Control.

This is all I want. I just want to know that the people I hire are going to be the right choice. I just want to know that the space we move into will be like the most perfect, snug, crab shell that we’ll cast off for another, even more perfect fit. I just want to know that the yoga instructors will bring their yoga healing magic to the children. I want our therapists to help people heal their own hearts with surgical precision.

I just want an all-will-be-well-promise of Biblical proportions.

I want my children to be safe and ethical and warriors and brave and kind and safe. I want my husband to be able to fulfill his dreams and live a fulfilled life with me and our little (big) babies.

I want my collaborations, projects, ideas, pitches and workshops to be needed, on time and enjoyed. I want our families to always feel connected, heard and supported. 

I want so much for all to be well.

Survivors of sexual trauma control nothing. We cannot stop the attack(s) on our body. We cannot always control our physical, mental, spiritual responses to that trauma. We cannot always control our symptoms. We live with the knowledge that at anytime and in any place, everything – from our bodies to our dreams – can be ripped away with one violent and unwelcome hand.

This is the story that often frames my life.

I don’t spin plates. I cling to them. I hug them to my chest. The joints in my fingers ache and the strain is exhausting. Even when I offer a plate to someone else (delegate) I am keeping one eye out for that plate’s well-being. I’m ready to snatch it out of this air should it be dropped. Like Spiderman. Obviously.

Control. It’s a wicked mythical beast. I am a person who seeks it out even though I know I’m looking for the lochness monster or a werewolf. I see footprints and I follow them into the woods but I always leave unsatisfied.

My life’s work is to constantly be ungrasping the plates. I am committed to sharing my work. I am committed to finding those who can embody the work to the people we serve. 

Nothing is ever all well. It’s not meant to be. All is meant to be mired in mistakes, imperfections, confusion…possibilities for growth and blossoming.

I can’t have any of that real, nitty gritty, trenches kind of work with fists clenched.

This is work for the open handed and open hearted. 

Ever opening,

Tashmica

It has been a wild time of confusion and bewilderment as we wrestle with what a Trump presidency means for this country. We are all grappling with conflicting ideas about slacktivism, patriotism, peaceful protest and inclusion. We watch as appointment after appointment seeks to dismantle the progress we thought we made.

I’m starting to feel less awful but I’ve been struggling. That struggle has been compounded by many conversations online that are filled with microaggressions. Where loads of white, cisgender people have discussed how they’re coping with sharing Thanksgiving with family members who may be Trump supporters.

It bothered me and so I posted this because I thought maybe it’s our unwillingness to have these conversations that has gotten us to this place. It’s at least a part of the problem.

Seventy comments later and I’m still bothered so I thought I’d clarify a few things.

My post was not about flipping tables. It’s not about alienation or division. It’s not about allyship for the sake of marginalized people. It’s not about the white guilt you may instantly feel when you see posts like mine. It’s not about sending fragile people into dangerous spaces. Ever. Anyone who knows me, knows that I would never advocate for that.

For years I’ve called the unwillingness to disrupt the dinner table a problem for child survivors of sexual trauma. It’s this bizarre behavior that keeps offending adults seated at the table without accountability or justice. And here I am addressing another kind of silence at the same table.

Because, it’s not about Thanksgiving or safety pins. For me, it’s about how some people *cough* (privilege) have options and other people *cough* (oppression) do not.

I’ll admit it. I’m jealous. I’m sorrowful. I’m grieving. I feel betrayed by allies and white feminism. I wish for an invisibility cloak so that I don’t have to feel so fearful and vulnerable in my brown skin. I feel heartened by safety pins while I’m equally distrustful of them because I don’t know that it means anything. 

In a perfect world, I’d wish for a few things from white, cisgender people and here they are:

Death to allyship. I don’t want an ally. I came to this realization as I was listening to Roxanne Gay as a guest on the podcast Politically Reactive. To paraphrase; racism, xenophobia, ableism, homophobia, and classism should be intolerable to all of us. It shouldn’t annoy you or hurt your feelings for someone else. My wish would be that you take it personally because it’s wrong and it doesn’t matter if it’s not directed at someone physically in the room.

Which brings me to my next point.

Just be real.One of the difficult things to hold emotionally has been the explicit proof that while I have insulated myself into a circle that includes liberal, progressive, feminist friends, the reality is that although they are active and vocal publicly, how they react privately, in the absence of a person marginalized or oppressed is underwhelming. So, maybe you can understand why I’m ready to host a wake for allyship. If you’re not for equality and civil rights in all spaces, than maybe you’re not that into it at all.

Think critically. I’ve noticed that the initial response to these challenging concepts is defensiveness. I know that some of you have tried. I’m not unclear about how this is difficult or how it will likely cause rifts in relationships.

I have a dear friend who has spent time reading evangelical Christian progressive blogs in preparation of having difficult conversations with their family. I have friends opting out of family dinner because that is what will bring home the point. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. 

The most important thing to remember here is that as a white, cisgender person, you have more privilege and more power amongst your own family than I or any other marginalized person ever will. We all have a responsibility to use our privilege to defeat oppression around us whenever we are able.

Do the actual work. Do the real, deep, interpersonal work that it takes to inspire hearts to change. Many have disconnected from the people they know with dangerous ideologies. Today I wrestle with the fact that we didn’t make as much progress as we thought. We just had more power. 

This one doesn’t just apply to white cisgender people. This applies to anyone who has given up on someone. Maybe we should reevaluate when and where we’ve decided that people are lost causes. I couldn’t continue to do the work that I do if I didn’t believe that people can change. 

