You drove home
One more drink?
We talk theology
Passion rises as we kill our god
Minds expand as the night wanes
Falling into one another
I go to kiss you on your cheek
Your head turns
Ecstasy began
It was a dream so good
Better than it’d been in a long time
The sharp morning light
Cuts into my head
But your shadow
Still laid inside me
I open my eyes to kiss my husband
But you were there instead.
When I was in seventh grade I was on the cross country team. Competition was awful, but running was therapeutic. Our practice was after school just like the football teams. There were four seventh grade football teams, and three eighth grade teams, so something close to a 100 adolescent boys in unstoppable gear. They were armored compared to my wind shorts and running tank.
One time a circle of them came up, surrounded me, closed in on me. They started grabbing me. I kept spinning and trying to hit them, scratch them, anything. Their suits and gear made it impossible for me to cause pain- they just laugh at me. I try to join in the laughter, pretending that I wasn’t terrified, but I could feel my mask slipping.
Other students stood outside the circle, some encouraging their behavior yelling, “get her”, some watching silently. I could see other girls engaged their own cruel flirting games.
Finally Ben Collins* came up and broke up the circle. He was big for his age and in my math class. He told them to leave me alone. I thanked him, he looked disappointed and asked, “Why do you let them do that?”
A shift happened inside of me that day.
* I changed the name to protect the person who did this.
Heavy with pleasure
I fall transfixed
Melting into the billowing pillows.
Your scent lingers over me.
I wrote this after having sex with my boyfriend.
When people tell me that there’s no such thing as sexism, misogyny, or racism any more- or even that we live in a post-racial world I think about my education.
I think about how in elementary school we had to learn about the local tribes and do a big project in which I dressed up in an outfit as best as my mom could recreate to be close to the Caddo tribe as she could. I did a little diorama of what their village might have looked like based off of drawings in text books, and even made some kind of flat bread that was similar to something they might have eaten. But no where in my research at ten years old did I come across how they were driven to that area because they were trying to escape the white people’s expansion. Yet a quick google search tells me that today. (yes I’m old so no the internet wasn’t a thing when I was in fourth grade, or at least not to some one of my socioeconomic standards.)
I think of black history month, where we would read the drinking gourd, and primarily focused on the underground rail road, and how Harriet Tubman was a hero, who I loved because she was so tough she even would hold a gun to her travelers if they thought about going back( I don’t know if that’s true or legend) . And then we learned about Fredrick Douglass and later W.E.B Dubois, about Martin Luther King Jr., but Malcolm X was never mentioned. George Washington Carver was always a favorite to do projects on, because you could always bring some sort of peanut-butter featured snack.
But when it came to slavery in america, and the trail of tears, it was more or less, it happened and it was bad. Not a lot of detail went into it. I watched 12 Years a Slave and sad to say that I learned more from that movie than I did in school or on my own. When we talked about Abraham Lincoln, he was always painted in a light of a savior. Even though there was the whole 3/5ths law that we kinda pointed out but didn’t put much lecture time into, nor did we talk about Jim Crow. The closest we came to it was reading Maniac Magee in fifth grade and in junior high we read to kill a mocking bird. (Later in high school we read I Know Why The Cage Bird Sings, Black Boy,and I read Black Like Me which my father had some very upsetting things to say about, but that’s another thing entirely.)
My point being that we didn’t read a variety of authors. When I think of the words, “coming of age” I think of a white boy. That’s the first thing that pops into my head. But at my high school, there were many people of color. Honestly POC might have even been the majority in some classes. And there certainly were many girls, but when we talked about a coming of age story, it was always a white boy. I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings is a coming of age story of sorts, and so is Rubyfruit Jungle (though I understand why, at a conservative school in Texas we didn’t read Rubyfruit) Any way my point is that there wasn’t any investigation to multiple points of view in my early education, I suppose there was a little discussion in some classes, the first one I remember, was around that book Maniac Magee. And my teacher ended up saying some very racist things about how white people were more advanced in general. And I was confused by that but then did notice that pretty much every single person in that class was white or could pass. And honestly I don’t recall any other discussion on race, pretty much until I got into college, and then again, it was more a revealing of racism and bigotry this time particularly towards Catholics (with the implication of specifically POC Catholics). The most that we got was a few lectures on Liberation Theology (I was a theology major).
