Worth A Read Yes Length 304 Quick Review Shónẹ́yìn tackles universal themes by exploring the interior lives of four Nigerian women through the secrets they keep in a conservative, polygamist family.
Lọlá Shónẹ́yìn creates a horrifying family dynamic in The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives, which seizes and disgusts the reader in equal parts. Reading it is akin to watching an imminent trainwreck but in a fun way. Baba Segi, the patriarch, brings home Bolanle, educated wife number four, who shifts the family dynamic so drastically that she unintentionally reveals a well-guarded family secret.
Shónẹ́yìn is able to explore universal tropes and themes with grace and humor while grounding the plot and characters in a highly specific setting of a Nigerian polygamist family. Though I cannot relate to the setting having never been to Nigeria, in a polygamist marriage, or being a Nigerian woman, I can so clearly relate to the experiences and struggles of the characters. Shónẹ́yìn is adept at creating ubiquity in a situation that does not overtly read as relatable.
Baba Segi does not care about the family dynamic or his wives as long as things carry on peacefully in his presence. A flatulent and hefty man, he is completely oblivious to his wives’ lives and relationships in the living room and in the bedroom. He prefers to be catered to like the savior he sees himself to be. Yet everything he has so carelessly thrown together crumbles when wife number four cannot produce a child with her broken womb no matter how vehemently he thrusts.
Society often perpetuates the importance placed on women as glorified human incubators, and Shónẹ́yìn allows this theme to blatantly sing through each page. Yet it cannot be any more obvious than in the small moments of the book. Baba Segi’s wives are only allowed to sit in a comfortable chair in the living room once they become mothers; if they do not produce children, they are relegated to a stool or the floor. These small details reinforce the world these women live in. Their humanity is intrinsically tied to their children, so they keep secrets to survive.
Sexual politics are omnipresent within the family as each wife grapples for attention and power. With distinct stories and secrets, the wives are drawn to the refuge of Baba Segi’s home. Bolanle stands apart as the childless, educated wife. Some are cruel, some are kind, they have all seen struggle, and Shónẹ́yìn humanizes their cruelty. The depictions ultimately lead to a representation of how vicious and cyclical the patriarchy’s determination is to confine and silence strong and resilient women, as they all are in their own unique ways. The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives elegantly sums up the reality for so many living, breathing women, “The choices we have to make in this world are hard and bitter. Sometimes we have no choices at all.” Women are often forced to survive by working within the constraints of choices other people make, and these wives are no different. Their actions and cruelties are a means of self preservation and survival.
Rape is one of those awful yet universal themes. It happens. A lot. Rape, assault, and sexual violence has been an eternal part of the female narrative (though it does not solely affect women); Shónẹ́yìn tackles it without hesitation. From the act to consequences, rape is as much a character of the novel as the wives. One of the most poignant moments, for me, is when Bolanle opens up to her mother and is met with, “”You couldn’t have been raped. No daughter of mine could have been raped. That is not the way I brought you up.”” instead of comfort or empathy. One of the more difficult passages to read, it embodies the fear and reality so many rape survivors endure when telling their truth.
A poet with three published collections before, Shónẹ́yìn’s debut novel, The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wivesis a revealing read that balances literary fiction with popular success. I highly suggest it to anyone looking for something riveting, moving, and still meaningful.
Memorable Quotes “You see, when the world owes you as much as it owes me, you need a base from which you can call in your debts.” “I reasoned that if I strengthened my thigh muscles, it would make it difficult for anyone to force my legs apart like they did in my dreams.”
bisous und обьятий, RaeAnna
Buy Amazon || Buy Book Depository Shop the Post [show_shopthepost_widget id=”4596674″]
Title: The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives Author: Lọlá Shónẹ́yìn Publisher: WilliamMorrow Copyright: 2010 ISBN: 9780063072329
I read Kate Chopin’s The Awakeningtwice in high school, but I haven’t touched it since.
Normally, I write book reviews, but this is more of a book forward, a book impression, a book remembrance. I read it for the first time and fell deeply in love with this classic, feminist triumph of a novel, but I’ve been scared to return. As a young woman, it came to me while I was in the midst of my own battle against the patriarchy, man, and family for freedom of self. My uncertainty to open its cover once again is out of fear. Fear of what I will find it would do or maybe what it wouldn’t do. Would it mean the same thing it did to sixteen year old me as it does to twenty-nine year old me? Not only am I stronger and more broken, I have been of this world longer with its misogyny, laws, patriarchy, double standards, abuse, and more. I’m also a more experienced reader. So of course The Awakeningwon’t mean the same to me today as it did a decade ago, but I was scared it would mean less.
Literature with a capital ‘L’ arrived on my bookshelf when I was eight. I was an overachieving priss of a child; children’s literature did not speak to me. I love Literature because I didn’t get it right away. It demanded an understanding of the vocabulary, history, culture, and more in which it was written and set. I yearned for knowledge. Literature made me do the research; in a time before Google and the internet, it was an interactive experience as I read one book surrounded by a dictionary and encyclopedia. As much as I loved Literature, I craved more. I craved seeing myself on the page. Even as I kid, I knew I was not being represented in the pages I so loved. There is very little written by women. More exists than meets the eye, but even as an educated reader and researcher, finding older works by women takes effort outside of Dickenson, the Brontës, Alcott, and Austen. It was years before I found Woolf, Morrison, Eliot, Shelley, Wollstonecraft, Duras, Wharton, Cather, Plath, Lee, Stein, Beauvoir, Angelou, Gaskell, Lennox, Stowe, Hurston, and of course Kate Chopin. All of whom have shaped me as a reader, writer, and most importantly as a woman. Chopin was my gateway into a world of writers writing about me, my plight, my pain, my existence in a world not meant for me. Even a hundred years later or more, the words these women wrote represented my place in the world. Chopin wrote in the late nineteenth century, and she rocked society with her daring works about the internal and external lives of ordinary women daring to live.
The Awakeningwas the first book I ever felt a deep connection with. I was a young reader beginning to understand the importance of Literature, representation, feminism, activism, and more. I was starting to come into my own as a thinker with a vagina. I was beginning to grasp at what it meant to walk this earth as a woman. A lover of Literature and history, I was probably more aware than most fifteen year old girls of women’s historical lack of autonomy. Historical being the key word. I did not feel equal, and I wanted equality, but I knew it wasn’t mine. Even with my fundamentally better understanding of history, I had yet to grasp the whys or the hows or the history or the culture or any of it. I just had a feeling. This book came into my life when my life was changing from bad to worse to what I would eventually title “Hell”. As I read The Awakening, I was struck by the realization that I knew very little had changed for women. I could wear pants like the boys, but I would never be like the boys. I was a girl. America had never been the land of the free.*
Four months after I experienced my first sexual assault in the lunch room by a school administrator. Four months after I told my mother. Four months after she told me to keep quiet and see if it would happen again. Three months after my first kiss at the Winter Formal because my mother told me I had to or I wouldn’t have a boyfriend anymore. Three months after I realized no one would protect me. Two months after I realized I was only worth something connected to a man. I was a freshman in high school. I was experiencing my first tastes of being a woman.
It was the summer I turned sixteen. I had new boyfriend because that’s what sixteen year old girls do. But I had no faith in men. No faith in women. No faith in family. No faith in people. I felt utterly alone. With no one to protect me, to understand, to hold my hand, I was accepting that to be a woman was to be alone.
What I had read in history was not at all in the past. Nothing had changed really. Being a woman meant being an object for male consumption. Some took gently. Some did not. It would be another year before I learned how much they could and would take without permission, without waiting, without caring I was human. And if I turned to women, they would not protect me if they believed me at all. My mother taught me that.
At sixteen, the next seventy years looked like a lonely, losing battle. What was the point? Did all women feel this way? Why weren’t they do anything about it? I was years away from understanding the nuance of internalized misogyny and all the culture shit we are taught to swallow, believe, conform to, and uphold as women. But I already knew existing like that in this world was not for me, and so I already had a few suicide attempts under my belt. I had very little desire to live even before the first of many men took what he thought was his right.
And then Edna walked along a Grand Isle’s beach and dared to yearn for more than motherhood and wifedom. We were separated by a century. We were separated by experience. We were separated by so many things, but I understood her. She didn’t save my life, but I felt seen. I felt validated.
I reached out to my fellow bibliophiles asking for their opinions on The Awakening, on Edna. The few who had read the book hated Edna. They found her shallow and selfish. The ending was completely unrealistic. What woman with a life of leisure would walk into the ocean? What wife would leave her husband? What mother would choose death over her children? To me, it was the perfect ending to her story. I was frustrated by the vitriol. How could they not understand? She was alone and desperate, leading a meaningless life.
The Awakeningwas the first time I saw a female character with any emotions or internal life I could comprehend and identify with; probably because she was the first woman written by I woman I had read. Edna was the first, but many have come after her.
My concept of womanhood has evolved over the last thirteen years. I am no longer the optimistic sixeen year old, but I’m no longer the devastated sixteen year old. All is not completely lost, though I have a dismal view of the present and near future. My world view is complex, and I know I am on a lifelong search for my place and role in society. Not all share my view of womanhood, nor should they. But I will continue to fight for every woman. As a twenty-nine year old, I know my life has seen challenges many have never and will never seen, but it has also been blessed in many ways. Pain is not a competition. I acknowledge my many privileges and disadvantages. Pain is not the only thing I have known, but pain is still central to my experiences as a human and as a woman.
Kate Chopin, The Awakening, and Edna gave me validation. Someone understood. 122 years ago, a woman knew the pain I knew and dared to want more.
I am not going to review The Awakening. For so many reasons, one of which being: I don’t want to. Another being: It would be a very long review. My fears ended up being unfounded. The book means more to me as a grown ass woman than it did as a teenager. I found the nuances, narrative, and storytelling far more enthralling than I had thirteen years ago. Not only did I fall more in love with Edna, I fell out of love with her husband, paramour, and female companions. What had seemed like a love story years ago is anything but today. It isn’t romantic but deeply depressing. I could identify the tragedies with the eye of an analyst and the heart of a woman and the mind of a partner. I saw the craft in Chopin’s work and the soul in her story. The Awakening spoke to me in new and more powerful levels.
Edna is very much alive.
bisous et обьятий, RaeAnna
Shop the Post [show_shopthepost_widget id=”4446088″]
*This is being written from the perspective of a white woman as I look back at the views I had as a teenager exploring my own place in this world as a woman through the knowledge, resources, and books I had at my disposal. It would be several more years before I learned the term “intersectionality” and began applying it to my own life, views, feminism, and activism. Up until that point, feminism and racism were uniquely separate issues because that is all I knew. Black women suffered racism. Black women suffered feminism. I wanted equality for everyone: men and women, Black and white and Asian and Hispanic and everyone in between. I was more apt to identify as a humanist than a feminist. My fundamental beliefs have remained the same, but my terminology has expanded to better encompass and express my desires for intersectionality, equity, and advocacy.
Being a woman in the world can be exhausting, but it’s nice to see the reality and complexity of our existence reflected in literature like The Learning Curveby Mandy Berman. | Jumpsuit | Sandals | Earrings |
Worth a Read Eh Length 400 Quick Review An exploration of womanhood, friendship, sexuality, loss, and greater meanings of loyalty and sisterhood.
In theory, I like The Learning Curve by Mandy Berman. In reality, I found it relatable but boring. The plot and characters failed to capture my attention even though it incorporates many of the elements I want and search for in a strong female driven narrative. A flawed diamond, beautiful but not worth it upon further inspection.
Told from the perspective of three women, The Learning Curvefollows the lives’ and internal struggles’ of Fiona, a grieving senior at Buchanan College, Liv, the girl-next door and senior at Buchanan College, and Simone, a mother, academic, and long-distant wife of a lecherous teacher at Buchanan College. These women lead drastically different lives, yet they intertwine and impact one another in expected and unexpected ways.
Two aspects of the novel stand out to me. Characters and the rape.
Often, authors choose for their characters to act in petty, childish, or irresponsible ways, which is rarely reflected in my own interactions with people. That being said, I have been witnessing a higher frequency of childish and catty behavior in my personal relationships, so maybe authors are doing a better job of portraying reality than I had previously imagined. Berman creates characters with sophisticated emotional interiors and allows those characters to interact with each other in mature and communicative ways. They don’t lack for differences in opinions, views, and communication styles, but the plot is not driven by immature women playing into the misogynistic stereotypes we’re so often given.
