? Where’s the stability?

Is it our job as women to roll ova f’the first bloke wiv ‘iz cock out an’ spend the rest of our young lives pumpin’ out ‘is babies like some kinda pedigree’d dog? Or should we be able to pick and choose what we do with our lives? Our youth? Our beauty? Or izzit just ‘aight lass, yer 16 now, get to fuckin or ya worthless?’

I say no. I say wake up. I say you’re being robbed of your choices and fu’chas just to fit in wit the rest of the girls. Wot choices ‘ave you ACTUALLY made in ya lives? An’ I’m not talkin about wot’s on the telly or which casserole you’ll stuff your six pups wiv. I mean REAL choices that mat’a to YOU for your OWN health and happiness? I say it’s time to stop bein a man’s play thing an’ start livin like a real, complete person.”

Eliza’d expected her speech to be met with gasps and boos from the crowd, but was met again with yet more applause. They loved it. If anything, that fact alone was more jarring than anything Donna could have thrown at her.

“I see.” Donna said. “Well that’s all well and good, but what about the choices we already make? You say you’re all about women’s freedom to choose who and what they want to be, but some would say that all you’re really doing is attacking those women who CHOOSE to be wives and mothers?”

Smiling, Eliza rolled her eyes to up to the ceiling and huffed a quick sigh.

“But ‘ave I really attacked anyone, or simply challenged their beliefs?” She responded quickly.

Donna shrugged. “What’s the difference? When it comes to the way they’ve chosen to live their lives, telling them they ‘re wasting their lives by getting married or pregnant early on. How is that any different from me telling a lesbian that she is wasting her life by not choosing to try a man?”

The audacity of that one almost caught Eliza off guard, but she still remained unfazed. This was a question she’d already answered in one form or another over many years.

“Well first off, a lesbian couldn’t simply choose to be with a man any more than a gay man couldn’t just choose to be attracted to a woman. And to put THAT belief to rest, I am, contrary to popula’ belief, not a lesbian. I am proudly bisexual and fancy lads and ladies just fine.

As for your question…. The difference is that once you make a giant choice like marriage of motha’hood, you can’t take it back. I don’t think anyone really knows wot they’re really doin at 16 or 18, but we’re still in a cul’cha that tells us to ‘urry up an’ get to fuckin if we want to be of value. If you take some rando standin on a street corn’a with a sign tellin you you’re more than a womb’n tits as an attack on your whole way of life, then seems to me like you might be crusading in the wrong di-rection.

Think about it: Donna, you ya’self are an unmarried woman wiv a new kid of your own. At wot, thir’y-two? But no one calls you a spinst’a or hag for not bein fresh outta school. You’ve got your own money, your own life…you ‘ave the pick of the litt’a when it comes to men! So why not everyone else at least try it out first? Why not advocate for women like you?

Coz wot’s gonna ‘appen if you spend your whole life doin nothin but servin your man just find out ‘e’s fuckin the bitch down the street while you’re off at the gala? Wot ‘appens when hubby decides you’re too old or too ugly or too fat or not fat enough? Your tits are too small or yer arse too thin or if you’re infer’le an ‘e leaves you high an dry, ah? Maybe ‘e takes the kids. Or WORSE, ‘e DOESN’T! Now you’re stuck bein a single mum with five, six, SEVEN lit’le ones bein looked at like a bad parent and a horrid wife because you ‘ave no job, no ‘ome, and nowhere to go because you jumped at the chance to be a wife and moth’a wivout REALLY knowing who you are or wot you REALLY want in life.

But people get SO offended by me just askin the question…

So upset that I don’t just shut me mouth, sit pret’y, an smile that they make me out to be the devil ‘imself just because I’ve not ‘ad a baby at 18 years of age. Maybe I want kids one day. Maybe I want to marry. But I should be allowed the time to decide that, and so should you lot as well. I should be able to ‘ave a job that keeps me family safe instead of relyin’ on the first bloke to fancy me to faithfully pay for everything I do for the rest of me life like it’s HIS job to do! It’s not fair to ‘im, her, OR me. When I find someone to set’le down with, I want to make sure that THEY deserve ME just as much as I deserve them.

So people can get mad an’ call me a baby eatin’ witch or wot’eva, but if telling someone I think they’re making a mistake and living their lives wrong because they didn’t do what was expected is so terrible then… Well I’m sorry, love, but if that’s the case then you lot are all just as guilty as me.”

Applause. Applause. Applause.

A standing ovation from every corner of the room filled Eliza’s ears with deafening praise. She hadn’t intended to go on such a rant on television, or maybe she’d just planned to do it over the radio, but she still hadn’t expected such a colossal outpouring of adoration from the audience.

Donna, she noticed, seemed especially pleased.

They took a quick break and both women went out behind the studio to smoke. Donna explained to her that she was doing fabulous and as far as her interview was concerned, she’d passed the audition with flying colors. The next set of questions would be geared towards the viewers, so topics like having children and fashion would be brought up and if Eliza wanted to keep her momentum going, she needed to give placating, cooperative answers to make the audience feel like they could relate to her.

When they went back in, Donna asked carefully crafted questions about what Eliza found attractive in a man or what sorts of careers would “suit a woman wanting a family.” Eliza played her part willingly, making sure to make it sound like one day she too would find a man she considered worthy of her and settle down to have kids of her own without actually saying it. By the end, she and Donna were laughing and making jokes until the end of the show where Eliza’s new radio segment and podcast “London Bridge” was announced.

Ahanu’s phone began buzzing on the coffee table as she lazily braided her hair. She smiled upon seeing Eliza’s picture pop up and immediately reached for it, oblivious to the increasingly thick belly roll bunching over her panties as she leaned over.

“Hey! How’d the interview go?” She asked, happily propping herself up on a foldable arm of the couch.

(4)

“IT WAS FUCKING BRILLIANT!” Eliza almost yelled.

A happy glow spread across the Dakota girl’s face as she listened to her kinda-sorta-maybe girlfriend-hopefully gush about how incredibly good she felt and how excited she was for her new job effectively hosting her own talk show. In fact, as Eliza’s voice began to blur into the background a bit, Ahanu felt herself grow warm and dreamy, even going so far as to giddily imagine what she must have looked like sitting there with hearts materializing above her and then popping cutely as they rose over her head.

Eliza got off the phone and danced around her living room for at least two hours before her energy began to wane to mere giddiness. She walked into her bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Even though London Bridge was going to be played over the radio, it was also going to be videotaped and viewable on the studio website, youtube channel, and facebook page so she would also need to look presentable when recording began.

With a sly, shy grin, she ran off into her bedroom and threw on a cute, frilly outfit she had stored away for special dates and threw it on. After releasing her hair and restyling it to a more free and therefore less likely to crack or tangle style, Eliza stared at herself in the mirror, genuinely liking what she saw for the first time in years. Seeing herself in the studio dressing room mirror had sparked something in her that she hadn’t felt in ages.

She felt pretty.

Sure, there were times when she made herself presentable or dolled herself up a bit for outings with potential romantic partners, but during those times she never really thought she looked as good as she wanted to. But now, looking at herself in the mirror and imagining herself on air and representing feminism, activism, autonomy, and indeed people of color, she felt like tacking beauty onto the list wasn’t too far off course either. With her heart racing, she reached for a well-loved tube of eyeliner and decided for the first time in ages to simply play dress up in the mirror.

(5)

Eliza smiled and let out a blissful sigh before spraying a pump of Blood and Bone perfume into the air and stepping through it, delighted by the fragrance surrounding her. Taking a deep inhale through her nose, she looked back at the mirror, her eyes shining at her reflection.

"Killin' it."