I'm going to keep
writing about this, guys. I hate that
I'm going to keep writing about it...and I also have to keep writing about
it. For me. For women.
For all of us seeking to understand our experiences, I have to write
this.
(For you who have no clue what I'm talking about, read part 1 and part 2 to catch up. Or read on. It'll peak your curiosity enough to want some context, I'm sure).
And you know, I notice
something I'm not proud of. I worked
really hard over the past several months to NOT undermine myself. To stop apologizing. To stop selling myself short. I had gotten good at it. Not great, but at the very least I noticed
the tendency to be pulled in that direction, and I could sometimes stop
myself. We had a fantastic conversation
about this in my class, actually. We
listened to Lily Myers' poem, "Shrinking Women," in which she says,
"I asked 3 questions in Genetics class the other day, and all of them
started with 'sorry.'" I gently called
out a young woman in my class who starts every comment or answer with,
"I'm sure this is probably wrong," or "I don't think this is
right, but..." We had an amazing
conversation about it.
But do you know what I
REALLY wanted my first sentence to be?
Do you know what I wrote first?
"I'm sorry that I'm still writing about this." It's been two whole days. I mean seriously. Who am I to talk about this for two whole
days?
Ridiculous.
I fell back into that
pattern, and I see it. In talking to a
good friend online, he said about my last blog post, "it makes me angry on
your behalf."
"Thank you,"
I said. "And I'm sorry."
"Sorry for
what?" he asked. And honestly...I
had to think about it. The
"sorry" just popped out automatically. Sorry I made him feel angry on my
behalf? Yes...that's actually the
answer. And it's also ridiculous.
I can change this
pattern, and I will, but I think it's interesting and noteworthy, right? Make me feel unsafe, make me feel unable to
advocate for myself...and I fall back into those patterns of apologizing, of
undermining, of not wanting to take up space.
Feeling unworthy is like sand: that shit gets everywhere, and it's impossible
to get rid of it. It just keeps coming
back. Even when you think it's gone, you
find a bit in your suitcase or in your shoes.
How would the world be different -- how would women be different -- if
we were able to always (or almost always) feel as though we and our bodies and
our safety mattered?
I also want to make it
clear that it takes serious bravery to write this stuff. This isn't just stream-of-consciousness, make
me feel better type of writing. I am
grateful, always grateful, that I am a writer and that I have this ability to
think and reach answers through my words.
But this is work, and it does require a unique level of bravery. It's not easy. It's just not.
Tonight, I'm thinking
about what I said about intuition. I'm
thinking about the ways our bodies communicate with us, and the way I try to
listen to my body. I'm not always good
at it, but I try. She tells me what I
need. She alerts me when there is
danger. She has in-born mechanisms that
kick-in without me giving them the conscious okay that assist in keeping me
safe. It's pretty amazing when you think
about it.
We tell ourselves and
our friends all the time: listen to your body.
Trust yourself. Figure out what
it is that YOU need and do it. You deserve
to feel safe. You deserve to take care
of your body. You deserve to do what you
need to feel secure.
And that's true,
right? Of course it is.
But here's what we don't think about:
sometimes our bodies get mixed up. I was
going to say that they lie, but I don't believe that's true. A young man I work with tells me that he
doesn't get the answers on his homework WRONG, per se...he just sometimes gets
mixed up. And I think that's right. I think that's what's happening here. My body isn't wrong. It isn't lying. It's just a little mixed up sometimes, and
it's hard to tell what will actually be the right choice.
Earlier tonight, in the
middle of choir practice, my body freaked out momentarily for no good reason
other than the fact that I realized that I would be leaving at 9:00 and it
would be dark and I would have to walk across the dark parking lot to my
car. For a moment, in the middle of
fumbling my way through page 48 of Handel's Messiah, my body convinced me that
something bad would happen - that I would be unsafe - in the parking lot of my
church.
And I'm not saying that
could NEVER happen. I'm just saying that
I could be 100% certain that I would be leaving the building with 2, or 5, or
10, or 20 people who care about me and my wellbeing, and while no place is ever
100% safe...this particular scenario ranks pretty high up there.
Like I said, my
body...she gets mixed up sometimes.
It gets complicated
very quickly. I know, for example, that
calling Security for an escort to my car is the right choice. But honestly, every part of my body HATES
this idea. Hates it. Like, panics when I think about it. My breathing gets tight tight tight, I feel
my shoulders clench, and something in the pit of my stomach forms an
impenetrable rock. When I make myself
think through calling them, tears sting my eyes, and I want to curl up under my
covers forever. This is truth.
