The South Central Prophecies

When you’re a SuperHero, you live life a little differently than regular, everyday mortals.

Now this isn’t an elitist statement—I’m just trying to point out that it’s a different world than most people are used to. You know, most people’s days consist of the daily commute and paying bills and cleaning the house and mowing the lawn and taking kids to play dates and deciding which restaurant has the best pad thai. People spend time comparison shopping for dishwashers and re-caulking the bathtub and watching reality tv shows.


Not so for the SuperHero. While sure, maintaining the mild-mannered alter-ego requires engaging with some parts of everyday reality—I have to commute to my day job, for example, and I do have to pay the bills—that everyday reality makes up only maybe 10% of life, the 10% needed to maintain the façade of normalcy. The other 90%, however, is filled with the extraordinary. Obviously, there’s the SuperPowers and sidekicks and heroes and villains, but the extraordinary goes beyond that. There are strange, mythological creatures. There are enchanted Gingerbread Cottages and magical healing cocoons. There are fortune tellers and prophets and mystics. There are rituals and signs from the universe and epic journeys that involve impossible tests of courage and bravery. It’s like living in a Greek myth. Or a Grimm’s fairy tale. That’s just what life is like.


You get used to it after a while.

Somehow I forgot about this a couple of weeks ago when I got in the car and headed back towards South Central. Let me say this first: I know, I know, I know. Hell froze over, pigs flew, blah, blah, cliché blah, because I know I swore never to set foot in South Central again. But I was explicitly invited to the Greater South Central Area, and my desire to visit somehow outweighed my intense anxiety surrounding South Central. The thing is, I was, as the kids today say, broke-ass broke. I mean, completely, entirely, not-a-dollar-to-my-name broke-ass broke. But being insanely stubborn and moderately resourceful, I somehow remembered my savings account.

By “savings account”, I really mean “piggy bank”. Five years ago, my father was the only person who remembered my birthday. I happened to be visiting the P’s house, and when I came down stairs in the morning, there was a “Happy Birthday, Lulu” note written on a piece of notebook paper, which was weighted down by a plaster piggy bank my dad got from the Mexican grocery store in town. Since this was the only card or gift or anything I got, the only thing for me to be distracted by on my birthday, I figured it must be some kind of sign. I mean, I was broke-ass broke and worried for the future, and I was presented with a bank? Clearly a sign.


Clearly I needed to save some money for an emergency, but how, when I was poor? Then it came to me—every dollar coin I came across, I would save. Every Sacagawea gold dollar or every Susan B. Anthony that crossed my path would go into the garish, flowery pig. This seemed like a genius idea because it would remove the temptation to bust into the piggy bank when I needed a little quick cash. Because really, who was going to pay for a night at the bar with a bunch of gold coins? It would be way too embarrassing. So this was a sure-fire way to make sure I could save a little cash, and who knew? Maybe in 20 or so years I’d have enough money for a ticket back to London or Dublin or Sydney or something. And besides, I’d have to actually break the bank to get to the money, so there was only one shot at it. All in all, it seemed like a genius plan.


But then there I was, with a place to go and absolutely no cash, when my eyes drifted over to the piggy bank, sitting up on my altar next to the sacred hearts and calf bones and candles, and I thought, “It’s time”. So I got a hammer and smashed the pig—a monumental gesture that conjured up magic before I even knew what I was doing. As it ends up, there was exactly $180 in dollar coins, so with $60 in gas each way, that left me with $60 to spend during the visit. Not really feasible, but I convinced myself it was enough. I put the gold coins in a mason jar in my car and hit the road.


The drive started off mundane enough, with housewarming presents in the trunk and tunes on the radio and tamales for lunch on the road. But as soon as I hit South Central’s state, things started to take a turn. I hit three gridlock-level accidents, one of which required a medi-lift helicopter. Then once I got by all the accidents and was almost to the Greater South Central Area, a storm hit. It was a sudden torrential downpour, with lightning so angry it could only be one of the gods expressing extreme displeasure. What should have been a seven and a half hour drive took upwards of nine hours.


Clearly South Central didn’t want me back.