Click here for tips from the Southern Poverty Law Center on responding to everyday bigotry.

People who are visible in their oppression will NEVER be able to opt out. Not ever. Not once. They will always have brown skin. They will always rock that wheelchair. They will always have that accent. They will always be in love with someone of the same gender. 

They will always go to the store, the hospital, the ballpark, the bank, their place of worship in their body.

This is the frustration. It is the absolute inability to opt out while others can take their safety pins off that hurts – especially when we know that you do take them off the moment shit gets real.

I’m asking you, as a friend. Wear whatever visible symbol of safety you want. Hang it on your door or in your office. Make it your profile pic and shout it from the fucking rooftop. Shout it from all the rooftops if you must. Get a safety pin, fuck Trump, stand with Standing Rock, tattoo on your chest.

But here’s the thing;

Integrity is who you are when nobody’s looking. – C.S. Lewis.

I’d like to thank every person who has been willing to have this conversation with me as I felt through all of my feelings and thoughts on this one. I have been unapologetically angry and inconsolably sorrowful lately. Which, you know, hasn’t been a walk in the park for anyone. 

It has been some time since I last used my blog space. Frankly, I’ve been exhausted. 

When I am not taking calls all day, I am going to meetings all day. When I am not going to meetings all day, I am responding to messages, texts and emails all day. When I am not doing all of that, I am attempting to be a good mother, wife, daughter, friend – person. 

When I am not doing all of that, I am wondering how I am going to stay healthy, creative, informed, connected in my soul on this schedule. 

I am not a unicorn. That is to say, my problems are not that unique. I don’t feel like my struggles are special on their own. But I have to consider the position I have placed myself in. Within all of those interactions, one truth continues to rise to the top. I am here as an outspoken survivor of child sexual abuse.

My job has become a constant reminder of that fact. With every phone call, every meeting, every message and every text – I am reminded of how I became this person. With every grant I write and every appeal I mail off, I am asking people to heal children that have sexual violence in common with me. Sometimes people say no or they say hurtful things without realizing it.

I do not regret where I am today. I do not regret the choices I have made to fight child sexual abuse and to heal what I can. But I do have to admit that when the going gets tough this shit is fucking hard.

Being the out survivor in the room often means that people will condescend to you about your obviously emotionally driven, hysterical response to the world. It means that they will decide that your opinion cannot be valid because you have emotions.

It sometimes means that I am triggered, emotional and hysterical. Which also means that sometimes I have to have conversations with my husband, my best friends, my therapist, my family and those I admire to talk myself out of being triggered so that I can respond with my full self. That full self includes emotional righteous indignation, practical self-evaluation and even (barf) objectivity.

It is true that sometimes fellow survivors, those within the movement to end sexual violence or allies/bystanders will elevate my voice. They will boost my signal. They will use me and my story to make the point they have been trying to express in many different ways.

There is beauty in that. However, the crown jewel often resembles a bullseye placed right over your heart. The same broken, healing, injured heart you seem to be placing in full view of humanity is now a target. That heart is discussed, analyzed, criticized and dissected without your permission and regardless of whether you happen to be in the room. And if you are me, you are often in the room asking a wise counsel to help you discern which way to go. Still. It is painful.

Even when the response is positive or validating, you are still vulnerable. Even when you get what you’ve asked others for, you are still vulnerable. You are still standing in a crowded room naked with all of your scars in full view. There are people who will talk to you about your story at the grocery store, in the playground, at your office and in the parking garage because they will know your face. They are kind and loving. They are supportive and they want you to know that you’ve moved them, helped them, shown them something about themselves.

And I am so, so grateful.

But I am now the person who often lies when I am on vacation when people ask me about what I do. I need people not to know me. I need them to think that I am a writer or a stay-at-home mom or that I work at a nonprofit that helps kids in the most nondescript way. I need to be able to breath as something other than an adult survivor of child sexual abuse.

I don’t know what I am saying to you because this is not a request for you to not see me. It is not a request that you don’t tell me the things you’d like to say. It’s not even a post about how I don’t like those things. I want you to boost my signal if it will help us all end sexual violence or bring someone to a space of healing.

I think I’m just saying that I am tired. I’m saying that this is a lonely place. I’m saying that even with all of the privileges and militant self-care I practice, this is still the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. There are not enough bubble baths, long walks, good plates of food to deny that I am still in a constant position of vulnerability. I have to be so gentle with myself while recognizing that I have work to do.

And I want you to know that I am an amazing gardener. I can fill a place with growing things. I can nurture a sunflower taller than me. I love spiders and their webs. LOVE THEM. I dry things and make magic in tea cups. I tell bumblebees that they are safe with me.

I sing. Not often enough but I have a pretty good voice. I love the water but I don’t love to swim. I just want to be near it. I want to hear it and dip my toe in it when I get too hot. I love the things that come from the water. Waves, sea glass, bulbous seaweed and the smell of wind that spends its time dancing across lakes to find me at the shore. It tells me that I am near enough.

I am the silliest mother with the lamest jokes. I am responsible for the laughter, whimsy and downright irresponsible behavior in our home. I encourage bravery, responsibility and accountability. My family thinks I can make you love your most hated food in my kitchen. 

This is a strange post filled with whiny words about the life I chose. I choose this. I will always choose this but damn. You guys, I am super tired.

And yes. I will accept cheese to accompany my whine. Thank you for offering.

Honestly,

Tashmica