Trophy
Scroll
The Poem
Trophy
Her name was Norma Jean.
I want to start herebefore the white hair,before the president,before the hotel roomand the questionsthat were never answeredby the peoplewho knew the answersand are all dead nowwithout answering them.
Before all of that:
Norma Jean.Fresh face.Someone’s daughter.A girl who wantedto be lovedthe way girls want to be lovedbefore the worldteaches themthat loveand hungerlook the samefrom a distance.
We made her into this.
The white hair.The red lips.The specific constructionof a womandesigned to wreck a manat first sightand then be blamedfor the wrecking.
We wanted her that way.We made her that way.We called ita bombshellwhich tells you everythingabout what we thoughtshe was for.
The antlersare ours.We put them on her.We called itglamour.
The antlers were ours
The bubble gum.
This is the thingI keep returning to,the pink bubbleblown by a womanwho was alsoalwaysa girl,
the Norma Jeanwho survivedinside the Marilynthe way the personsurvives insidethe famous facethey were askedto wear forever,
still there,still blowing bubbles,still the girlwho just wantedto be lovedsimplyand completelyand withoutthe huntersand the handlersand the presidentand the hotel roomand the silenceafter.
The bubble is still pink
Joe brought flowers.
Twice a week.For twenty years.Until the day he died.
No cameras.No press release.No performanceof the grieffor anyonewho was watching.
Just Joe,and the flowers,and the grave,and the thinghe understoodthat the others didn’t,which was thatshe was a person,which was thatshe deservedthe simplefaithfulshowing upof someonewho loved herwithout needingto own her.
That’s not nothing.
That’s the whole argument.
A baseball playerwith flowerstwice a weekfor twenty yearssaid moreabout who she wasthan everythingthe huntersever saidabout what she was.
Hollywood.
Small men.Big wallets.Paying for whatthey cannot have otherwise,which is the attentionof someonemore alive than they are,more real,more presentin a roomthan anyonehad a right to be.
They called it stardom.They called it the dream.They put her on the shelfthe way you putthe thing you huntedon the shelfand called ita trophy
which is the wordfor the beautiful thingyou couldn’t letkeep livingat full velocitybecause full velocitywas inconvenientfor the menwho needed herto hold still.
She couldn’t hold still.
This was the problem.This was always the problem.
Norma Jeancouldn’t hold stillinside Marilynand Marilyncouldn’t hold stillinside the framethey built for herand the framekept breakingand they keptrebuilding itand calling the breakinginstabilityand calling the rebuildingrehabilitationand none of itwas about herand all of itwas about her
and in the endthe hotel roomwas quietand someone knowswhat happenedand has been quietabout itfor sixty years.
She was justsomeone’s daughter.
This is what gets lostin the Gucci signand the gold antlersand the presidentand the myththat the huntersbuilt from her bonesafter they were donewith her bones.
Someone’s daughter.
Who blew pink bubbles.Who wanted to be loved.Who was loved,genuinely,by a baseball playerwith flowerstwice a weekfor twenty years.
That love was real.That love was hers.That love outlastedeverythingthe huntersbuilt from her name.
We want them sexythen we shame them.Then we reduce themto the shelf.
This is the oldest story.This is the storythat is still being toldin every industrythat has decidedthat beautyis a resourceto be extracteduntil it runs outand then abandonedin a hotel roomwith questionsthat will neverbe answeredby the peoplewho could answer them.
The dog would have stayed.
The dog would have beenat the doorand stayed at the doorand not leftand not made dealsand not neededthe camerato prove the loyalty.
The dog would have knownshe was Norma Jeanunderneath the white hairand the red lipsand the antlersthey put on herand loved her anyway,
simply,faithfully,the way Joe loved her,
the way she deservedto be lovedfrom the beginning.
Dear Norma Jean.
The bubble is still pink.The girl is still there.Joe’s flowersare still the truest thinganyone didwith their love for you.
We know you weresomeone’s daughter.
We know the antlerswere ours.
We’re sorry
it took us this long
to say it.