After the rape happened, I hid from the world. I became soft. Quiet. Afraid. I had learned that the world was a far scarier place than I had thought it to be. I kept busy, and did only the things necessary to keep me alive. I tried not to take up too much space. I tried not to talk for too long. I became small, invisible, unsure of my place in the world. Unsure of my own reality, of my life.
I was then: Victim.
Time passed.
I talked to friends, counselors, and found myself a support group. Like before, I kept busy. I had my vices -- they kept me going. I asked for a sharp stick, and I kept it in front of me, ready to attack anyone who got too close. I waited. Listened. Watched. I still hid most nights. I didn't feel strong, or brave -- just strung out. Just tired. I had a little fight in me when I needed it, but I walked out in the world cloaked in my own fear. The fear was warm; it was safe. But it was blinding. Every new person was a threat, every new situation a danger.
Words clogged in my throat. Hard words like "no," "stop," and "fuck off." They got stuck there, and no amount of air from my lungs would push them out. I thought I might live here forever, and built a nest inside the fear in my heart. I watched Donald Trump rise to power from here. I watched as he mocked, belittled, demonized, disrespected, and bragged about assaulting my sisters and brothers, and such anger welled up within me that I thought I would break in two. But I couldn't leave here -- the door to my heart had been sealed shut behind me.
I was then: Survivor.
Then something amazing happened.
The day after the beginning of the end, my sisters and brothers walked out against him, hand in hand. When I was too weak to stand, when my eyes were too tired and my heart too closed, they made beautiful signs. They put on beautiful make-up and clothes. They wrote and spoke beautiful words, and they took a stand when their hearts were as closed as mine.
And it was in that moment that I found my fight again.
My mother, a proud First Nations woman; my white friends and friends of color; and seemingly the whole world walked out against him. After an election of proposed atrocities, after person after person permitted him to take step after step nearing the White House, I thought it was over. I thought there was nothing we could do, that we were broken now and our government would consume us.
But we are many, and we are strong.
The frightened little bird in my heart left her nest last night. I feel strong again. I feel a confidence that radiates in my bones, and a strength that can break the hate laid in the stone in our capital buildings.
I know now how to make the hard words leave my throat. "My body, my choice." "Not my president." "No." "Stop." "Fuck off." I laughed when I first heard them fall from my lips -- it was as though I hadn't heard myself speak in years. The words come easy now. I practice them every night, like a prayer.
I am now: Fighter.
Thank you, to all the womxn and womxn of color who marched on Washington, and Boston, and Seattle, and London, and Antarctica. Your strength has awoken my voice. I have much work to do. I've spent a long time asleep, but I'm alive for the first time since it happened. And I know I can help make this stop.
To the womxn out there who are still hiding -- look at the pictures from the march. Take my hand. Join me. Together we are many. Together we are strong, and when we work together, we can make the changes we've always wanted. We can make our voices heard.
