There is more than enough room to acknowledge everyone’s Pain
I recently posted an essay about violence and its many forms. The complexities of emotional, economic, political, and institutionalized violence as a means of control have horrific consequences. The results of violence are often generations of trauma and pain. My lens, which is that of a minority woman growing up with racism and misogyny, will forever be altered by MY experiences. It’s something no one should be able to negate, minimize, commodify, or dismiss. I won’t dismiss your pain and I will NOT allow anyone to dismiss mine. It is only through direct, open dialogue about the pain that America is feeling can we act constructively.
The idea of service and protection has been much on my mind lately. It has many forms but let’s first look at a long history of policing people. Policing people under the guise of service inflicts generations of pain, alienation, and distrust. That doesn’t just have to mean a man/woman with a badge. That could be a neighbor that feels the necessity to intrude or correct behavior that is considered unsavory. Your existence somehow offends them. The idea of community policing can’t exist when you don’t have any true sense of community or the people in it don’t trust you. Service means nothing in this context. That causes everyone involved pain.
What happens locally, happens nationally and globally. History is littered with war, rape, and circumstances that keep repeating themselves. I have found there is a national fascination in America with Military and Police culture. I think the US underestimates its influence, for good or bad around the world. There is a strong culture of hero worship here. Speaking out, like writing this article, is a form of treason true patriots will not accept readily. It is particularly offensive from a brown-skinned, ambiguous looking woman like me born in Canada. My love of my country, home, honor, or ideals are always open for discussion. My opinion, intelligence, and looks have all been used to discredit anything of value I might have to add to the conversation in the past. It is not until this past year that a real dialogue with any level of sophistication or nuance has presented itself. Either I play the race card or tow the line. There really hasn’t been much space for anything in between. That is a form of pain I accept, overcome, navigate, and endure.
I enjoy reading military history as much I revel in learning about world events. It expands my world view. Books like Lone Survivor, Red platoon, and the entire collection of Cornelius Ryan have broadened the way I think. I admire strength in all forms. I admire the men and women that overcome their pain and commit to a lifetime of service. Bonds born through pain and service are profound, I’m sure. The kinship and comfort of others who have shared in your pain must last a lifeline. I also know that these scars are sometimes insurmountable. This pain results in suicides, spousal abuse, depression, PTSD, divorce, and a lifetime of struggle to regain some semblance of normalcy. There are ghosts that haunt many that serve in our armed forces and law enforcement.
I have not personally felt the physical pain of assault, rape, physical abuse, or trauma of war. I have witnessed acutely, in friends and family the lifelong wounds of abuse on women and children. It is a different source of pain same results. For every thousand reported rapes, only five perpetrators are convicted. Lesser crimes like battery and robbery are more likely to end in convictions. Knowing that, I wonder why anyone would report their assault. The list of reasons individuals gave for not reporting rape follows:
- 20% feared retaliation
- 13% believed the police would not do anything to help
- 13% believed it was a personal matter
- 8% reported to a different official
- 8% believed it was not important enough to report
- 7% did not want to get the perpetrator in trouble
- 2% believed the police could not do anything to help
- 30% gave another reason or did not cite one reason — Rainn
Reading and writing that brings me heartache. What disturbs me the most is the thirty percent that cite no reason for reporting their sexual assault. Could that reason be the combined trauma of retaliation, guilt, and fear of victim-blaming, which is so prevalent the world over? There is currently a backlog of rape kits that have not been processed in America and even with the ‘MeToo’ movement, there is still a strong culture of victim shaming among those speaking out against sexual assault and harassment.
Living with that truth and all the trauma that comes with the physical act of being violated is brutal enough but the public, personal, and national denial of those wounds is beyond inhumane. The public gaslighting of being told to close your legs is a national denial of pain. It is a theft of humanity, it is a form of abuse, it is the clearest denial of a person’s rights.
