May 5, 2010 @ 2:01 pm
We Are Women
National Council of Jewish Women, Seattle, WA (23)
Before reading this, please realize that provided the topic, I have included a story I consider to be horrifying, one that continues to affect me today. If concerned, please do not continue.
In the eighth grade, I fell in love with speech and drama. Two events consumed most of my Saturdays; Duo Acting, where I portrayed Raja Englanderova, a survivor of a Nazi concentration camp, and Public Speaking, where I was able to choose and perform a topic of my choice. After sifting through the various current events with which I was personally interested; the environment, poverty, child hunger…I then came upon the issue of domestic violence. I wasn’t certain it could be something about which I could feel passionate, therefore making it possible for me to perform it continually, with as much feeling as I’d had initially.
Then I began my research. I read cases where hitting, kicking, screaming and bruises were part of everyday lives. One man strangled, one used a belt, and at that point, I understood that domestic violence was a way for spouses, partners to gain control of a situation. I realized that violence toward women not only physically, mentally and emotionally crippled these individuals, but ultimately, it threatened the progress made for all women throughout the past decades. Domestic violence was not about individuals suffering from the abuse, but rather, it was about all women in all places.
So here we were (welcome RJ, a.k.a, the husband), in the Emerald City on one of the most beautiful days I think I’d ever seen. Living in Kentucky for so many years, I’d always been pretty certain that it was the most amazing state in our fine country, however after visiting Washington, my feelings may have slightly changed. The city of Seattle resembles the Grecian waterfront we’ve all seen in the movies, and as the water mirrors the structures above, and the sun creates a jewel-like coating, the subtle waves glisten, and you wonder at what point Dorothy, or the scarecrow, will make their cameo appearances. Surrounding the city, you see lines of broccoli topped trees, colored leprechaun green, full of life, and are the kind of trees that call you by name on hot summer days to shade, rejuvenate and release. It really is that magnificent.
We’d begun the morning walking in and out of the fish market, which is, simply put, one of the most relaxing things I think you could ever do. As the notes of a bluegrass band sound through the streets, and the magic cat performs tricks with his master, I danced along the bins of apples, tomatoes, along bakeries where the cinnamon rolls can fill from your head to your toes, and where the coffee is hot, black, and resting in every hand from here to the state border. And regardless of the chilly breeze traveling from the shore, this was one of my most favorite experiences, on this, or any other journey.
After a quick stop at the space needle, we were headed toward our “Purpose.” We’d be working at a warehouse sorting donations that would eventually be chosen by victims of domestic violence, to house their new homes. These donations would allow women to start a new life, free from abuse.
We met everyone, received a quick tutorial and were ready to get started. Already, we were having a ton of fun. After just receiving a new delivery of great furniture, floral kitchenware and loads of other things, we immediately began our transformation. At first, the men gravitated toward the larger objects, the women focused on the subtle improvements of organizing and beautifying. We learned about one another; our schools, our work, and the cold of Seattle, as we unwrapped glass after glass, bowl after bowl. Some pieces were colored and some had handles but all were placed with care, slowly and continuously.
While everything was going quite nicely, I couldn’t ignore the story replaying over and over in my head. In Arizona, if you’ll remember, I worked with Homicide Survivors, Inc., in Tucson. The entire experience was surreal in that I was involving myself with an organization I would have never believed to be a part of my life. I was given a book that told stories of those who continue to mourn the death of their loved ones. All are terrifying as nightmares are realized, and yet one particularly continues to haunt my thoughts.
“The Mother of the Girl” details the story of Joyce’s daughter, Dolly. Her relationship with her boyfriend was brutal. Her friends knew, as the bleeding lips and black eyes couldn’t be disguised, but her mother, her mother hadn’t seen, hadn’t heard, and was unaware of the severity. Joyce spoke with her daughter the day before she left this earth. Sobbing on the phone, Dolly announced she was planning to leave her boyfriend, was tired of “dealing,” with him, but of exactly what, her mother was unsure. Joyce pleaded for answers only to hear Dolly respond, “I don’t want to talk. I’ll call you later.” Unfortunately, that conversation would be the last Joyce had with her daughter.” Dolly’s decision to leave was too late. The next day, her boyfriend held her arms and ordered his dog to attack. The animal came from the front, and as his owner encouraged, repeatedly sunk his teeth into the interior of her arm, eventually, severing the arteries. He was the first to be convicted of using a dog as a murder weapon in the United States, and was sentenced to fifteen years to life in prison.
This man stood and watched, promoting the mauling of someone he supposedly loved, and this story still lingers in my mind. It was unlike any I’d ever heard, and I thought if we were able to in some small way prevent an occurrence such as this, I would forever be grateful for the opportunity.
With time, and a lot of teamwork, the bulk of our job was completed, and simply a few small adjustments remained. The ladies pointed fingers this way and that, while the men scooted forward and backward, sucking in stomachs and improving poor postures to maneuver around impossible corners. As I hopped to the platform only feet below the ceiling, I reached as another slowly passed wooden bed frames and slats. Hoping to turn our store into something to be desired, the chairs displayed nicely together, the art hung gracefully, and eventually, all represented a feeling of that which is new, untainted, and ripe for the pickin’.
We’d finished our work, having moved an entire warehouse of donations…tables, chairs, sofas, dishes, artwork…pieces that would open an entirely different life for someone, pieces that provided freedom, changed opinions and views, and allowed for dreams to be imagined once again. As females, many times our strengths and our talents, are overlooked, even dismissed, and yet we continue, pushing, working, striving to make ourselves, as well as those around us, feel confident and powerful in defining who we are and the road we’ll eventually follow.
On a day like today, it’s easy to feel the connection we as women share, and the responsibility we have to one another to make ourselves heard, respected and valued. I love being a female. I love our ability to see more than just black and white, to listen, not just answer, and to focus on the person, not the problem.
I can only imagine the pain and confusion these women must feel. I was merely able to move some furniture from here to there, separate the forks from the spoons, and organize the alarm clocks and toasters. In doing so however, we were providing the ingredients for these women to find themselves; their ambitions, their ability to survive, their independence.
There was a song introduced in the mid-70’s celebrating the women’s liberation movement. It confirmed what we as women know to be true. It’s spoken, “Oh yes I am wise but it’s wisdom born of pain. Yes, I paid the price but look how much I gained. If I have to, I can do anything. I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman.”
These words speak more clearly to me then ever before. I remember my speech in the eighth grade in a completely different way. I realize that had I chosen different paths, I could have found myself gathering pieces from this very warehouse. I’ve thought about the fortunate life I’ve been able to lead. But more than anything, I value myself as a woman, and the numerous women who have inspired me, and paved the way that allows me to choose what I want to be. The women suffering at the hand of domestic violence must realize that we can and will face and demolish each obstacle that presents itself. We will do so with grace, with confidence and with all women from our past, our present, and our future behind us, leading us, inspiring us. We are women, and you most certainly will hear us roar.
