I rode my bike to campus this morning with tears streaming down my cheeks. Tears of pain and rage. How can I explain? I was heading to a meeting with a colleague. We are working together on a project that will bring women whose identities have been fragmented by disruption, war, movement across borders, together in the same room to tell their stories. I see I’ve used the word together twice in that last sentence. I know it’s poor construction, but my subconscious knows what it’s talking about. As I biked in this state of flaming fury across the park, uncontrollable tears streaming down my face, what I wanted, what I felt would heal me or give me hope, would be to come together with other women and do something meaningful. When I arrived on campus and confessed my state of emotional disarray, my colleague told me that she believes what was staged in US Congress yesterday was deliberate and calculated — to cause pain. They put a woman’s history of pain on display so they could show us — this doesn’t matter, we have the power. We’re going to install this angry, self-pitying, credibly accused sexual assaulter to a position of almost unimaginable power over you and your bodies, and your stories do not matter.
I almost can’t type these words for the rage that is coursing through my body, causing my hands to shake.
Has any woman come to adulthood without having been, at some point (or many points!) in her life, treated as an object, a body, to be mocked or admired or possessed or controlled? Has any woman come to adulthood without having been patronized, sexualized, diminished, or ignored? Has any woman not struggled to find the perfect script, the words she must speak and the role she must inhabit if she is to be taken seriously, if her story is to be believed—only to realize that in fact, for her, there is no perfect script. No perfect script exists, just a series of scripts and roles designed to be turned against her.
What does this do to us, collectively?
It’s gaslighting at every turn. We want to say, but it’s better now—it’s better now! And isn’t it? Girls can be anything they want to be! Dads can look after their kids without receiving medals of honour for their efforts! Canada’s foreign minister is a formidable woman!
And yet. And yet. Is it better now? If a man credibly accused of multiple sexual assaults can be president? If all you need to get onto the Supreme Court is an in with the old-boys in Congress?
Who are we kidding?
I heard about a group of women who decided to go out into the streets of Washington DC yesterday and SCREAM. That’s about right, I thought.
I want to scream. I might even do it. But after that, it’s fuel. Fury as fuel. Whether it’s in small acts or large, I’m going to keep burning down the patriarchy, this rotten system that’s so insidious it makes us think that a man’s rage is “passionate” while a woman’s is “hysterical.” Let’s burn down colonialism while we’re at it, and white supremacy. And if these systems prove temporarily fire-proof, I’m not giving up. I’m going to take my tiny flame and light a bunch of candles and put them in all the windows of my house. I’m going to burn my energy to make space for all the stories that need to be told, that aren’t being told. I’m going to make space for creativity, because it will heal us like nothing else. To know that we are creative beings is healing in and of itself. To experience our generative selves is healing.
I’m going to model the shit out of what I want to see in the world. Can’t we be the change, be the change, be the change? Let’s do this! Let’s pour our energy and time into bringing people together to make something together. Together. Together. Doesn’t matter how small. The whole family sitting around the table for a meal counts. A soccer team of girls huddling to cheer each other on counts. Two colleagues meeting in an office to dream of using our talents to make something happen counts. It all counts. I know you know this too. Imagine what we are going to do; recognize what we’re already doing; remember what we’ve already done.