The second time I pooped my pants

The second time I pooped my pants, I was in 8th grade and was in Madrid, Spain. I was staying with a host family and traveler’s diarrhea got the better of me. I did it in my sleep and woke up to poop in my pants. I was horrified my host-sister had or would notice. I balled up my underwear, wrapped it in way too much toilet paper and threw it away in the trash can in our shared bathroom. I’m not sure if anyone ever found it or noticed. But I was at an age where this was pretty devastating—I was on the precipice of exposure to the real world and what I mean when I say ‘real world’ is the ever-present but increasingly salient racism that comes with being a young Black girl. I found myself frequently too ashamed to speak the Spanish that, at that point, I knew well, because breaking through conversation or silence to say anything was shame inspiring enough. Aside from the shame and the poop, it was a pretty wonderful trip that I’m incredibly grateful and lucky I got to experience. I didn’t keep in contact because I was so ashamed and because my life moved along. I can make as many excuses as I want, I’ve always struggled to keep up with people. It’s not for lack of love. I suppose it just feels like the days slip past and then it’s been so long I don’t even know how to get in contact. I’ll get better at it. (Or I won’t and I’ll die sad and alone, eating wet cigarettes in the dark like my dad says whenever he feels abandoned by his children).