Bad B

B-holes. Life is full of them.

People that think they are Better. Institutions that see themselves as the Best. Beliefs that unyieldingly declare they are Beyond the suffering of this world. B-holes behave with determined focus to prove a point or set an example, at the expense of the world at large, community at medium, or family at small.

In the masses of the b-holes, however, you can be a badder-than-you B. So far I have worked out that this takes some declarative differentiation from the normal flow of things. AKA, label yourself as Other: a Bad B.

As I cut apart an old pair of pleated faux satin shorts (with a lace trim), it took a sturdy emotional equilibrium to get through making the B-holes. The project must be in all-caps for emphatic deliverance of the message, so that doubled the trouble. Two Bs, 4 holes, 1 scissors, and 0 experience in patchwork. But you see, I made a promise to help a friend and needed to offer her my protective tool. Solveig's daily walk in life consistently meets with unsavvy others addressing her as Mister. As Sir. It happens to me too, I told her once, but I think that is under different misconceptions... The curves give me away. Trust.

Solveig, however, is petite. And a frugal donner of garb. Many-a-tattered flannel graces her stylistic choosing. Like sturdy track pants with a light tan to brown ombre which used to be full black in a previous section of its life. Anywho, one day at Luther's Cafe she vented to me about her suffering of misnomers. We were already tense after a particularly draining struggle with the QR code menu. Eager to conquer a task, I channelled my caucasian quilter roots and drew out a concept to solve Sol's predicament: Bad B on the back of a flannel. Or maybe full on Bad Bitch? Once I sat down with the fabric and scissors, I would determine how many letters this stitching hero could muster. Either way I swore an oath to procure a means of protection. She needed safer passage through the sea of unwise masses that uttered her presence without due respect.

You see, I owed Solveig in a cosmic gratitude sort of way. Earlier that day she happened upon me as I burst into tears. There is a dam at Woodlawn Lake and my favorite bench sits in front of it. I go there when I am sad. So there I was, sitting on my depression bench and this lady walks by with a kid and stops to ask if I'm ok. I was breathing heavily and holding my chest. Well, that undid me. I burst into tears at her concern, mustered a thank you and then Solveig popped up. Like magic. Like heaven had angels watching on the clouds above, pulling strings at just the right moment for the puppets below to play out a cathartic scene.

I cried a little, then we walked around the lake to let it all out. I nodded and smiled when Solveig and I passed that kind lady and her kid. A walk with a friend helped. And a stranger's kindness served as a catalyst to connect with the potential to heal.

So when Sol emphatically grabbed her chest as she remembered past unintentional insults, I knew what to do. Well, technically I didn't... But once the scissors and I got through the first B, we knew we could make it through the second. In a creative frenzy I nearly added a pearl necklace to the collar. But luckily I got some sleep and realized less is more.