post-colonial poop by robert noble

[intro: the end]

My mom wiped my ass until I was 7. Look – it wasn’t all the time, but it was…a lot of the times. People wear their hearts on their sleeves, and I wore mine on my stomach – it ached all the time and the outcome was never pretty, so I needed the help.

I remember the day that it ended. I get called to the principal’s office, but my mom isn’t there – just my friend’s mom. She looks a little sad like grown-ups sometimes do.

“So your mom’s been detained by immigration officers and she can’t pick you up…You’re going to have to come with me…She might get deported back to the Philippines…Do you understand?” I didn’t understand.

On the way to my friend’s house, I stare out the car window the whole time, thinking,“Damn, I guess I gotta learn how to wipe my own ass now.”

[part 1: toilet paper]

A couple days later, my mom and I go to see a lawyer. The lawyer’s just out of law school and this is her first case, so we can afford her. After some small talk, the grown-ups shut themselves into an office. I’m left outside on the couch, staring at an aquarium, a bunch of goofy eyed fish staring back at me…and then my butt starts itching like crazy. All week I’d been wiping my own butt, and I’m pretty proud. But I’ve just been using that dry toilet paper and it’s not agreeing with my little bum. I wipe and wipe and wipe and there’s always still poop.

So for like an hour I squirm on this couch to relieve the itch, just rubbing and rubbing and rubbing…Then the grown-ups come out, and I’m covered in sweat. My mom looks like she’s been crying but she doesn’t acknowledge it. Only me. Asks if I’m okay.

We get home and I run to the bathroom and surprise, I gotta go number 2. I look down at my tighty-whities and yep…there’s skid marks. I’m freaking out now because my mom’ll get pissed if she sees these. She bleaches my underwear. She starches and irons them. I once got sent home with a note from pre-school saying I wouldn’t get in the sandbox with the other kids because I didn’t want to get my pants dirty. She was proud that day.

So, I take the underwear off and I bury it deep inside the trash, under a full roll of toilet paper and a couple of towels. She still finds it.

[part 2: wet wipes]

A week later, my mom’s screaming on the phone with her lawyer.

“I can’t work until the hearing? It’s in 6 months?? No that’s not…I have to work, I have bills to pay, I have a son.”

I hear this and my stomach’s telling me I gotta go…I pick up the other house phone, the one with the long cord, and park myself on the toilet and listen.

“Sorry, but we can’t do anything about it,” I hear the lawyer say. “It’s just the way the system works.”

Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out how to wipe and keep the phone rested on my shoulder.

I can’t reach the toilet paper but there are some wet wipes right behind me so I go for those…

“Can’t you ask the court to expedite the hearing?” My mom pleads.

I’m wiping and there’s still poop everywhere and I can’t wipe it all away, even with the wetness of the damn wipe.

“No,” the lawyer responds, “We can’t ask that. They’ll never move the hearing up.”

“Well,” my mom’s voice starts to break, “I’m going to ask the judge myself—”

I go to flush the toilet and it sputters – clogged because, as I’m going to learn in about 30 seconds, you’re definitely not supposed to flush wet wipes.

“NO, definitely do not do that,” the lawyer retorts.

I hear my mom hang up and then I drop the phone in the toilet and I’m digging out the wet wipes and my mom’s outside the door saying, “Son, you gotta write a letter to the judge and ask if he can move up the court date because your mom has to work and buy food for you…” And I say, “Okay.”

We go to the courthouse and my mom finds the judge’s office and makes me give the note to the clerk. The clerk looks at me crazy, but a couple days later we get a call telling us that the

judge moved the hearing up. It’s been moved to next month.

[part 3: the “tabo”]

Leading up to the hearing date, my mom is stressed. She gets a lot more serious and I do too. She’s smoking a pack of Marlboro lights a day, so I decide to try to help by throwing the cigarettes in the garbage. If you know a smoker, this does not help and I do not recommend it. After a shouting match, we’re both on the floor crying and I’m like “I just don’t want you to die.”

“We’re going to be okay, anak,” she says, more to herself than to me.

On the day of the hearing, my mom rolls deep – she has all her friends take the BART train to San Francisco. My friends come too. I’m wearing my school uniform, my hair’s combed perfectly to the side, and my mom looks beautiful. We walk into the courtroom, and we’re all kinda feeling ourselves, until the judge stops the procession.

“Look,” he says, “I’m going to need all of you to wait outside. I just want to speak with Ms. Paz and her son.”

Everyone loses a little muster then. Even our lawyer. And my stomach starts turning something crazy. I’m not sure if I’m going to throw up or shit my pants or both. And then the judge says my name twice and then a third time and without knowing it I’m walking up to the judge by myself. I look up at him, high up on his stupid little seat and he’s like,

“I just want to ask you some questions.”

“Okay,” I hear myself say.

“Do you know your Dad?” He asks.

My stomach turns again. “I met him once when I was 4. He’s from England.”

“What’s your favorite subject in school?”

“American History.”

My stomach growls but I think I’m doing alright because I hear my mom chuckle behind me.

“And what do you do when you’re not in school?”

“Me and my mom pick up trash on the freeway because I’m a Boy Scout.”

“Do you understand why you and your mom are here?”

I didn’t understand.

And then…I fart…so loud that the judge laughs. But I didn’t shit my pants. And that felt like something. A small victory. When we get home I run straight to the bathroom and lock the door. Everyone’s over, and cheers are coming from the living room.

I sit and let it all go.

And it is unbelievable. More cheers from the other room and I pretend they’re cheering for me and I keep going.

While I’m wiping I look next to the toilet – a “tabo” sits there – a tabo is a little hygienic pale that people use in the Philippines to wash out their butts after they poop. So, I wipe and wipe and wipe and then I fill up the tabo with water like my mom does and I use it. More cheers from outside. And I feel relief.

END.

Robert Noble is a Filipino-American (and British) writer and attorney living in Brooklyn, NY. He has contributed to works at TASCHEN and Bushwick Daily. His first chapbook, Asymptotes: On Closeness, was published by Bottlecap Press in 2023. His Instagram is @bobmeetsworld.