| I ran through the sage, not sure whether to run faster or weave back and forth, the best way to avoid a bullet. I braced myself against the doorframe to avoid being pulled into the bedroom, called his children to me, believing he would not rape me in front of them. I have wounds, most nicely healed, some transformed into a mission from God; others make my sleep uneasy. But do not mistake me. I am not a victim. Not of anything or anyone. |  |
Seconds from broken bones, I turned the lock on the last door into the house. I listened as good people mocked my mother, her dark eyes, the ways her tongue shaped her words. But do not mistake me. I am not a victim.
When my voice leaves its home in my belly, when I cannot feel its reverberation in my chest, I pause. When my breath is caught in my throat, when I want – just a little too badly – for you to understand my feeling, to know my reality, when I am outraged and horrified that you do not…. I call myself home from this lost place, from this temporary mistake of perception. When I want to win, but I am not quite sure of the prize…
No matter what the facts of my history, I am not the mirror of the offender, not in the tone of my voice, in the fires of rage, the angst of my psyche, not in a misunderstanding of myself or of the divine. I do not need revenge.
I will not wear the clothes pasted on my skin by abuse and limitation, by a miscomprehension of the cultural ways of my family, of their certainties. Not by jealousy from those who cannot find this in themselves. I will not wear the small self of trying to persuade ridicule, rejection and pain that I deserve better.
I remember who I am, from who and what I come, and I am grateful. I do not need defensiveness, because I have joy. Gathered around me is the shield and the wealth of the spirit. It was there when I was on the street. It was there when I wandered into the wrong place.
At the edge of my vision and the back of my mind, it was always there. In the prompting of my spirit, in visions and dreams, just as was true of my parents, of my grandparents and others in that large extended family that peopled my early life.
I am not a victim. I am blessed, gifted. My mouth shapes the sounds of southern roots. My soul is fed by the shifting of light when someone speaks the truth, by the appearance during the day of last night’s dream, by the open passage of a fallen book. I know who I am, in my bone and in my blood, I know.
It is enough, this wealth and its discipline. It was always enough.
When my voice leaves its home in my belly, when I cannot feel its reverberation in my chest, I pause. When my breath is caught in my throat, when I want – just a little too badly – for you to understand my feeling, to know my reality, when I am outraged and horrified that you do not…. I call myself home from this lost place, from this temporary mistake of perception. When I want to win, but I am not quite sure of the prize…
No matter what the facts of my history, I am not the mirror of the offender, not in the tone of my voice, in the fires of rage, the angst of my psyche, not in a misunderstanding of myself or of the divine. I do not need revenge.
I will not wear the clothes pasted on my skin by abuse and limitation, by a miscomprehension of the cultural ways of my family, of their certainties. Not by jealousy from those who cannot find this in themselves. I will not wear the small self of trying to persuade ridicule, rejection and pain that I deserve better.
I remember who I am, from who and what I come, and I am grateful. I do not need defensiveness, because I have joy. Gathered around me is the shield and the wealth of the spirit. It was there when I was on the street. It was there when I wandered into the wrong place.
At the edge of my vision and the back of my mind, it was always there. In the prompting of my spirit, in visions and dreams, just as was true of my parents, of my grandparents and others in that large extended family that peopled my early life.
I am not a victim. I am blessed, gifted. My mouth shapes the sounds of southern roots. My soul is fed by the shifting of light when someone speaks the truth, by the appearance during the day of last night’s dream, by the open passage of a fallen book. I know who I am, in my bone and in my blood, I know.
It is enough, this wealth and its discipline. It was always enough.
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