By Sikivu Hutchinson
In her 1993 poem
“Won’t You Come Celebrate With Me”, Black feminist poet Lucille Clifton wrote:
won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay
my one hand holding tight
my other hand;
come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
This month is National Poetry Month and Sexual Assault Awareness
Month, a time of reckoning for and celebration of survivors, living and
ancestral, crossing this bridge between starshine and clay, in COVID-19’s shadow.
Years ago, during casual conversation, Wren*, a now deceased
older relative of mine, and contemporary of Clifton’s, disclosed that she had
been sexually abused. Born during the early years of the Great Depression in
the Deep South, she was from a generation of women accustomed to being told that
the violence they experienced in their homes and families was the natural cost
of being Black, female, and poor. She was that strong prototypical Black woman; heavily
armored, guarding a tender heart, stealthy smile, monster work ethic, and a
take no prisoners wit that dazzled and infuriated. Having no model, she couldn’t
understand why “younger folks” made such a “fuss” about rape and sexual assault.
Shaping her life, she couldn’t understand
why women of a more “liberated” generation didn’t just buck up and move on because
“I was raped practically every day of my life”. Part of the African American exodus
of Great Migration pioneers, she was fiercely proud that she’d moved to
California on her own, worked any odd job she could find to support her family
alone, and never had to depend on a man for support. Her stiff upper lip trauma
has painful resonance as COVID-19 lays bare the disparities that survivors face
in Black communities at the epicenter of the U.S.’ health care gulag.
Nationwide,
African American women continue to have some of the highest rates of sexual
violence, intimate partner violence, and domestic abuse in the U.S. By the time
they turn eighteen, it is estimated
that forty to sixty percent of African American girls have experienced sexual
abuse. According
to the National Center for Victims of Crime, Black women are 2.5 times more
likely to be murdered by men than white women. Black women are also more likely
to die at the hands of a current or former intimate partner than any other
group in the country.
In the time that it takes to read this piece, a Black girl
will have been sexually assaulted and a Black woman murdered by a husband,
lover, or ex-partner.
In the time that it takes to read this piece, a Black child
will be left motherless as the result of homicide by her one and only true love.
In the time that it takes to read Clifton’s poem, a Black
child will be molested by a “trusted” family member who has groomed them with promises, treats, and whispers to 'stay
silent'.
In the time that it takes to cross the bridge between
starshine and clay, a Black child will be trafficked over and over again because
the rape of a minor is a more valuable capitalist street commodity than drugs.
These brutal hidden-in-plain-sight realities have been
ripped open as a result of decades of anti-violence activism. Yet, as a
survivor and mentor to Black girls, I am reminded every damn day that the scope
and atrocity of sexual violence has not changed significantly over the course
of my lifetime. As survivors many of us are reminded that even though we fight
to end child sexual abuse, and even though we “celebrate everyday something
that has tried to kill us and failed”, we continue to grieve our childhoods.
Reflecting on early sessions of the National Black Women’s
Health Project (NBWHP) in the eighties, founder Byllye Avery recalled that “The
number one issue for most of our sisters is violence—battering, sexual abuse.
Whether they are twelve or four.” In their 2003 book, Gender
Talk, Beverly Guy-Sheftall and Johnetta Cole describe NBWHP’s powerful and
near heretical platform for Black women’s self-determination. “During the early
years of the project, