Televising the Language of Sexual Aggression 

Years ago I believed the cotton-candy fiction that it was enough for incest survivors, child abuse victims, and rape victims to just tell someone your story.

After 8 years of practicing this advice on behalf of the victims of intimate crime, I can say it is not enough.

If you tell your story, you will be marginalized, ostracized, judged.

If you tell your story, little or nothing will happen to your abuser.

If you tell your story, you still might not be able to stop the abuse…

…ostensibly because it is more fiscally and emotionally economical to ignore abuse than to intervene.

Which is why the recent statements made by American celebrities Stephen Colbert and Bill Maher (about oral sex and incest respectively) are all the more transgressive.

In making these comments both men display a complete disregard for the position of  sex crime survivors and perpetuate the connection between anger and rape culture. 

Many of us were denied consent in this process. We did not watch either show but were nonetheless exposed without  consent to the barrage of media with explicit descriptions of comments laced with both anger and intent to shock and offend.

Shock is a function of trauma.  Our minds buffer traumatic events with shock. When we cease to be shocked by what is trauma-inducing, we allow these things to become commonplace, accepted.

Yet it is categorically unacceptable for men  of power and privilege to use their position in front of a national audience to transmit language that is verbally abusive and supportive of rape culture.

I understand that both Colbert and Maher disqualified protective language they would have extended to Clinton or Obama (and their daughters) because anger now fuels their discourse on Trump.

However in the process they have exposed a frat-boy, locker room mentality which not only has no place in intelligent dissent, it automatically signals to the already marginalized and disenfranchised victim of sexual crime-“you are not safe here.”

And that is shocking…or it should be.

A lexicon for grief

how many words for snow

how many words for rice or rain or storms

We humans and our specificity

Yet no words for listening 

Hearing you

Being there, holding on, loving you 

Looking into….

Oops!  Already well into 

Greeting card territory

When what a body needs is those…those

Ladies in the black organza 

Wailing in the streets.

Where are they?  When we need them so?

All those things we need them to

Do

Be 

Say, not say, feel

a new vocabulary 

Esperanto for grievers

Words for here I am with you (ret)

Just being here for you (ghurt)

You are not alone (hyop)

Breathing here with you (fppt…)

There are empty rooms and rooms for more

Make more. More for all the ways

I will be with you in silence

Letters strung together for the careful listener

Unspoken I am with you

Through the storm.

Thin (Fake news:real girls)

After the 911 call, the sirens, the knocked-in door.  After the 2-for-1 autopsy, the souping-out of ballistic shards in layers of mother, curls of child.  After the sewing up, the tissue samples, temporary storage in this antiseptic place. 

After this near-final totem of mother-and-child.

After all that

the cool and empty morgue fills with an emanation of light, softly cupped voices, perfumed flurry, fairy godmothers.  A little late she thought as they scooped and coddled the baby-little late she thought as they lifted her from the crook of each bent elbow, inexplicably washed and free of blood.  Here child, they murmur, try on this, try on that.  Blur of organza and tulle.

After the day she’s had she goes along with all the fuss. Come on, child, carriage is waiting!

And there they all are bippity, boppity, boop!  Apartment lot for courtyard, uncajolable vermin  with no intention of donning livery or pulling pumpkins.  No signs of princes.

Unfazed she realizes that even here, in the weird, magic-less limbo yonder, even here the grownups believe in magical fairytales..

which still end up 

doing no good for the real girls

Living then dying 

Alone.

Fake news for real girls

once there was a real girl

who (lucky for her)

Lived in a city with superhero dolphins

So when the humans she lived with began to

Bruise bones beneath skin

Pull out hair

Leave signs of trauma on shared walls

Well.. the

The magic dolphins of San Antonio 

leapt to action!

Circled the child

Nudged her to safety

with their silvery, bottle-shaped snouts 

Clicked and nodded their unequivocal attention to all

The days of her distress

Used their shear numbers to buoy her up

Brought her 

bits of fish and garlands of seaweed

And in an unanimous decision 

Ferried her to their own

blue, cool comparatively safe

Under-water-kingdom

far from the

city where these human mothers had

Failed her

Traveling Clothes

You wake up after

This utterly life-altering event

Dressed in your wedding clothes!?

In a TSA-ish place

Long lines, blue gloves, weary travelers

Only the music is surprisingly good

Break-up songs

Break up songs for people

You did not actually want to

Break up with 

Break up songs for old bones

Rough joints 

The fear of falling

But also the grandkids

And the possibility of

that elusive die-in-your-sleep-ending

Standing in line 

Somewhat dazed because the

Last thing you remember was planning

This church thing 

Windy road…some singing in the van 

The trip Home is always just

A normal day

But getting there-

heartbreaking

Like the confusion about light years

Just like the confusion over light years-

Unit of time?  Unit of distance?

Grief is more than ordinary synonyms

Loss, sorrow, mourning.

No, grief is a place you go sometimes

Sorta like a cruise or a bus tour, I guess

Or trip to a fancy casino

Only of course all the slot machines are empty and 

You have no stomach for the buffet.

At first you think

This trip will never end

But it starts to let up after

A very long time

Then, just when you thought you were home 

Safe, with your bunny slippers on,

You fish up

Back on that dammed boat, that bankrupt resort

And somehow your inability to escape this

All expenses paid vacation

Makes you weep, weep in the weird soulless light

Of this world of broken pronouns

Standing in for faces in a picture, once so vivid alive

Before the fall…before all the terrible falls

Crash into light years.

Not-so-clingy Mcguffin

What if losing you

were like nothing so much as

watching a child throw

an erstwhile boomerang

into a once-drowned field?

Even with the approximate knowledge of descent, I pace,

Shift aside the long grace

..shift aside the long grass…with my feet

Look for signs of you-markings like the body of

a coiled snake

Glint of color, perhaps

but you are lost out there

Needle-in-a-hay-field

And I tell them things to tell myself 

You are not a boomerang 

Even a boomerang is not always

a boomerang (when it fails to return across  the field)

Oh darling

Come back to me

in the end.