Rape is one of those topics people skirt. Authors employ it in a variety of ways. More often than I’d like, rape is portrayed poorly and even offensively. Sometimes, authors get it right. The Learning Curvedoes excellent work creating a rape situation that is often overlooked in literature and is rarely talked about in life. Fiona struggles with grief—after losing her younger sister—by drinking and escaping reality with various sexual partners. One night, she drinks and goes home with a guy. What starts consensually turns into rape. Berman calls consent into question. Is it given once? Can it be taken away? Is it ongoing? What should be a part of sexual education and in the quotidian conversation about sex and consent is rarely in the conversation at all. Berman illustrates rape in a way that many authors would not choose because it’s gray, it’s tricky, and it’s emotionally charged. How many girls have found themselves in Fiona’s position? How many don’t call it what it is: rape? How many chalk it up to a bad night and pretend it never happened, while they deal with the trauma for years to come?
One of the most poignant moments in this inherently feminist novel is when Berman calls out English for it’s sexist nature. English is not a gender neutral language. Throughout the history and evolution of English, the “neutral” has always been “he” or of the male gendered pronouns and nouns. A lot of this has to do with the fact women have not been able to hold property, inherit, vote, have jobs or careers, be leaders, and don’t forget women have been considered property to be held by men. It’s more than a linguistic oops; it is a reflection and amalgamation of our society, culture, and history. Men are the de facto and women are hidden. Berman broaches a discussion of this sexist and exclusionary facet of English and how it is used without realization by men and women every day.
The book is riddled with grammatical errors of varying sizes. I can’t tell if the grammatical errors are narrative and character motivated… But I found it distracting. I would like to know where the copy editor was, what they were drinking, or a transcript of the conversations they endured.
The Learning Curvereally is an exceptionally well thought out book. I just can’t bring myself to love it emotionally, even though I do on a technical level. Though exceptionally thought out, I found it largely lackluster and forgettable the moment I put it down. Even in the middle of reading, I had to remind myself what was happening. I really wish I could say I loved it, but it fell flat for me. I definitely suggest it on so many levels because Berman calls attention to truly important topics and themes in women’s lives.
Memorable Quotes “Fiona wondered what it might be like for your ideas to be so valuable that other people would pay to read them, or would show up on a Thursday night, when they could be drinking or having sex or sleeping instead, to hear them.” “These days she wondered how people raised more than one child. Just one was a second full-time job.” “She was learning that attraction didn’t discriminate—that often, in fact, it bloomed in the most perverse of circumstances.” ““Complicated”: an adult code word for I don’t want to talk about it.”
bisous und обьятий, RaeAnna
Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository Shop the Post [show_shopthepost_widget id=”4392299″]
Title: The Learning Curve Author: Mandy Berman Publisher: Random House Copyright: 2019 ISBN: 978039958948
Today is a joyous, historic day. Joyous because the people spoke. Hatred was voted out of the Oval Office. Historic because the people chose a woman of color to lead us as Vice President. We chose change and progress, love and acceptance, hope and perseverance. We chose to strive for better, to embrace diversity in this country, to trust a woman with an office we should have been represented in a long fucking time ago.
If I am being incredibly honest, it’s not joy I’m feeling today but relief. The depth of which is overwhelming because tomorrow, I will wake up not having to suffer through the quotidian knowledge that the vitriol spewing Donald Trump is President of the United States.
I am not living under the delusion that when I wake up, the world of tomorrow is brand new. No, it is the same world as today. The fight is not over; it has just begun. Biden and Harris will not miraculously change the hearts of every man and woman who voted for Trump, who has turned a blind eye to systemic racism, who has decided police brutality is acceptable, who thinks the immigration policies of the last four years are humane, who has believed women are inferior, who has perpetually chosen to hate. In a world where information is more readily available than ever before, it is a choice to be ignorant of the devastating reality rooted in history, policy, and the heart of America so many people live in on a daily basis.
This is the world we live in. 74 MILLION Americans voted for Trump. Not just men. Not just white women. People from all backgrounds voted for Trump. 74 million Americans will not disappear or change their hearts and minds by tomorrow morning. Nope. They are still here. They are still our friends, coworkers, neighbors, family, parents. They are all around us, and it is our mission to show them a better world.
I believe in love and kindness and peaceful protest. My activism is fueled by loving those akin to myself as much as those who have different beliefs. In my heart, I believe love and kindness is the only way to change the world, but that doesn’t mean I don’t fight, I don’t call out ignorance, I don’t push boundaries, I don’t stand up for what’s right. It means I do it from a place of love. I also believe in anger.
I am angry. I am furious that Trump was elected in 2016. It didn’t come as a surprise, but it crushed my soul. I have spoken up in the past four years, and I have marched. Mostly I have read and listened and learned. I educated myself more deeply in areas I have been passionate about but lacked information. On a personal level, I was deeply devastated by Trump’s election. I have not spoken about my life as a rape survivor, a domestic abuse survivor, as a sex worker outside of a brief mention here and there. None of these define me, but they are an integral part of my identity, my career, my activism, my existence. Trump’s election cut to the deepest corners of my pain as a broken woman. This man fueled by hatred was elected to the most powerful role in this country after he proved time and time again that he was unworthy. I am angry because people I love voted for him in 2016 and again in 2020. They’re not bad people; in fact, they’re great people, but they searched within themselves and were still able to support a despicable man.
On Friday, January 20, 2017, I woke up at 3:43 in the morning in tears. I was filled with the need to write a letter to the man I have loved and looked up to my entire life. A man who is kind and loving beyond words. A man who voted for Trump. A man I call Dad. I have no idea who he voted for in 2020, and frankly, I have no desire to. Even if he did vote for Biden, it wouldn’t change my hurt. This is a letter I never sent. Instead it is a letter to my father and every father who voted for Trump. It is a letter to every man and woman I love who voted for Trump. It is a letter for every Trump supporter. It is a letter that is unchanged, and yet I stand by every word exactly four years later. Biden may have won, but 74 million people voted to reelect Trump.
Dear Dad,
I didn’t need to ask who you voted for. I already knew, but I asked anyway. I couldn’t validate my feelings without knowing for sure. Maybe it was hope that kept me from asking for so long, or I was delaying the depression that I knew would set in the moment you answered: Trump.
It’s there now and always will be. In every hug, laugh, kiss, kind word. You love me, I don’t doubt that. But your vote tells me something else. Whether you realize it or not, your vote showed me where I stand. I am not worth the same as you. Your tiny act of filling out one tiny circle with your one tiny voice as one tiny vote in a sea of other tiny votes is not tiny to me.
You are my father. You gave me half of my existence. I see you in the mirror and in my mannerisms. I am yours. I carry your last name and my face is recognizably yours. You were with me every day of my life for nineteen years. You watched my first steps, heard my first words, changed my diapers. You woke me up early to breakfast together before work and put me back to bed. You taught me long division and gave me my first coffee. You showed me what perspective is in art and life. You were at every dance and piano recital with words of encouragement. You watched band concerts and sat through cold football games to watch me in the marching band at half time. You were there at high school graduation and the real reason I walked at my college graduation. You have held my hand and shed tears in a hospital room. You celebrated my successes, but bought me ice cream through my failures and missteps. You chose to support me when you didn’t want to. You have been a part of my entire life. You were not an absentee father. You knew me. You raised me. I am your first born. As birthdays passed, your role turned from caregiver to being the person I wanted to emulate more than anyone in the world. You have been the hero, the guiding light my entire life, and I don’t think I can say that today.
I am your daughter; the only you will ever have. On November 8, 2016, you silently told me I am less than you, less than your son. My future looks different than yours or your sons. Going into the world tomorrow, I will face challenges and obstacles you or my brother have never and will never have to face. Because I am a woman. It shouldn’t matter but it does. My genitals affect my existence in this world, and your vote made that existence even harder.
Anger is a part of my soul. I am angry for so many reasons. I am irrationally angry that you couldn’t save me from pain men have put me through. With time, I will forgive you for not saving me in the past. I am familiar with the reality that it isn’t your fault, but you are my father. You were there, and I have the human wish that you could have just known something was wrong, someone was hurting me. You didn’t see. I hoped you would look in my eyes and see the pain, the pleas for help, the need to be saved, the desire to be believed. People talk about a parent’s intuition, but you didn’t have it all those days I was silently dying. You never saw the subtle signs as the little girl you watched dance around the house disappeared every time a boy you shook hands hit and raped me. I wish you could have seen all of those things in my eyes because they are your eyes. I am your daughter. I was hiding inside a body that looks like a female version of yours. I forgive you all of these things because I know it was not your fault; just like it was not my fault. Something I will have to continue telling myself everyday until the day I die hoping to believe it myself. You are not culpable for that boy’s actions or any of the other boys who came after. Men have hurt me in ways, I’m sure, you once prayed would never happen. But I carry their actions with me everyday as a permanent part of my psyche and history.
You didn’t know then. You had no way of knowing. You know now. I have started making a career fighting against the kind of men who hurt me, the kind of man who is being inaugurated today. I speak out against violence against women by using my story to create positive change. You know now; yet, you do not believe me.
You voted for Trump. You invalidated my struggle as a woman and supported every man who has ever hurt me. You normalized violence in an instant. With your one tiny vote you gave power to predators by electing a predator, a rapist to the most powerful office in this country. You helped make him a role model to little boys and young men. They will say, “Well, the President did it.” and “I’m just quoting the President.” Your vote made it even harder for me to get out of bed everyday because I always wonder if today will be the day I’m going to get raped again. Your vote told me it’s fine for men to act like your president. A man who thinks it’s totally fine for men, like my ex-boyfriend, college best friend, childhood friend, friend from church—all men you welcomed into your home—to take me without my consent because they are men, I am a woman, and they wanted me.
By voting for Trump, you showed me I am not equal to my brother in your eyes or my country’s eyes. My brother who has just graduated college, who has a better job than I will have for years to come if ever because not only have I overcome being a woman, I have overcome so many obstacles he will never face because our genders differ. I have to worry about employers seeing this to only question if I am a viable candidate, someone who can be trusted to not make claims about sexual assault or cause problems in the workplace. I am shamed for overcoming and surviving repeated rapes and violence instead of being lauded for my vulnerability, transparency, and fight for equity because I am a woman, and this is my plight. My brother and I are not equals in your eyes; your vote told me that.
Stories of how women prevent rape and assault circulate constantly when men should jut not be raping. I do not walk in fear to my car with keys entwined between my fingers. I do not call friends to chat on the phone so I don’t look vulnerable. I do not ask a friend who is both trusted and male to walk me home. I do not wear pants instead of skirts. I do not back down when men intimidate me. I do not stay in well lit areas. I do none of these things because I am not scared of the worst thing that could happen to a woman. I am not scared because I have already been gang raped. What else could be worse for me? It happening again? It already has happened on repeat for years. I am not scared of men because they cannot bring worse. And being murdered sounds like the most uninterrupted sleep I’ve had in over a decade. You do not know these things because you are a man, and you don’t live them. You could know them, but you don’t believe me when I tell you. Instead you choose to label me a liar, troubled, in need of help. All I need is a world that believes I deserve to be treated like a human.
Your vote says everything to me because of who you voted for. Even if I agreed with all of his policies (which I absolutely do not), I cannot overlook his humanity. Or lack thereof. You voted for a man who treats women worse than the dirt he walks on. He says it is his right to grab me by the pussy. Well, someone did.
Someone did for years, and several men after him did too. Some stopped at just grabbing, but others took it further. I have been harassed and groped by male “friends” in a bar while I was sober wearing a turtleneck. But it was fine because they were friends, and I was inexcusably in a bar. A liberal, Black president was in his second term, at the time. A man who believes women are equal and deserve respect and have the right to autonomy. Yet, you voted someone into office who has done what those men have done to me. What kind of world do you think he will create for me? If I was already living in hell? What will this man lead us to? For women, for minorities, for immigrants. I cannot imagine, and I am not looking forward to seeing what plays out. I just pray that we elect someone better in 2020.
