When I can’t figure out what to say
I try to put pen to paper anyway.
Because the truth of the matter is that
my silence only protects the man I used to call dad.
No, these days we’re too grown to keep quiet
memorials buried inside me like a riot
that failed to ever organize and rise
up out of the tormenting lies;
the ones he told me and so did my mother.
Family loyalty above all else and others!
It’s what keeps the immigrant family afloat;
we’re taught to never speak up or rock the boat.
And on some level I get it to this day –
I’ll never know what it’s like to runaway
from a terrorist government right into familial obligation
to make something more of yourself than impoverished stagnation.
That’s the story of the women who birthed me;
the one of the man who raped me is also key
because I’ll never know what it’s like to live under
my grandfather whose anger boomed like thunder.
But I do know what it’s like to survive
violent attacks from the ones tasked at keeping me alive
and being told to hold dear all the terror.
Being youngest, made me especially the bearer
of dark secrets turned pretty by all my compliance.
You see, my sister chose young the path of defiance,
but that only made her a perfect target.
We were fucked, no matter how you sliced it.
I was too pretty, too docile and put together
for teachers, doctors, caretakers to bother
ever wondering if there was truth in my timid confessions.
They each chose instead to leave the learning of hard lessons
to the classroom of the violent home I could never escape –
the place where I learned that there’s no love like rape.
You see, it’s much easier when you hold all power
as an adult, hoard it up and completely devour
innocent brown bodies of forgotten children,
than step in and risk your neck to protect them.
That’s what they did to my little brown body
when they said bruises and fear weren’t inflicted by daddy.
It’s such a chilling thing to think
that you could be so close, so just on the brink
of being saved from the stuff of pure nightmare,
escaping what most would never dare
to imagine outliving, outlasting.
The most dreadful casting,
my family of origin, darker than I’ll ever bring to light
because nobody in this room could survive such a fright.
But I did, and I’m fully enraged
by the ones who will leave here unfazed
thinking my story is unlike that of kids today-
after all, only demons could go so astray!
But I’m here to call out your denial,
because the ones who should also be on trial
are not just the ones who birthed and raised me, their daughter,
but the ones who to help me just couldn’t be bothered.
Take it from me, the pedophiles who could do
such unspeakable acts to my children and yours, too,
are the friends, family, acquaintances you collectively refuse
to without question destroy and remove.
Instead, you place greater value
on keeping face and keeping dark what is true.
You remember the needs of the raper
before you ever believe children who cry danger!
I cried a lot; I’ll be honest I knew from an early age
I’d die alone in that family, take our secrets to the grave.
So, I’m not sure now what’s more shocking –
that I’m alive or that I’m even up here talking.
Because the truth is for most of us called survivor,
we often live on in the shadows of our traitors.
If we’re lucky enough to live past
the rape and bloody wounding we learned to outlast
we learn also that our bodies and words
are not worth protecting or believing anymore.
So, we stay silent; sometimes even caring for
the ones who gave us our unwanted violent lore.
So, as unbelievable as it is,
I’m speaking now to tear down the myth
that terrors you’d rather not confront
if I may be so blunt
cause scars for which you are also at fault
there’s many ways to indirectly perpetrate assault.
Because what happens when your refuse to say rape,
when you walk away from this stage in utter dismay
that a bitch so foul mouthed and enraged
would dare to so directly put on display
your apathy, your inability to stand up,
to call abuse and violence in the name of love
exactly what it really is: no more
than the stuff of the rapists the came before
you, and me, and our grandparents;
the ones who gave us our legacies of violence,
the ones we pass on if we’re unwilling to look
into our own dirty mirrors and ask what took
us so long to see
that rapers like my father are no different than you and me
if we don’t unlearn that having power
is no excuse for causing those in our care to in fear cower.
That’s right, if you walk around using intimidation,
leave your entitlement left unchecked cause of your station,
yours are the hands that help stow and carry
a darkness into the future we should bury.
And if you’re one the few left still sitting here
refusing accountability, let me make it real clear,
the violence you let out lives on like an echo
every time you tell a hurting victim to just let it go.
Maybe what we should start offering in its stead
are questions that with curiosity are led,
so that we learn how to help victims shoulder;
let the pain of others to us be the molder
of a better version of our integrity;
let that be what guides our sense of community,
so that we stop building buldings that look so lavish.
Caring more for appearance is so fucking tragic
when we’re called by creator and nature
to build futures free of unspeakable torture –
the kind that lies hidden beneath the facade
of all you’re primed to praise and applaud.
You’ve lost your way if you think my plea is irrelevant.
We’re all guilty of excusing the violent
ways we put each other down;
it’s written all over this god forsaken southern town.
My point in all this going on and on is to call
you forward with all the gall
I can muster on my first open mic night
and ask you simply to do what is right.
Stop leaving the voiceless alone in their fight;
bring your own darkness into the light.
Lean into accountability
to walk and speak gently,
especially to those in our care;
remove violence from all we revere.
Save retribution and unspeakable acts
for the fuckers who would rather redact
the flashbacks of those, who like me, made it out
despite turned backs and adults in power who doubt
that a child so tiny and pure
could be telling the truth of all they endure.
Don’t be like them, so blind to your own blindness.
Seek above all else, parenting with kindness.
Leave bruises and fear for other makers,
lest like a raper you also be taker
of what isn’t yours just because you carry the burden
of feeding and clothing small bodies called children.
Being mom or dad will never give you the right
to metaphoric or literally beat them into the desires of your sight.
And if you’re childless still like I am,
you’re still called to be as defiant
and stand up to the terror of a culture that would
leave tiny victims to clean up their own blood.
The way you help us stop repeating
a past filled with emotional and physical beatings
is vowing to be the one who separates –
no longer letting violence and love collaborate.
I’m afraid I’m known for being long-winded –
character flaw gifted by blows from my kindred.
But I promise I’m almost done.
Let me boil it all down to one
fine point.
Like oil, let me anoint
this simple and smart
query onto your heart…
Ask yourself…
In what ways can I soften and slow
And in this way let real love out of me flow?
Parker Stillwater 