And I think I entered into my South Central visit like I enter into far too many situations in my life—a little too naively. Because after all, this was South Central—the coldest place I had ever lived, and I’m not talking about the temperature. And that’s saying a lot, because I’ve also lived in Northwest Ohio. South Central was such a closed and uninviting place that the littlest moments of human warmth and connection were as rare as emeralds. So I was so preoccupied with keeping the South Central Jitters in check that I didn’t realize what was actually happening: that I had stepped into a web of ritual and magic and cosmic forces akin to an ancient Greek tragedy. Only one where the ending hadn’t been written yet.


I was there for a week, so I didn’t really see the little rituals and offerings and acts awakening ancient power until it was far, far too late. But nearly every major transformative act got hit in some way or another. I spilled both tears and blood there—that’s magic—and someone actually spilled tears on me. I was burned and received a scar—my body is permanently altered by the trip. Food was shared communally. Sexual energy was raised. Collective music was made. Journeys were taken from here to there. Established religious rituals were observed. There were intentionally-altered states of consciousness. These are all ancient ways of awakening power beyond the scope of human beings. But I didn’t consider the implications. I didn’t make any connections to magic until The Prophecy was delivered.


There is a prophet in South Central. Her name is Vera. She’s maybe 70 years old, with wild, white hair and big glasses and colorful clothes. The hobo mystic Jeb “Tin Cup” Clements alerted me to her presence when I first moved there. Much like Cassandra, Vera was cursed to speak the truth of the gods, only to have no one believe her. And in South Central, no one really believes in Vera as an oracle. Well, except for Tin Cup Clements. And me. Tin Cup has such faith in Vera’s powers that he reserves formulating impressions of people until he has seen them interact with her. If Vera gravitates towards them, if they respond to her in a certain way, then he knows the people are alright. But if they brush her off, if they ignore her, or even worse, if they ridicule her, then Tin Cup knows they are cruel, short-sighted folk who cannot appreciate the beauty of the universe.


I had passed the Vera test when I lived there, and I had heard her deliver prophecies that inevitably came true, so I too revere Vera as the Oracle of South Central, and I don’t envy her job one iota. And of course, I ran into Vera one afternoon, when I returned to the South Central coffee shop to have lunch with Cecelia, a former student of mine. Cecelia started to cry as soon as she saw me, and we held each other for a while, regardless of the stink eye being passed around by the locals. But once we sat down and got to chatting, we laughed enough to fill the whole shop ten times over, and it was wonderful. That’s when Vera came over and delivered the first of her two revelations.


With no preliminaries at all, she walked up to me, sat down at our table and said, “Do you know what I’ve always thought about you?” I could see the spirit had come upon her, and before I had a chance to respond, she said, “You are always filled with joy and goodwill for others. That is always in you, and it radiates from you. People can feel that. People can feel that, and they’ll want to get as close to that as possible. That kind of joy and goodwill can’t be faked—you’re genuine.”


The spirit promptly left Vera after that, and she proceeded to talk to Cecelia and me for two hours, her topics alternating between politics and how you always want a man with a naughty twinkle in his eye. And Cecelia and I sat there, mostly listening, both of us open to whatever journey Vera was going to take us on. And it was a long, strange journey, and just when Cecelia and I really started to wonder how it was going to end, Vera abruptly got up and announced that she needed to go buy four dog collars and thanked the two of us for making her so happy.


We both laughed and said goodbye to Vera, but then she stopped and returned to our table. “Before I go,” she said, placing her hand on my arm, “I need to tell you that you have The Gift.” The spirit was clearly on her again, but I didn’t know what The Gift she was talking about. Cecelia looked equally flummoxed. “You have The Gift,” Vera repeated, looking me dead in the eye, her voice urgent. “You need to know this. There are things in this world that are going to tear your heart in half. They will tear your heart in half. But you have The Gift—you can laugh; you can seek out people who make you happy. Not everybody can do that, but you can. So do it. When your heart is broken, you need to laugh…”


And then she spun on her heel and exited the shop, leaving Cecelia and me staring dumbly at each other, both of us realizing that Something Had Transpired in that moment, but both of us too shocked to formulate a coherent thought about it. All of the little magical rituals of the previous days started to click into place like the beads on an abacus, and I felt too overwhelmed to process the implications. All Cecelia and I could do was agree that The Oracle Had Spoken.