But even in my collegiate years, too often things were white washed. There was only one Black prof at my school, and he was an adjunct. It was weird going from a diverse public school to suddenly a predominately white college. I took diversity for granted, I didn’t think to consider that when choosing a college. (Though, I did have little choice in what school I went to)
When I think back on the teachers that I had: Four were POC, every single one of my english teachers were women, until senior year of high school.
And granted I know that a lot (everything) that we had to learn was based on curriculum but even so, I find it sad that education (liberal arts in particular) is so stifled and continues to promote the status quo (racism, oppression, marginalization) instead of inviting creativity, ingenuity, and breaking down world views, there needs to be more disruption, more rebellion.
Pretty much there should always be more rebellion.
This is a poem that I wrote for an online intensive that I did Called Digging Deeper Facing Self. That was probably one of the best ways I could have started the new year, so now today I am trying to keep up with the good habits that I formed, even if it took a few weeks to get back at it.
Landscape
Tall Piney woods
Sway full-bodied in the wind.
The shadow of steeples always near
The dull, low, murmur of the prison count siren.
A giant blowing into an old glass bottle
Day in, day out surrounded by walls
The forest
The church
And prisons.
Preachers and Teachers are my people
Baptists as far back as I know
Proud people
Godly folk
Not ashamed of the twang in their voice,
Or the Bible that nuzzles up with the gun in the glove compartment.
Poor wandering preacher
A young wife who left school to fulfill her duty
Two small kids: boy, girl
Three hostages bound by holy matrimony.
How often was my father told to be a man,
As tears from pain welled in his eyes?
A small boy
Beaten, switched, belted, and probably worse.
Did Grandad quote scripture,
While he whipped?
Or did the demons of his past take hold
And his eyes glaze over
The way my father’s later would?
Did the churches know?
Were there whispers at potluck?
Is that why he fled?
Church to church,
Was help ever offered to the poor wife?
Or did she have to make the bed,
She chose to lie in?
Only the boy was beaten
But all were terrorized.
I wonder what advent was like in that house
What did the Christmas tree look like?
Did my grandma play piano and warble Oh Holy Night,
While my dad and aunt hung the ornaments?
Father was always warm on Christmas morn.
We’d eat the sticky buns my mom had prepared
Sometimes though I’d see sadness in his eye
He did his best to break the cycle,
I think.
Sometimes it’s hard to say that:
My sister, screaming, beneath his bare back
Him holding her with one arm,
And the ping-pong paddle
Breaking across her back.
Not all his demons were mastered.
I was so young;
My fear was born that day.
But Baptists are if nothing else,
One’s to forgive (on the surface at least)
Recommit to God
Atone, atone, atone for their sins
For all have sinned
Fallen short
Wanting, glory.
You don’t have to be re-baptized
That’s not strictly allowed
Once saved always saved
Whether you like it or not
So one day in Paradise
I guess I’m doomed to walk
Side, by side,
The miserable manipulative Abuser
That created my father.
I hate Paul. Paul is in many ways one of the first Christian theologians. I know that he’s considered scripture and all, cannon what not. But, let’s be honest here, a hallucination is not walking around with the guy you claim is god. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not back on the Christian band wagon, I’m merely stating that other people that are in the christian canon have a better claim to the words of christ, and god’s will and what not.
I hate paul. I said that already, oh I’m sorry, but I’m going to make myself clear. I. HATE. PAUL.
There are many, many reasons I hate Paul, but it wasn’t until recently that I had an epiphany as to why.
It’s pretty simple really. That verse Philippians 2:3 “Do not act out of selfish ambition or conceit, but with humility think of others as being better than yourselves. ” NIV, not that any of the other versions are better, they’re all a pretty shitty concept, really.
Here’s the thing. That verse, was POUNDED into my head, it was in the very core of my being. And I do not doubt that there was some infinitesimal amount that did have a positive effect, maybe. BUT. Consider this: if one grows up in an abusive environment, and is told by the one who is the source of terror, that you should consider other’s better than yourself. Others would include the one who causes terror. The abuser.
