I am pleased to announce that the following piece is now exhibiting at the Museum of Women's Resistance(MoWRe) in Brooklyn, NY. I'd recently discovered a call for letters from The BlackWomen's Blueprint, for the current exhibit at MoWRe (October 26-November 22, 2012) titled: Letters to Harriet: Conversations on John Tubman and the Private and Public Dimensions on Domestic Violence. Although this is only a brief synopsis of my experience with domestic violence and marital/spousal rape, I nevertheless jumped on the opportunity to tell my story, and thus, releasing some of the burden of memory (another way of saying that oppression has a lasting effect/impact), with the hope that I would help someone else who has suffered similarly.
My story is also politically motivated and parallels the intra/interpersonal and historical impact of slavery, for I believe that in many ways, men who abuse are slaves to patriarchy (as well as too willing to collude with the practice, privilege that patriarchy has afforded them). I realized after writing this that my abuser no longer had power over me, could no longer hurt me and create the kind of fear I'd held for such a long time after my departure from his physical abuse (the emotional fear was just as daunting and oppressive). This alone allowed me to breathe and be free!
May we all be free.
********************************
My
Dearest Harriet,
How
can I begin to tell you of the horror I’ve experienced, about my ephemeral
(while seemingly endless) but unforgettable bondage in 1978…a most unforgiving
act of control and torture that no woman should experience. Ever.
It
is important that you know my story, that I share it with you and any black
woman and girl who will listen…it is imperative that our journey is met with
purpose and determination…that while underground (and aboveground) we begin the
business that you, Sista Harriet, have initiated for all of us who’ve been
slaves (and ultimately, survivors) to a brutal patriarchal system…I tell this
story because it needs to be told and I need to write it because I need to be
free from the memory that continues to enslave me.
I
want you to know, Sista Harriet, that I am always ready…ready to join you (in
honor of and in the spirit of your work) and all the other brave folk who
desire their freedom, too. I know that
our brothers need and want also to remove the mental chains that patriarchy has
forced upon them, so these words are just as much for them because by resisting
this evil practice they can take this journey in solidarity with us
womenfolk…as long as they recognize, that they, too, are slaves, they are
welcome to come…
You
see, I was married to a man, who, in his warped and twisted worldview
considered a marriage license a deed to my body, my mind, my spirit, all of
which he intended to manipulate, exploit, and destroy. Yes, he was a man
on a mission! Mislead by his
beliefs. Bound by social
constructs that have been fed to him like scraps to a dog. He was arrested by his ignorance, refused to
use his intelligence to bail himself out of a prison that only existed
ideologically. He totally and vigorously
embraced male supremacy…he desired to be master and commander even though there
were so many things he would never be able to control or navigate in this
world, not as long as he refused to acknowledge and resist his own bondage… but
he wanted to control me. He wanted to
follow in the missteps of a long line of black men who thought abusing women
gave them power. Did they not understand the power of solidarity, the power of
love? Have they forgotten what the white
slaveholders did to the black woman, and now they want to repeat it?
 |
| Harriet Tubman |
Unwittingly,
the bus we’d both boarded that fateful summer in Chicago*
After
a spell he proposed. I accepted too
quickly. Intoxicated by the idea of
becoming someone’s wife. What an awful
hangover I would have—not the sweet love hangover that Diana Ross sang about.
No. There were plenty of warnings, the
writing on the concrete project walls of the Robert Taylor Homes** were graffiti—large, bold letters that
said “GET OUT, NOW!” but like so
many sistas, I believed he would change…that love conquers all. But, honey, you have to first have love, and
love was not what I was getting. Not
from that man. No ma’am.
 |
| Robert Taylor Projects |
So
off to the justice of the peace for a ceremony lacking either justice or
peace. After vows to obey and honor a
man I hardly knew, words that he took all too literal, he said, “You see this
piece of paper?” pointing to the state approved document sanctioning his
violence against me, “it means that I own you.”
I
could tell that he totally believed that shit…I tell you I was in trouble. The war was about to begin and I would find
no justice. Patriarchy has never been
right. Never.
The
price and road to freedom would be exorbitant and dangerous. He sought to colonize me, but honey, I was
seeking emancipation! I thought to
myself, “He must be out of his damn
mind, no one owns me!” My rebellious and
embryonic feminist nature began to rise like heat from a hot tin roof as I
wondered just what the hell had I gotten myself into. Only a few blocks away
from city hall where this gross miscarriage of justice took place he’d begun to
exact his masculine tyranny. My
enslavement began no sooner than the judge’s ink had dried.
Fear
and intimidation was his only way of loving me. Terror was his whip and
chain. His fists were always hard and
brutal. He’d bring me to submission just
before forcing himself upon me.
Institutionalized marriage legitimized his constant physical, emotional
and sexual assaults. “Open those legs, damn it,” he said with the promise of
another lashing. “Suck my dick,” he’d command.
I’d fearfully oblige, seeking to keep his blows to my head at bay. This wasn’t love, it was obsession. It was
misogynistic mayhem. It was heterosexist harassment. It was a relationship lacking tenderness and
compassion. He was my nightmare; the
monster hiding in the closet. I realized what it must be like to be Harriet
Jacobs. I had entered a “sad epoch in
the life of a slave girl.”
 |
| Harriet Jacobs |
Yes,
slavery is far more terrible for women… He wanted to hurt me! He took pleasure in my suffering. Sista, this is not a life for anyone!
The
abuse I suffered went on for several months.
I would leave many times and come back because he would promise to
change, promise not to hurt me. But like
a man hell bent on fury, he would resume his brutal and sadistic ways. I grew tired from the shame, hiding my scars
and bruises, the silence. I needed to
tell someone. I needed to make public my
private terror. When the abuse escalated
to a point where I feared for my life, I told my sister, but asked her to keep
my secret. She did not do this
happily. In fact, she wanted to inflict
upon him the same pain he’d inflicted upon me. I chose to deal with him in a
non-violent way. He had imposed enough violence
to last a lifetime. I knew I had to
escape this life that was no life at all…I needed, wanted to survive. Victimhood was not the badge I desired to
wear.
One
day like any slave in their right mind, I ran away and didn’t look back. I was
lucky to escape with my life. I embraced freedom and chose a different kind of
love. Self-love. Oh, how I caressed my
body. Kissed my hands. Gave thanks for a mind that was strong enough
to know that I deserved better. Blessed
my feet for moving me forward and out of bondage!
Thank
you, Sista Harriet for leading the way.
Your courageous act of defiance and resistance to the tyranny of
slavery, in all its ugliness, has demonstrated strength, compassion, and
dedication. But most of all you
demonstrated love. Love is such a
revolutionary act. And you are one of
our greatest revolutionaries in herstory.
You taught me that the quest for freedom is not just an individual one,
but demands a collective effort. In
writing this letter to you it is my wish that all of our sistas and brothas are
liberated, that we all walk boldly together in our struggle to end domestic
violence and patriarchal oppression.
Like
your ancestory, our stories matter, too.
Our lives matter. In the spirit
of your journey may we continue loving ourselves whole and healthy and forever
remain on the road to freedom.
In
love and solidarity,
Rochelle
* This was where I met the man (on a Chicago Transit Authority--CTA bus) that later became my abuser.
** The projects we lived in briefly were known as the Robert Taylor Homes Projects in Chicago, no longer in existence, but was a kind of prison/slaveholding (concrete & metal cage) of sorts for low income black families.
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