The ground I walk upon is lost and found. There is the truth of my feet touching, connection holding me up.There is the truth of my body trusting. This now is now to be explored. Foot down, take a breath, listen. All the senses going in, stretching out, radar receiving. Feel. What is this place? Breath.
The toddler mind runs around picking up rocks from the past, running imagined stone walkways of the future. Silly exploration of what is not yet understood. What is it? The beginner’s mind asks? What is this place of me? Breath.
But now. This now is difficult to find. The doors of Durin are only clear in stillness when the moon shines full upon them. We cannot see when we expect to see. Our eyes only show us the old stories.
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It is impossible. We have to trust moon light and darkness.
We wear our knowing like armour clutching our never wrong sharpness of sword words. Hard shelling our hearts:Thick layers of fear we wear weighing us down. Others are the enemy. That makes us safe.
The door was always there. Waiting. We trust the ground to find our feet. The safety of senses. Breath. What is this place of me?
What a joy it was to attend the UBC Connects speaker series last night. The 800 seats in the Kelowna Community Theatre were full. The audience was surprising. Usually when I attend a speaker’s series put on by UBC it is people in my cohort, the older, upper middle class alumni of the university that show up.
Finding the hidden places
As I scanned the crowd I saw many men and surprisingly for Kelowna many darker skinned people.
Once when an architect came to a workshop I attended he said, “Are you people all related?”
He was remarking on the fact that Caucasian, well-heeled and beige wearing people were everywhere. But not last night. The University is bringing in diversity and making Kelowna more a reflection of a new social reality. I was surprised and impressed.
When the #metoo movement broke into its fevered, powerful presence and moved through the population, I was fascinated. Twelve million people posted in 24 hours their story of unwanted sexual advances. I spent two full days on #metoo twitter simply reading story after story. The scout master molested boys, the gymnastic coach was raping girls, the youth pastor was grooming and molesting both sexes. The trusted uncle continued the abuse for years. The brother who violently broke his sister’s back while raping her was reported to those on the site.
I sat and each time I saw a particularly moving post I reposted it and copied it. Immediately I put it up on Facebook. Finally, after 69 years of living with the secret of brutality and internalized shame, I saw others who were breaking out of their prisons. I sat for hours sharing, copying and posting. Tears were streaming down my face. And it was for joy. It was for the immense relief that finally, finally people were beginning to release the locked in shame. As person after person posted, I watched as they said to one another, “I saw you speak the truth and it gave me courage.”
What the #metoo movement did for me was to continue to fuel my desire to speak out. Tarana said something brilliant during her presentation. She said, “We have no language for this. We say, ‘ That is not what a sexual abuse survivor looks like.’ ” I felt my chest expand in excitement.
Yes. Yes That is it! As I sat crying at my desk in elementary school, not one authority figure, or teacher knew that this is what sexual abuse looks like. As I was sent to the principal’s office for pulling out a girl’s hair, the principal had no idea that this is what a sexual abuse prisoner looks like. As I made my way through high-school with good grades, earning the top Art Student award and moved on to three more university degrees, no one knew that this is what a sexual abuse survivor looks like.
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They have no language for it because they have denied it. They have no way of recognizing it because they have kept their faces turned away. No one was there to protect me and I thought it was because I did not deserve protection. It was because I was somehow guilty. I learned to hide everything that was not required of the society in order to be powerful. My presentation was a guise, a mask.
And as I left the theatre last night I was talking to two students while we walked along the snow covered street. I said that the teacher in Kelowna that had been tried for sexual abuse was also watching child porn. I mentioned that we, as a society are ready to see sexual abuse in only a limited filtered way.
Why was his use of the child porn industry buried in the media? I asked the girls.
One answered, “Because we don’t want to sensationalize it.”
I walked ten blocks home in the snow storm and thought about how we are so terrified of the truth that we make a pact to ignore it. When I was a child, it was an agreement that children were possessions of their parents.
Today we are beginning to wake up to rape, and sexual abuse but we still refuse to look at the children. We cannot believe that children are purchased as objects to be filmed and then disposed of. It is a profitable business.
It is the time to see all of it. It is no longer an era where we turn our faces away if we don’t like the truth we are seeing. How else can we stop it if we don’t have language for it? How else can we stop allowing brutality if we are only interested in protecting our own version of reality?
We need to stop denying, and start believing people when they tell us their truth. It is when we are all willing to open our eyes that the legislation is authored; that the heartless are jailed; and the children are safe.
We are getting there. But we cannot be afraid to feel. It is where empathy begins.