How, then, do we know
when to listen to our bodies? How do we
trust when it is making the right decision?
How do I know -- like really know -- what is right, and safe, and
trustworthy, when my body is all mixed up and can no longer tell the
difference? What then?
I've been thinking
about a workshop I went to on welcoming people with disabilities. In it, it was said that accommodations should
be present and available, at the ready, such that people do not even need to
ask. This is how we create a welcoming
and inclusive community, they said. This
is how we send the message you matter,
and you are welcome here. And it
makes sense, right? If the things a
person might need are available (after a need has become clear), why make a
person have to ask, time and time again?
We are trained from the time we are little that if we ask for something
repetitiously, we are kinda a pain in the butt.
Personally, I'm not a fan of being a pain in the butt.
This is a piece of my
issue with this, I guess. I just feel
like...if my safety and security mattered, they would have a security presence
in the building. If my safety and security
mattered, they would have people there, whose job it is to walk people
out. If it mattered, I wouldn't have to
call them away from their desks all the way on the other side of campus. Instead, I need to call them every damn week
and have them come out...like something could happen in the interim that would
make me safe. (Am I going to grow 10
inches, a beard, and a certain piece of genitalia in the next few weeks? I think not).
Barring that, I need to feel like what I need in order to have my most
basic safety and security needs met is an accommodation. Something that people need to go out of their
way to provide. And I just don't like
making people go out of their way.
In my head, I keep
asking myself, "what do you even want, Autodidact? What is it that you want?" I wonder if I'm expecting too much. I wonder if I'm asking for too much. I convince myself that this is just a
"me" thing, and that it doesn't really matter. Does it matter? Does it matter if one person feels
unsafe? Two people? Five?
When is there a critical mass of people such that change should be made? When is it enough such that we will be heard?
I keep thinking about
the words of the Director of Security in an email he sent. "As uncomfortable as it may have
been," he wrote, "please know that they are welcome here to pursue
their union activity."
What privilege that
statement conveys, no?
"Uncomfortable," he says...when the words in my email were
"unsafe" and "threatened."
"They are welcome here," he says...which makes me - the person
employed by this institution - wonder: am I also welcome here? He says this as if he knows that, because
there is legitimate union activity that has been authorized, he knows that this
person (this person without obvious credentials, I may add), would not have
been a threat. What a privilege it is to
be able to believe that people are who they say they are and are who they seem,
simply because they say it. What a
privilege to believe that being an authorized union representative and being a
guy-who-could-hurt-a-woman must be mutually exclusive.
But then we -- we with
the confused bodies --how do we know what is right anymore? How do we know what is safe? We whose experiences have been denied, or
downplayed, or whose direct requests for change have been shot-down, how do we
know our requests are valid? How do we
remember that we are worth the struggle? How do we come to believe again in our
own body's ability to tell us what is true?
And in the absence of
our body's voice...where do we turn for truth?
Yeah, how dare you keep going on about this a couple days later. *eyeroll*
ReplyDeleteHave I told you enough times how amazing you are? Because I will tell you a million and one more times if that would work, and I know it won't, but I wish it would.
When I am in the sort of situation where I am asking myself "But what do I really want?" - over something I am tearing myself up over, sometimes needlessly, sometimes so needfully - I often find the answer is, "To go back in time." It's unrealistic. It's a pipe dream. And it's at the bottom of this web we all get snared in, I think.
Your body is sometimes giving you signals you can't fully trust because of its lived reality. We have muscle memory. We have emotional memory. It only stands to reason we must have fear-memory. I mean strictly evolutionarily speaking, doesn't it make sense that if one predator manages to harm us in X circumstance, then it bodes well for our survival that our bodies then react with a fight-or-flight response every time we approach a similar circumstance to X? Because we self-preserve?
We are all caught in this web. I was once taught "Forgiveness is remembering that we hurt others." Not to set aside any kind of "hierarchy of hurt" - no, anything you might have done to someone is nowhere near as bad as some of the things that have been done to you - but to ground our shared experience. How DO we learn to trust our bodies again? Well how do our bodies un-learn danger? That shit is IMPORTANT.
As ever, as always, I don't have answers. As ever, as always, you are amazing. And please, as ever, as always - please keep writing.