So, my dear friends, imagine then, how it is that you feel about yourself, when you realize logically (considering the situation) you are therefore, worse than those who cause you fear. You are worse than the ones who make you afraid that they might harm you, your pets, or others out of blinded rage, a rage which you have no idea what will set it off.
So if that person is better than you. What does that make you?
And I wondered why for so long I had no self worth.
One fine day in the final semester of my undergrad, my beloved gentle giant of a mentor called his wife excited to go teach the class he had always wanted to teach, told her he loved her, then fell to the ground, dead. I remember how appropriate it felt when the storm clouds rang for days after, but then how cruel it felt when the sun shone bright again.
I learned a lot about myself that day, that week.
In the end; death always survives. But life is always reborn.
Ugh. I’m just. I look at the work that I’m doing and one of my most recent ones, and all I can think is how disorganized it looks, how highschool it seems, seriously I feel like I am still just that angsty teenage girl. But that’s stupid and self blaming, and I know that I can do this, I have the backing of like a super legit artist, who’s one of my recommenders, so that’s awesome. But again when I look at everything, all I can think is why have I been so lazy, how am I not past this yet? Why is this so terrible? Why are those things so ugly. Even though whilst painting many of these things I specifically WANTED to make things that were ugly.That are unpleasant to look at. And then there’s the whole artist statement thing, and choosing which piece I want to be the “representative work”, and that needing to be all… ugh. I don’t know how to talk about my process with out sounding like a crazy person or talking about all the trauma that I’ve been through, but they don’t need to know that, I don’t WANT them to know those things off the bat. I don’t want them to know the extent of my PTSD, Bi polar, Depersonalization/relaztion disorders, or all the other “diagnosis” I’ve had. But if I don’t talk about at least some of that, I’m not talking about my work. And I have to talk about my work inorder to fill out the fucking forms. And I could just talk about my process, but it’s so intuitive it’s really confusing to put into words. I mean I literally prepare myself mentally to go to a place where I Remember what it feels like bodily. And then I’m like… but if that isn’t in the work, if that doesn’t come through then wtf? WTF? am I supposed to do? Seriously. I hate my life where I’m at right now, I ignore most of the things going on in my head, which makes me ignore the studio, which means I’m not making work, which means I’m not doing what I love, which makes me miserable.
I just… There’s only 16 pieces for this one portfolio and I have about 20 pieces to choose from. I thought I was good, I thought I was prepared I look at the statements at the questions asked, and I don’t understand.
How am I supposed to write a bio/artist/intent statement in 500 words? 500 words, seriously? That’s like a paragraph. I’m not a super concise person. My thoughts are not organized. I want to do this. I need to do this. But I don’t know if I can do this.
Abuse is owning some one. Abuse is doing whatever you want with some one or getting them to do it.
For this to happen here are some helpful tips:
Tear that person down constantly. Dash their hopes, belittle them, poke holes in their beliefs, tell them how their good qualities are their flaws
Then, put them on a pedestal. Tell them that their perfect, that you couldn’t live life with out them, tell them that you have all the power, that you can make any one do anything if you really wanted, all you had to do was open your legs. Tell them that you can’t help yourself around them. Tell them that they saved you.
Then, tell them that they’re too needy. Tell them that they don’t really have any friends, that their friends only hang out with them because you’re there. Tell them that you don’t even really care about those friends because you can just toy with them. Tell them that you make all the money.
Tell them that it’s their fault that you’re peeing on their clothes, while you were drunk. And then laugh about it later.
When they get angry tell them, remind them, that no one else would have waited as long. That you aren’t worth the wait. Remind them that all those other people would have left long before if they hadn’t gotten to fuck you. Remind them how that makes you such a good person.
The trick is to make that person an object. Strip them down till nothing exists except what you say exists. You have rolled them out, forged the cookie cutter, and pressed down. Now you have your perfectly shaped customized abuse toy.
My body lies broken
The surface, cracked,
And here I am putting the pieces-
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How to Imagine Sisyphus Happy: My PTSD life 