Re-Imagining Fatherhood: What This is Us Means to a Survivor of Father-Daughter Incest
Father God, in the name of Jesus…
That was how most prayers started in church. Every once in a while, you’d get an “Almighty God,” but I grew up knowing that God was, indeed, a man.
A man I couldn’t see, but who was — supposedly, everywhere at the same time. Which made me wonder, Where were you when I needed you most? If you are the God who sits high and looks low, then how could you just watch this subterraneous sin? If you are the God who never sleeps nor slumbers, then how could you let my biological father molest me?
These were the questions I had. And that never seemed to come up in church. You know what did, though? Religious platitudes about forgiveness. Social pressure to perform perfection in a middle-class Caribbean church. We could burn incense, frankincense, and myrrh, but not once did my rector address sexual abuse from the pulpit.
I wonder how many little girls in that middle-class Caribbean church suffered the same way I did? Coming to church, Sunday after Sunday, turning their dog-eared Book of Common Prayer to page 355 and reciting the Apostles’ Creed. I wonder how many others questioned that first line:
I believe in God, the Father Almighty…
Creator of heaven and earth? Well, what about hell? Because it was hell on earth to live in fear and silence.
Silence. And stigma, shame, and ignorance. There are so many reasons why we don’t know how to discuss childhood sexual abuse. But excuses aren’t good enough.
It’s time for Black Christian women survivors of father-daughter incest to know that we are seen, heard, acknowledged, and believed.
It’s time for our faith to be reconciled with a God who allows sin and evil to exist. And while I have been aided by therapy, diet, prayer, meditation, yoga, spin, my husband, my “framily,” and my work, This is Us has taken my healing journey to a new level.
This is Us is not for the faint of heart. If you do not want to activate the tear ducts the Creator gave you — well, there’s always Jayde Robinson’s hair tutorial. But, if there is any chance that you want a preface of the certain uncertainties of life, then this excellently cast, rivetingly written telegraphic offering is for you. My husband makes fun of me teasing, “Of course you love that show. All it does is make you cry!” What can I say? I love a good cry!
This is Us is a front row seat to humanity: substance abuse, addiction, identity, body image, perfectionism, regret, marriage, adultery, divorce, partnership, adoption, sibling rivalry, self-worth, self-acceptance, self-love… It may seem counterintuitive to watch a tv show in order to “meet” people, but in this digitally infused yet socially disconnected world, we rarely see behind the veneer of media (re)presentation. With the download of an app, you, too, can be a graphic designer. With the tap of a finger, you, too, can filter out imperfections. This is Us gives you all of the beauty and grit that comes along with being a human being.
My favorite trope that This is Us probes is parenthood. Jack and Randall Pearson and Toby Damon are alternative prototypes for fatherhood. (Note: Even though Toby isn’t a biological father yet, he suffered a miscarriage right along with his fiancée, Kate, who is also Jack’s daughter). Through the relationships these three flawed, but faithful men have with their daughters (and dogs), survivors of father-daughter incest can reimagine the possibility of fatherhood for themselves and (if they choose) for their future children (biological, spiritual, or otherwise).
For me, Jack, Randall, and Toby are a holy trinity, a trifecta of wholeness.
Jack is magical. The way that Jack dotes on his daughter, “Katie Girl,” as she struggles, like the majority of teenage girls, with body image and feeling unattractive. In a recent episode, Kate begs her father to stop seeing her. Quite literally, wants him to stop seeing her as beautiful because “no one else does.” It is crushing for Jack, but he puts her feelings first.
While Kate is recording her voice into a tape recorder for a music school audition (because she is not confident with her physical appearance, and thus, does not want to submit a video recording), Jack sneaks up on her with a camcorder. Kate’s dog notices Jack, barks, and the gig is up. Kate is pissed, but, once she calms down and watches the video her father recorded, her heart softens. And it’s not her voice that warms her. It’s her father’s face. He is looking lovingly, caringly, astonishingly proud of this teenaged creature that, somehow, he has the great joy of raising, protecting, and loving. She rewinds the videotape, over and over again, to watch her father admiring her.
As a survivor of father-daughter incest, this was completely unlike my own experience growing up. I learned to live in perpetual state of cognitive dissonance, torn between love and admiration for the man who paid bills and attended graduations, and fixed fear, wondering when his wandering hands would next excavate my prepubescent body.
This is why I seek refuge in Randall. Randall is divine. An amazing son, a phenomenal partner, and an incredible father. With a new job and foster child, Randall appears to have more demands on his time than he has the capacity to manage. When his elder daughter, Tess, is feeling devalued due to all of the newness in her father’s life, Randall assures her, “You’re the little girl that made my life somersault.”
This affirmation is a soothing balm. A balm that didn’t come from Gilead, but is still God-sent.
Black Christian women survivors of father-daughter incest deserve to not only be affirmed, but moreover, have their voices amplified. This is why I’m creating beautiful scars, an online platform for Black women survivors of male sexual violence, to learn how to get comfortable telling their stories. With a focus on Sistas who were or are in faith communities, we will engage in community and rituals to help shift us from silence to storytelling.
This is my calling — to empower Black women survivors to name and face their trauma, wrestle for reconciliation, and transition into transformation; and not just to transform themselves, but also transform the systems of oppression (religious, social, or otherwise) that perpetuate male sexual violence. If we don’t believe women who share their narratives of sexual trauma, we protect perpetrators. If we don’t equip our children with ways to possess their space, own their bodies, and assume their agency, we will continue to have children who fall prey to pedophilic hands.
This is not the time to talk about “forgive and let go” or “it happens to all of us.” This isn’t a generational curse — it’s generational silence. And if my faith has taught me anything, it’s that radical truth-telling saves lives.
So as I share my own story to help free others, I will look to the stories of this is us. I will find precious healing and meaning-making in the lives and beings of Jack, Randall, and Toby. I don’t know if the writers of This is Us anticipated to proffer healing, health, and wholeness to survivors of father-daughter incest. But, through art, they are co-creating new lives.
