Snow White

photo by *Tiny Dancer*

I once lived with a girl who resembled the fair Snow White; a Jewish Snow White from Southern Ontario. She was as white as snow, with lips as red as blood and hair as black as ebony, as the story goes. However, S.W. did not always fit the fairest reflection of her parents’ dreams, for she had a penchant for Middle Eastern men. This was much to the chagrin of her very Jewish parents. A large part of the attraction seemed to be a result of this chagrin, and her relationships all resembled fated love affairs before they even started. The relationships would always remain affairs, since he would never be accepted and vice versa; she would always be a secret. I see the attraction in that. There is passion and intrigue in playing star-crossed lovers for a few romps. In the end it is perfect, the only blame that can be placed is on the prejudices of others, not on the waning passion or meandering desires of the couple themselves. Blame the poison, not the ebbing temptation of the apple.

As for me, it is not about secret love and fated break-ups. I am no Snow White, and it is not about the Middle East. The apple of my fall is the accent. Not an obnoxious, grating, incomprehensible accent, though. It is about a gentle lulling, a sudden lilt mid-sentence that draws all attention to the mouth and the movements of the tongue. It is the fantastic daydreams that come from trying to place that tongue to its continent.

This tongue in particular belongs to the Irishman. It may not seem exotic or erotic, but for me it is him. It is in part about the country he represents. A country whose history consists of battles for freedom, battles against plague and abuse, battles, battles, battles, and someone who must eventually submit… to me. The ex-pat Irishman is the synecdoche of the Isle; he is the prickly grass of greener pastures, the epicurean delights of Dublin, the charm of its oral history, but also the tumult of the ubiquitous Troubles. His sculpted arms, scratchy cheek and smooth pale body make my knees buckle so that I may kiss the ground in gratitude that he ever left.

It is he with the tempestuous past who I’d like to think needs the healing powers of sublimation. Coming together to transfer each others’ pasts so as to lose sight of them temporarily. Creating a present born of sybaritic pleasures, devoid of imperfect bygones and uncertain futures. When that tongue glides upwards to the tip of my ear to whisper lip-biting nothings in emerald inflected tones, it is I who submits. Ethnicities, time, reality slip, slip away so that all that is left are those words, that tongue, that accent.