I generally don’t believe in disclaimers before starting a post. I don’t like disclaimers because they prove I’m not as polished as a person or as a writer, as I like to think I am.
Will you get annoyed if I ramble? Unsubscribe, unfollow, unlike, and forget all about me?
What would keep you from reading any further?
I blame my new planner and organization for this post.
In doing my best to not procrastinate, get on a writing schedule, and not kill myself in the process, I wrote in my planner that I should have my next post determined by Thursday.
I did one better and had the post idea by Wednesday, and then proceeded to cry like a baby.
The post was going to read something like: “On Nate Parker and . . .”
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit
*[Insert pool of wails, Mikey’s damp and snotty chest, and mama’s earful of my tears]* – cause I cried y’all, I cried.
Damn you, planner.
In a perfect world and in this perfect post I was going to:
1. Be relevant.
2. Dissect the comments and threads I had read and argue–“No! You’re wrong! He! . . . She!”
The thesis would be about worth. Rape, assault, and molestation is wrong! Victims deserve . . . Victims bodies are real . . . skirts, liquor, and what victims should realize about the world (i.e. it ain’t shit) shouldn’t matter!
I don’t believe shit I’m saying because to this day I am:
- Often deleting a friend request from someone who assaulted me the summer before 8th grade. (I should block this person, right?)
- Struggling and yet persisting to build a relationship with the person who molested me first and made me hate Johnson’s baby lotion.
Mikey and my mom have reiterated multiple times: “You know you don’t have to have relationships with these people, right?”
However, everything and everyone else around me insists that they’re wrong.
There’s no way my body and my being could be worth more than a family’s name or reputation. No way a tragedy that happened to me isn’t inconvenient for the black community, the black man’s struggle, men, movies, concerts, and support. I am only someone’s mistake, drunken mishap, and dirty laundry–nothing more. My body can get over it–after all, it only holds a soul. It is only flesh. I can’t take it with me. God will take care of me and so will my community, especially and only if I act like it doesn’t hurt.
So who am I to write a post affirming the opposite? I’m not equipped to publicly stand up for anyone, because I’ve never stood up for myself. I’ve been conditioned to believe that stirring the pot is anti-love and so I’ve mastered growing up around my tragedy. My tragedy sits in the middle of my body and acts as a core and still I’ve sprouted: Graduated from high school(√) Graduated from college(√) Got married (√) Been respectable (√) and silent.
I’ve dug a hole within myself where I keep this tragedy. I mention it every now and then but I know that nothing will ever come of it. Besides, would I honestly be ready to pursue it if something did?
I fear I will be sick forever and maybe that’s why I created this truth-telling and vulnerable space.
I am trying to forgive myself for not telling on the people I should have told on, when it would have mattered.
*edit* I am trying to forgive myself for not telling on the people I should have told on, to the people that would have done more than keep them away from me for a while.
And so I weep, wept, and
read these comments concerning Nate Parker’s movie and 17-year old trial:
and remember why so many of us suffer silently. I wept but continued to read because I was triggered and intrigued by the conversation, the many like it, and the many that will come. I am in a twilight zone of the same shit, different day, and I am not convinced it will get better. People haven’t convinced me that they are good.
And so I sit beside myself and wish–perhaps in vain–that:
- Rapes, molestation, assaults, incest, and other atrocities would end.
- White women never lied about black men raping them.
- Black men didn’t have that historical lie to fall back on.
- Black men would hold each other accountable and instinctually love women the way they love each other.
- I didn’t know 10+ people who are Facebook friends with their attackers, because family, because loyalty, because who the hell would admit to believing us, anyway? So, why not?
- There was no statute of limitations
- Perpetrators were physically and visibly branded (for the rest of their lives) as soon as they finished assaulting someone.
- Becoming whole wasn’t such a process for me.
- I could give my husband a spouse with normal issues.
- We, the victims weren’t the ones so goddamn traumatized—as if the assault wasn’t enough.
I finally wish that I knew peace-true and absolute peace.
I recognize that in this instance and the many more to come, writing has brought me peace, and I think it is the only reason I can stand to be here.
Writing = The gift from God. The restitution and reparation for the way humans choose to utilize free will.
I’ll take peace where I can get it .