You helped make a man President, and he will be the “role model” for every man, son, brother, father, and everything male in between in this culture that surrounds me, your daughter, who has to live next to these men. I have survived in a world where this has not been the male “role model,” but yet all of these struggles have still been my reality. If this has been my world, what will it look like with this President leading us? Your President believes it’s fair to take me because I am pretty and female. Well, at least, I’m pretty because that means I’m worth being seen. Being a woman is not an asset with this President, who you helped elect.
How do I move forward? I have always been proud to be your daughter. I have always worked to earn your approval. As your daughter, since the beginning of my time on this earth, I have never wanted to distance myself from you because I had always been proud to be your daughter. I don’t know how to feel now. I’m not proud of you.
I will never again hug you the way I once did because this stands firmly between us. How do I pretend things are fine when you have helped institutionalize discrimination based on the one thing I will never be able to change: my sex?
I love you less because of this. Just admitting that causes me more pain than you or anyone else will ever know because I have loved you intensely, loyally, blindly, and to a fault my entire life. You have been who I have idolized most. In my heart, I have always defined myself as your daughter. Not because you are my genetic benefactor or because we share the same name or because society and culture tell me I have to for patriarchal reasons, but because you are a good, kind, intelligent human.
I can forgive everyone else their vote. Friends, family, acquaintances, etc. because it is their right in this country to vote for whomever they believe most fit. I can forgive them, though I will never agree. I can’t forgive you this.
At 25, I now know where you believe I belong as a woman. This will not cripple my future. Your vote showed me I am less than. I cannot forgive you. Even though it is your right to cast your ballot as you see fit, it is still your obligation to protect me as a father. You took on this role willingly not at conception but when you decided to parent me. Parenting never ends. Not when I left for college or when you stopped financially supporting me or when I began a career or moved cross country. You are and always will be a father, and it is and always will be your obligation to protect me. You did not protect me when you voted for Donald Trump. What happens during his presidency lays squarely on your shoulders. It is your fault and every other person’s who voted him into office.
“Just another career-obsessed, nail-biting, manophobic, hell-bent feminist she-devil.”
I hate the title survivor.
I’m not a victim. Not anymore. I was a victim when it was happening. But after…
There isn’t a word I’ve found to resonate with my broken pieces. And I’m a words-person. Silence. Nothing. Guilt. Solitude. Shame. Numb. Lost. Broken. They’re not titles I can put on a shirt or a sign to identify myself as one of many in a march. They are feelings. The feelings that have never left me from the moment his hands first touched me with violence in their intent.
I never say, “I’m a survivor,” or “I survived.” I can’t. It feels like a lie. It would be a lie. I didn’t. I did not stand up as the same girl he held down. I didn’t survive. Rape is murder. He murdered who I was. Every time killed a part of me.
The closest I’ve ever come to finding a way to describe myself is “raped,” but people don’t like that. If people have to face humanity’s ability for violence and destruction, they want to see someone strong and owning it or broken and hiding it. Survivor. How happy. How uplifting. What a positive spin on a tragic epidemic. It’s ignoring the actions that were survived. Focusing on the survivor having survived. Past tense. It happened. It’s done. Let it go. Move on.
Survivor. It’s a bow to wrap up a present we don’t want to open. We know the gist of what happened. Some hazy sort of violence. No specifics needed; that one word says it all. It tears down the facade we’ve so diligently constructed, letting people in just enough for them to know there’s a dark past but not enough they actually know a damn thing. Survivor: say the word. People get a sad look in their eyes, “I’m so sorry.” But stop there. It’s a bow to wrap up the story people don’t want to hear.
Ignoring the story, the nitty gritty of it, is its own kind of violence.
Putting people at ease, letting them remain in their comfort zone is easy, kind. It does not facilitate change. If people are comfortable, they’re complacent. Change comes from agitation rooted in pain and suffering. I don’t write about this because it’s fun to dwell in the dark pain of someone’s choices to destroy my mind and undermine my identity. I write because I was raped. I was raped for years. I was beaten. I was abused. I was shared. I was torn. I was hurt. I write because too many people can say the same. Some say it. Many do not. Silence is a virtue. I don’t have that virtue. I had no voice for so long, but I have one now. I tell my story to make people uncomfortable. I tell my story because it is time for change. I tell my story because it has helped people, opened minds, changed minds, softened minds, and made people angry. I tell my story because I can. Many are not able to because of pain or circumstance or they’re no longer alive to tell theirs. I am still here. A broken, tired, angry, hurt version of who I used to be. I did not survive, but I am still here.