After Cecelia and I had parted ways, I told Jeb Clements about the prophecies Vera delivered to me, the warning that my heart would be torn in half and that I needed to use The Gift when it did. Honestly, I was hoping a dose of good ol’ Tin Cup mysticism would help clarify the situation, as it often does in a strange, indescribable way. I got really worked up describing the prophecies and implored Tin Cup, “What does this mean? Can you tell me what this means?!?!”,


Tin Cup just said, “Two prophecies in one sitting…that’s something.”


So I left South Central with no answers and an oracle hanging over my head.


On my way back from South Central, I stopped at my friend Beatrice’s house for the night. It was late, and I was kind of dazed, and it was obvious that I was in a bit of a state, so I told her a little bit about my trip and the prophecy and whatnot. And never one to mince words, Beatrice said, “Yeah, I know that vulnerability is your skill. I get that it’s your special trick and whatnot. But I’m afraid that you’re going to get ripped into little tiny pieces.”


And all I could do was say, “Yeah…yeah, I’m afraid of that, too,” the prophecy sitting in my heart like a stone. Because I am afraid of that. I totally am. But the thing is, I don’t know how to stop that. I mean, I have absolutely no idea how to prevent that. When Vera channeled Athena or Inanna or Isis or whoever, she handed out a portent too powerful for me, or anyone else, to challenge. You know, because if we’ve learned anything from Oedipus—besides the multiple uses of brooches, that is—it’s that the hubris it takes to deny an oracle only makes things much, much worse in the end.


Well, and denying Vera’s prediction would just be an act of futility and stubbornness, anyway, because I could feel the truth of it as she uttered the words. It was a revelation. I felt it. Cecelia felt it. Vera’s power was clear in that moment.


So I tried not to think about it too much as Beatrice made an awesome dinner while I told her about getting damned to hell at the one and only official Sunday church service I went to. She responded with, “Let’s light a candle for the goddess, shall we?” And I just said, “Yes, please…” feeling comforted by the thought of an inclusive devotion, one in which there was nurturing and warmth and room for everyone. And I went to sleep that night thinking that maybe the goddess was there, present in the white candles, creating the space of one night where I had a temporary reprieve from the revelation, a space where my heart could be completely exposed and open and still be safe.


After I left Beatrice’s house the next day, I stopped sleeping. The first couple nights I could at least drift off, but in sleep I’d be met with nightmares so brutal and graphic and real that I’d bolt awake with a scream, my heart racing so hard I couldn’t lie back down again, let alone sleep. And then the sleep just stopped altogether. I’d get into bed, and instantly my heart would start pounding and my eyes would open wide, watching for signs of the prophecy. And I’d stay like that, hypervigilant, all night long. Only when the light of dawn started peeking through my window could I fall into an hour or two of restless sleep.


It’s been over a week, and it’s still like that. Because when the prophecy begins, you have to be prepared, right? I mean, Vera said this thing would tear my heart in half. A girl can’t just let that sneak up on her. Not when something so big is at stake. So there I am, awake every night until dawn, waiting for whatever fate is going to throw my way.


I mean, it is an interesting life—living in the world of heroes and villains and missions and magic. But I’m reminded that I didn’t choose this life—it chose me. You know, the whole “some have greatness thrust upon them” business. I mean, growing up, I was just going to be a writer or an actor and have pink hair and fall in love and make out a lot and pierce any damn part of my body that I wanted. I was just going to make stuff and be nice to people and be happy. I wasn’t looking for SuperPowers or villains to fight or magic around every corner. That was never part of the plan. But then life happens and some of us get transformed in ways that we never expected. Our minds and bodies get permanently altered and absolutely nothing can change us back into the people we used to be.


And that’s okay, really. I mean, I’m not railing against that or anything. Like any pink-collar hero knows, you gotta use what you got. But at times like these, when you’re hounded by the Furies and you haven’t slept for a week, it really reminds you how, as my friend Charlotte always cautions, things never turn out the way you expect. And man alive, ain’ that the truth. I never anticipated being a key combatant in the battle between good and evil. I never anticipated that life would be a continual series of tests to see if I could stay open and loving and brave.


And I never anticipated spending so much time on the road, constantly driving from here to there, from this person to that person, eternally searching for a place or a person that feels safe…for a place—or a person—that feels like home.