Becoming-Gorilla

Maria Savva
Sep 3, 2019
3 min read

Updated: Jan 9, 2021

July, G09.

‘When you pass the dishes, use two hands. First the sheftalia, second the mashed potatoes. Then, the pepper and salt,’ you mother says waging a finger in your face, her forehead vein popping out.

‘Bravo Julia! Giagia Talou is thirsty. Bring her a glass of water, will you?’ our grandmother, Chrystalla, asks. You nod multiple times and sprint to the kitchen. Hollering “nero”, for water, you reach for a cup – high atop a pile to your left. It sticks out, you pull with both hands. The plastic tower leans, jiggles on air for a bit and finally collapses. You squeal and clap your hands with delight at the cups showering the floor and bouncing toward the feet of our guests; your flushed, chubby cheeks wobble with the jarring action.

‘Julia?’ Your mother pounces on you and snatches your arm, digging her black-polished nails to your skin. ‘What have you done?’ she whisper-shouts through gritted teeth and then looks back over her shoulder, at our guests, smiling nervously.

‘N-nero,’ you blurt out fiddling with the hem of your floral dress. Your eyes flicker and set on our grandma. Your mother groans a gut-wrenching “to your room” and you begin to blink fast, chin trembling.

‘Nero.’ Your voice cracks as your mother’s eyes widen.

‘To your room,’ she repeats with an unflattering flare of her nostrils.

You dash away. I jolt from my seat and cast a glare at your mother–who is sprawled on the sofa and chit-chats with aunt Rina with a cigarette drooping from her lips–before following you upstairs.

Poking my head around the door, opened ajar, I say sheepishly: ‘Pertikoui?’ I call you by your nickname, meaning “little pigeon”, for I know it never fails to curl your lips into a smile.

First attempt to cheer you up: abject failure. I shoulder the door open and find you hunched over the end of your bed. You’re combing–nearly pulling out–Savva’s hair; your chest is still heaving with sobs. I squat down next to you and pinch your red nose. You glance up at me with your blotchy eyes, your mouth is a tight red ribbon. Silence dominates the room, during which time I sit next to you and you rest your head on my lap. I smooth away your sweaty locks of raven black hair stuck on your forehead, as you hold my thigh tight.

‘Nouni?

‘Yes, my pertikoui.’

‘You… mama?’ you say in a dry croak.

I sit up with a jerk and squirm around a bit, for I didn’t see that coming.

‘You want me to be your mummy?’ One of your arms hangs loose, still clutching Savvas, your Guardian. You don’t answer. Rather, you press Savvas hard against my chest as if you want it to leave his distinct Gorilla-shaped imprint on me.

One of my oft-asked questions is: What is the motor of human nature and association? Buckle up, if you’re of the curious sort: Love. What spills forth when love is paramount to one is a choreography of intensities: a boatload of sensations, which impinge on and interlock and co-actualise with life.

This catapults my mind to how Deleuze sketches out the becoming-wasp of the orchid and the becoming-orchid of the wasp. Their coming-together is not a passive act of resemblance or imitation, but an active integration of the body of the wasp into the orchid’s reproductive apparatus and cycle.

‘Mummy loves you so pertikoui. She just acts weird when relatives are around. She’s b-‘

You cut me off mid-sentence and shovel Savvas into my mouth. ‘You, mama.’

Filiation does not apply to the orchid-wasp link, as there can be no orchid-wasp hybrid spawned through their interaction. Me and you have always been ‘connected, caught up in one another,’ so why do ties of filiation need to obstruct my becoming-Gorilla for you? [Gilles Deleuze]

I’m not your mother, but you’re attracting me in this trans-species courtship dance–grounded in contagion instead of filiation. And by contagion, I mean the corporal sensations you’ve been transporting into me ever since you were born. From your infectious smile, to me to me standing agape as I watch you “smiling away” those who use the R-word when referring to you in public; my heart racing when you wake me up with your untradeable sloppy kisses, while squeaking ‘Julia loves nouni’ for the umpteenth time.

The more I stare at Savvas the more I feel my texture as a subject melting away. The now ‘faint glimmer of identity within the deepest recesses’ of my mind favours a patchwork of affects from which I’m born anew. So, stay tuned! The becoming-Gorilla of Maria, a.k.a Guardian, is in the making for you pertikoui, my misunderstood saviour. [J.G Ballard]