I have been writing and blogging and processing in various ways for almost a decade. In college, I wrote under a pseudonym about being a stripper to pay for school and food and a roof not because I was ashamed but because I didn’t know what my future was uncertain. After college, I started a blog to talk about my life and how I struggle to pick up the pieces of my soul. A few years ago, I started …on the B.L., and it quickly grew into something real with a following. I haven’t kept my past or advocacy separate from this, but I haven’t focused on it either. It’s been present by quiet. But no more. This is the driving force behind everything I do. Creating change. My story, as painful as it is, keeps me going.
I hate the word survivor. I don’t feel like I survived. I feel like I just didn’t die; though, there were years I wished I had. I like the word servivor. I’m using my story to serve others by creating change in whatever way I can.
I am a servivor.
I will stand tall. I will stand firm. I will tell my story. I will serve.
Read Yes Length 384 Quick Review A novel that will stay with you as it explores the intricacies of sexual assault from several points of view.
I’m not going to review this book like I normally would. In my teen and adult years, I was raped. For me, this book struck some nerves hitting close to home because there were several similarities between my story and this one. I will be doing two reviews as an unbiased reviewer and a personal review.
Unbiased Putney by Sofka Zinovieff is an incredibly interesting look into the psyches and motivations behind predators, victims, and observers in cases of sexual abuse. Dividing the book into three perspectives brings the reader into the complexities of these situations because they are never cut-and-dry.
Ralph is a young, up-and-coming composer in London in the mid-1970’s when he enters the Greenslay and meets the seven year old daughter, Daphne. He is immediately taken by her, but not in a pedophile way. He loves her. Beginning a secret friendship with her, it evolves over time until one day, when she’s thirteen: a young woman. Daphne is now a grown woman with a twelve year old daughter when she returns to London. She reconnects with her childhood friend, Jane. Daphne had been through a marriage, drugs, loss, and more in her time away, but her life is better, and she begins reflecting on her love affair with Ralph. Jane is sickened by her friend’s remembrances, and pushes Daphne to see what obviously happened in the past. The three embark on personal journeys of discovery, healing, and more on their own and together.
Zinovieff does a remarkable job writing a compelling story from all sides. Although, I don’t really like any of the characters, they are rounded, complex, and interesting. Ralph, though a disgusting old pedophile, is presented as captivating character, which makes the story far more realistic. Daphne is a mess with a whole bunch of inner turmoil. Honestly, I hated Jane from the get-go, but her character fulfills a needed role within the plot.
The writing is wonderful. It feels like an accessible Lolita, which I enjoyed very much. The book utilizes British spelling instead of American, which matches the content nicely. Putney is difficult to put down once you start reading.
Personal I don’t have any problem reading books about rape. It’s not a trigger for me. I spent too much of my life having it be a part of my norm, and – in a fucked up way – reading about it is incredibly cathartic.
So much of Putney irritated me. Ralph is an asshole. I very much appreciated his misogynistic, arrogant, egotistical ways. I wish all rapists were so dislikable. Jane pissed me off the more I knew of her story. For as much as she researches sexual abuse, she handles it all wrong. She is the exact opposite of what Daphne needs; she puts her own needs ahead of the “victims.” Daphne was not exactly my favorite, but I could understand her journey.
There were a lot of really well done things about the novel. Although, I found a lot of the parts including the police completely idealistic. I don’t know anyone who has ever involved the police to have had such an easy and non traumatic experience. The healing journey was ridiculously easy in comparison to reality.
I appreciated the ending, but I didn’t love it. The ending isn’t happy, but it’s much happier and wraps up nicely. It kind of feels like Zinovieff wraps it all up with a nice bow to make an uncomfortable topic palatable.
Memorable Quotes “I wasn’t some Humbert Humbert obsessed with nymphets.” “Now the trauma was not only hers.”
