On Speaking & Healing
It’s bittersweet sharing hard memories in public.
I say this because I think often about my mom. I never want her to feel bad or guilty. As a mom myself and having an extensive knowledge about my mother’s story, I know that she did the best that she could. She was and is an amazing mom and my stories, my suffering, the challenges I faced in my teen years, these are all part of my journey and there’s no doubt that I am what I am, I am where I am, because of it all, the good and the bad.
Every opportunity I have to speak about what I went through brings me a piece of healing. However, last Saturday, during the Abortion Access Rally, I felt like a big piece of this puzzle, the puzzle of healing, was completed. All the times I thought about making this story public, real public, I wasn’t able to follow through. I can’t pin point one reason. I guess it has to do with fear and indirect/direct shame. What if he confronts me? Sues me? What if I make my mom sad? Why can’t I let this go?
The reality is: this is part of my story. It will never go away.
When my friend Ha’Ani asked if I would like to speak at the Rally to represent AAPI voices, I immediately said yes, thinking only about representation. Representative Anna Eskamani reached out to me with details and a few days later I started thinking about my speech. I scanned my brain for information on Women’s Rights. Powerful phrases, quotes, affirmations, “do I have any numbers or statistics stored in my memory?” Nothing came up. Again, I thought to myself, “this will not be a general speech, this is going to be about the one thing you’re an expert in: your own story.”
I spent a couple of days accessing memories of when I was 16, 17 years old and reprocessing them, which gave me chills.
Writing it was hard and the combination of words didn’t make sense at first, but eventually, it took shape and meaning. I wasn’t able to memorize a single piece though. Reading it was nauseating. I told myself it would be okay to just read it.
Until the last hour I thought about giving up.
After all, I wasn’t bringing any academic research or statistics. I’ve never talked about this issue. I’ve never volunteered in this specific field. I know so little about this topic. “Ladies and gentlemen, the infamous imposter syndrome knocking on my door one more time.”
When I arrived at the location, I saw Anna talking to her team with passion and energy, as people arrived from all directions carrying signs and wearing protest t-shirts.
I went to the side of the podium where the speakers were going to meet and saw Rebecca Desir from the Black Health Commission. She and I had collaborated in projects before and it was a relief to both of us to know that we were nervous and feeling slightly unprepared for speaking to a crowd that size.
Over a thousand people took space in front of Orlando City Hall and minutes before we took our place, I asked Rebecca if I could read my speech to her. She listened and said that what I had was powerful, then she hugged me, and we walked with the other speakers to the podium.
The energy was amazing. I tried finding familiar, friendly faces but I couldn’t find any. For a moment I felt lonely. Where were all my friends? I saw kids and families and thought if I should have brought Mel and Matt with me. I shook these thoughts off and concentrated in the speakers and the reactions from the crowd. It was incredible!
When my time came, I felt ready. However, as I reached the end of the third paragraph, I choked up and my whole body started shaking. I could barely hold my phone. I could barely hold myself together to be honest.
I knew I had to power through but I had no idea I’d get extra fuel from the women standing behind me and the women in front of me. Rebecca came to me, then Anna, then all of the speakers.
At that moment I knew I didn’t have to ‘power through’, I was being held and I was allowed to be free, vulnerable, shaky, teary, broken up voice, my broken and mended heart at display... it was okay. Held and free. I want to hold on to this sensation forever.
May we all be held and free.
After the speaking session was over, we marched and chanted. Streets were closed and we took all the space we wanted as we shouted for the entire city to hear us.
Bans off my body. No justice, no peace.
Here’s what I shared:
Abortion Access Rally
by Thali Sugisawa
I’m a mom. My daughter is 10 and it’s been a great journey because it happened at the right time, with a great partner, when I was stable and healthy.
However, when I was 17 years old, I found myself in an abusive relationship. My first boyfriend was physically aggressive multiple times. I’d tell my mom I had gotten the bruises he left in my arms during PE class playing soccer. It was awful and I was so ashamed. I couldn’t bring myself to end it or report it.
One day, during that relationship, I thought I could be pregnant and that was the first time I thought about ending my own life.
Without access to therapy or any mental health support, not because of financial circumstances, but because in my culture, being Japanese Brazilian, I knew at a very young age as an Asian-Latina girl that I’d be better dead than pregnant in my teen years.
With no access to legal abortion where I grew up, I’ve seen girls take and insert trafficked pills in their bodies and almost bleed to death. I saw them risking and ruining their bodies in clandestine clinics. I saw their families reject them and their babies altogether.
I saw the loneliness and the trauma of not being able to choose a safe solution for our own bodies. I actually considered my boyfriend’s offer. He said: “well, what if I just punch you really hard in your belly?”
Within a few days, back in 1999, I discovered that I was not pregnant, but the memory, the sensation, the ideas on how to end my own life haven’t gone away.
Today I’m a mom. I’m an advocate for Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. I’m a Nonprofit professional, a woman, a sister, a friend, a partner asking you to take a stand. A stand that is more than sharing posts on social media. It’s about helping women and girls have the access they need to keep living and thriving. To educate and empower them. To follow their hearts and gut. At their timing. To follow their “Knowing”, as Glennon Doyle calls the divinity within each one of us.
Today we say no — no more to men ruling our bodies and deciding what is best for us. Not in our relationships, not in our families, not in our cultures, and definitely not in any sphere of government.
Thank you.
