Content Warning: violence against women, death
Joan’s first vision came at age thirteen. She kneeled in her mother’s garden among the plums,
the roses, the endives and Michael said “be good.” When the angels left she cried. She wanted
to go to Heaven with them. Don’t feel too bad for her. She didn’t have to wait very long.
Once when I was sixteen my chemistry partner said “hey. if I show you something will you
snitch.” I gave her a hesitant “no.” She unzipped her backpack behind our desk and showed me
a lighter—one of those long ones you light candles with. “okay...” “I stole it from the chapel.”
She said it like an act of rebellion and a clever joke wrapped into one. It was November. I got it,
I guess.
It was woman who destroyed all God’s hope. Or not a woman, it was sex. And sex is woman
and woman is sin and the only solution is. To not be touched. And pray to God he’ll take you
back. Rumor spread in the countryside a virgin loved by God would come deliver France. They
examined Joan’s vagina to be sure.
The chapel had rows of candles on every wall. Some teachers would take “can I go to the
chapel.” as a valid excuse to skip. If life is too overwhelming you can take a break, go ponder
the Sacrament, go pray. I didn’t care about the Sacrament. I sat in the third row back alone,
headphones loud enough to forget I do not exist and quiet enough to know if anyone else came
in. I would leave in that case. No one ever did.
Joan stopped wearing women’s clothing when she led the armies off to war. She cut her hair and
soldiers called her symbol, savior, heard all her advice but never called her leader. Figurehead.
Then they learned that she was always right. She rode to the front, took an arrow to the neck,
said “come on. what does it take to do what I do. all you brave, strong, powerful men.” I can’t
help but see her condescending. I can’t help but wonder if she’s pretty. Virgin saints are always
beautiful.
Another notable feature of the high school chapel: the bathroom. You enter the chapel, then
there’s a side room for storing robes and candles and bread and shit then you walk to back and
there’s a single-stall bathroom people liked to fuck in. I didn’t. It didn’t seem like it’d be fun.
And no one wanted to fuck me, anyway.
I wonder how old she was the first time she knew she’d die.
When Joan was captured she was labeled Heretic. Visions from the Devil, defilation, the
clothing thing was big. The court tried but Joan held steady. She was condemned, God’s will be
done. Michael said “be brave.”
I stared into the stained glass and prayed to nothing. I lit the candles that hadn’t burned yet. I
don’t know why I felt sorry.
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They told her if she stopped wearing men’s clothes they’d let her live. She said okay. Then they
stuck her in a cell where the guards tried to rape her and wouldn’t give her a single dress. The
judges saw her dressed like men. She only got to be nineteen. She was unrepentant.
I like Joan’s sainthood because it assumes her cause was right, that God really did hate the
English. I like to imagine God taking sides. How else could He exist? Nightmares of fires were
my first memories. I don’t know when that terror went away.
The Catholics came round, eventually. Retried her and said she was guiltless, the trial wasn’t
fair. It took some years but they’d call her Virgin Saint and beloved, not martyr though. It was
the Catholics that killed her after all and what would that say? If the Catholics killed her and she
died for her faith.
The thing about martyrdom is that God will always save you till He doesn’t. Then you’re on
your own. I still feel guilty I haven’t died yet. I’m two years older than she got to be.
When I think of Joan I hear her voice, I hear the church bells she sobbed to, I hear her singing
praise.
Joan is smiling. I can’t help but see her teeth. Dancing pearlescent. Shining angels in the
flames.