(I told Becky I'd have this up Saturday, but I've been busy writing a ten-pager due for my Social Work Policy class. 8 pages down.)
At 7:00 on Friday night, I had my back against the counter at Avenue 209 and was peering anxiously down the street. The crowd I had expected had not materialized. Even an important part of my lineup was missing: Von and his guitar were there to play, Jared and his chapbook were there to read a poem; Celeste from the DV shelter was there to give a small speech; but Lyrically speaking were mysteriously absent. (And they never showed up, either. Not one of them. I am still pissed about that.) I waited till 7:30, and then finally decided to start. The crowd was small: Dad, Von, Jared, my friends Claire and Ashley, Rick and Jacqui Conklin, Celeste, some random artist who wandered in, and Josh and Sarah with the kids. Not the full house I had envisioned.
"Quality over quantity; quality over quantity ..."
It turned out to be a good thing that there was a smaller, more intimate gathering, because I completely flubbed as a public speaker. That almost never happens -- usually when I speak, my head is high, my smile is wide, and my voice is authoritative and direct. I love to speak in public. I'm good at it. But on Friday, I just couldn't bring myself to look anyone in the eye. I was afraid of what I'd see: Pity? Disbelief? Apathy? By the end of the speech I had written, I was reading off the paper -- largely to avoid glancing over at Daddy, because I was sure the look on his face was one that would make me lose my cool and cry in front of everyone.
I sat and caught my breath while Von played and sang two very beautiful songs on his guitar. Von had agreed to perform just two days before, when both of my singers canceled for personal reasons within 2 hours of each other. I freaked. I went down to Avenue to drown my sorrows in chai tea, and there sat Von. My brain clicked on (with the help of the barista, Jake): "Von. Guitar. VON PLAYS GUITAR!" And so he covered both spots, and saved me from having an apoplectic fit because he is the awesomest guitar-playing guy in the world and on several lesser-known planets, too. He had a prior commitment and had to leave before the vigil was over, but he gave me a giant hug on his way out the door, guitar case and all.
Then Celeste spoke. When she learned about the vigil way back in February, she jumped on the bandwagon before it even rolled to a stop. She's the advocacy and awareness guru at the local domestic violence shelter, and I was flattered and grateful that she'd give up her very little free time to come speak to a small crowd at a coffee shop about children and abuse.
I showed a video: 36 children that had died in Washington state during three weeks in February of 2010. I was connecting abuse with a face. It had an impact: while the faces, ages and death dates of 36 children faded on and off the screen, I saw Sarah reach for her little boy and pull him to her for a hug. She had to stop watching and look at the floor, at the scatter of Isaac and Ava's toys at her feet. Then I opened up the floor for anyone who wanted to say anything. It ended up being 20 questions, Trauma Survivor Edition:
"How do you tell if a child is being abused?"
"What do you do if you think a child is being abused?"
"What would you have wanted someone to do for you?"
This last question came from Pastor Josh. Every time I mentioned the vigil or anything related to it to him during the weeks leading up to April 1st, Josh's eyes got sad. He'd shake his head. More than once, he looked me in the face and told me he just couldn't imagine it; he'd never seen it; he didn't even know how to tell whether or not it was happening. The kind of sheltered person I usually snub, turning up my nose before I can stop myself and thinking: "You were a selfish, spoiled kid and I dislike you for having a proper childhood," thoughts. But Josh was so eager to learn, so attentive to the importance and the realness of the issue, that I stopped mid-snub and reversed course. I could tell I had his respect, so I gave him mine -- and when he asked what I'd have wanted someone to do for me, I told him the truth. I thought of all the crying and pain and blood and fear and loneliness and fear and fear and fear and fear and said:
"Something. Anything. Anything besides keeping the secret."
Jared got up and read his poem, "Shootout at the O.K. Corral," which happens to be my favorite one of his. At the end of the night, I lit four small candles (current estimates are that between 4 and 5 children die in the U.S. each day as a result of abuse) and we bowed our heads for a moment of silence -- during which Isaac dropped Mr. Potato Head and shouted "CRASH!" as all the plastic parts scattered over the floor, and Ava shushed him with, "Shhhh! We're praying." It was so appropriate; I had to smile.
When I got home later, I was exhausted. I curled onto the love seat with my body pillow and tried to settle into sleep, but I couldn't for some reason. I got up again at about 10:30, and I was sitting at the computer when it hit me: I had pulled together a vigil, albeit small, and I had spoken, however haltingly, and people had cared. People had listened. People had learned. And that's when I realized I wasn't a victim anymore. I was a survivor. Tears streamed down my face. I was suddenly filled with the knowledge that no matter how much I had suffered, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how hard the struggle still might be in the future, I was going to make it. I was going to make it through. I was going to be ok.. I knew it like you know your name in your own mouth: a surety. A boon. A blessing. And then I was *really* sobbing: gasping and spluttering and rocking and smiling,smiling, smiling the whole time like a demented mourner at a mass funeral, all while trying to explain to a very concerned wee beastie named Jude that, "No, no, sugar. Mama's alright."
When I finally managed to put a stopper in the emotion, it was after midnight. I was hungry, so I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios -- and ate 2 bites before I put down the spoon and fell asleep sitting up.
And something has turned a little, in my head. It sounds patent to say, almost canned, but something about that vigil made me a little stronger. Saturday night, for the first time in over a year, I rested this body on the actual mattress of my actual bed and slept there. And Sunday night. And Monday night. I wrapped myself around my body pillow comfortably -- my feet didn't kick the TV; my arm didn't hit the floor fan when I tried to move; there was no crick in my neck -- closed my eyes, and went to sleep. I left the lights on, but I slept in my bed without watching the doorway, waiting for my mother to materialize in it. That's a huge step for me.
It feels good to know that I'm gonna make it. I guess when I look back I've been overcoming the past bit by bit for years now, slowly realizing what is mine to keep and have and hold and what is mine to throw away, slowly coming around to knowing and caring for myself. But never before have I felt like I have the ability to become a whole person,a well person, even with the things that are indelibly stamped on me. I'm starting to see my past suffering in a new light -- not as this ugly, extra thing I need to chop off and throw away like a mutant limb, but something that is a part of me that makes me the person I am. Something I can teach with; something I can use, in little ways, to make a difference in other people, to have an impact on someone's life. I'm not out to change the world: I'm too practical to think that'll happen. And I still don't understand why people insist upon making one another suffer so grievously. But that is the way of things, and I have a tool to help change it, to contribute to the fight to make things better. Like I said before: I'm not a victim anymore.
Now I'm a survivor.
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