It is pain I would argue that is it is infinitely more traumatizing than the wounds of war, particularly in cases that are reported and do not end in convictions. Comparisons make me a little queasy but I’m so sick of this public denial of trauma. No man, woman, or child should be denied the scars felt from the brutalization of such acts. Many people spend their lifetimes suppressing, channeling, or trying to overcome that pain. It is not for me to comment on, negate, or use as fodder because I choose to ‘see you’ as a full human being who has suffered more than I could imagine. I won’t indulge in the hero-worship of victimhood, or pity, or weaponizing of trauma. We share thoughts and experiences for truth, to learn, to evolve and to connect. Physical pain tends to elicit more empathy than emotional pain but I would argue emotional pain is a far greater burden to carry.
I acknowledge my first-world privilege. It was pure luck and the random event of my dad moving to Canada in 1952 that brought me to this moment. It allowed his family to have better opportunities than were available to him in India. Given that, and all that is happening in the world, it is very difficult not to see my children’s faces in the hundreds of impoverished children around the globe I’ve been lucky enough to meet. Forced poverty without social mobility is a death sentence in many countries. I can only empathize with what it’s like to see someone just like them have a platform and not use it on their behalf. More than half of the population of the world lives on less than $2.50 a day. I would hazard to guess that this number will increase over the next decade. While the world has achieved much success with extreme poverty in the past our narcissism will be our undoing in the future.
In America, I’m disgusted to say that approximately ten million children live in poverty, approximately 21%. In Canada, that level hovers around 15%. Without a commitment to raising their quality of life in nourishing communities, these kids will be lost. That pain is as much mine to bare as theirs. My kids will be forced to deal with the consequences of the choices we make today. There are no awards or accolades for the endurance of suffering nor should there be. It is all pain.
There is an accepted practice globally that forces women and particularly WOC into very narrow boxes. For me to succeed I must be impeccable. I must be articulate, flawless, camera-ready, sexual, smart but not too smart, strong but not too strong, desirable but not a whore. Any past transgression and heaven forbid, public display of anger can and will be used against you in the court of public opinion. I have to outperform men and white women to earn respect while theirs is an assumed right. The list is endless and these are standards no one could ever meet. Denying my innate nature, including my flaws, is a denial of the person that I am and capable of being. That is a lifetime of emotional pain and a pit that’s hard to dig out of. I often feel like we are not human beings anymore but brands offered up to be consumed on social media. Imperfections are beautiful to me. The rewiring of societal expectations is constant exercise and I can’t imagine what it will be like for my daughter and son. Moral prostitution for survival and likes does not appeal to me as a career path. I know it has caused some women a lifetime of pain. Smoke and mirrors are not the sound foundations of a society that strives for equity.
Finally, the demon that has possessed my mind for over a month now that I thought I had studied, understood, unlearned, and moved on from. Racism. The kind of generational trauma that is left in the wake of racism is felt in every corner of the globe. Cultural nuances, locations, historical legacies, dates, and names can be changed. Pain is pain. The consequences are always collective and will continue to cycle and bring us to this point again. The complexities and subtleties of racial politics are difficult to unravel.
I could weaponize my skin color and pain with story after story about racism, abuse, and stupidity but it will not help any of us move forward constructively. I’ve dealt with my shit, the shit of society, watching the public beat the dead horse, destroy themselves and regurgitate it again. Try something different. Truths need to be heard and seen and change MUST come. I choose to hold space for others as many have done for me. The beauty of first-world privilege and knowing my heritage is that I know there are ALWAYS people who have endured and overcome more. They have succeeded beyond all odds while having so little. I will always try to live up to those ideals. I no longer need to mask my pain because it does not define or bind me and it never will again.
The last month has been so heavy. I took a moment to laugh with my sister who I miss beyond words, in between tears, in a lifelong game of WTF? To lighten the mood let me show you how proudly naive I am and will always be. When I was young, I truly thought my future would look like this coke commercial. Feel free to laugh at me. I still do. So I’d like to buy you a coke, beer, sangria, glass of wine and say cheers one day…
======================================
I miss my mom’s cooking, Go forth break bread: Butter Chicken. You don’t have to buy all the spices. Patak’s curry paste will suffice as a base. Flavor with chili to your liking.
