Where Does It Hurt?
A short letter on the ongoing conversation. This isn't a sad time, it's time of reckoning for rapists.
Hi, you.
In 2017, I wrote about being raped. I was 22. It’s flowery (albeit beautiful — Chimamanda called it poetic) prose that attempts to mask the ugliness and pain of what I experienced. Despite being politically aware of the correct term, I’ve always used the term ‘sexual assault’ to describe it. ‘Sexual assault’, a sometimes vague umbrella for different situations where men use their patriarchal power to control the bodies of women: to touch, to kiss, to dominate, to penetrate, to hurt, force, coerce.
(Take a pause to breathe: inhale, exhale. That’s what I’m doing as I write, it doesn’t get pretty.)
In late 2019, a few months after I started my new job, I tweeted about being assaulted on my way home from work.
It’s an experience that comes back to me every time I think about commuting, about taking a walk. I don’t remember what I wore (even though I took a long bath as soon as I got home) but I remember thinking that perhaps, if I had worn something that covered most of my arms, I would not have been assaulted — which I know is false, but couldn’t help thinking. Nowadays, before I go on walks, I catch myself contemplating what to wear.
(To ask a man, any man, including self if male: Who are you when no one is looking? — who am I when no one is looking?)
In the past few days, I’ve had to speak with a lot of women and I’ve learned a lot. Mostly I’m sad and appalled, by the culture of silence (consequent victim blaming, consequent protection of the accused) that we were trained with.
The statistics released in 2015 by UNICEF provides that 1 in 4 women have been sexually assaulted before they turn 18. It’s possibly more. Why is this important? The universality of our experiences.
I don’t see this any more as a dark time. It is instead a time of reckoning.
Here’s what Mama Morrison said: “There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”
(To ask yourself: Where does it hurt?)
Listen, our noise is not for nothing. “You write (speak, protest) in order to change the world ... if you alter, even by a millimeter, the way people look at reality, then you can change it.”
Not the kind of newsletter you send “I’m sorry you had to go through this to.” It’s not sad or depressed. It’s angry and you should be too. We’re legion; sorry will not sweeten our tea.
Some reads:
In case you feel so overwhelmed — which is perfectly normal — I’ve curated some of the things I’ve been reading/listening to just for you.
Ramadan by Mona Simpson is a good place to start since it’s fiction.
A feel good poem: Strawberries by Edwin Morgan
Family Album by Mikal Gilmore — not as ‘feel good’ especially since it’s nonfiction, the true story of a man who killed innocent men (written by his brother).
What Diane Nguyen taught me about finding healing through failure. Read here.
Hasan Minhaj reads Mr. Goedde’s funny but frequently profound essay, “Researching Jenna, Discovering Myself.”
The Woman Who Found a Snail in Her Soda and Launched a Million Lawsuits.
Stay strong, you.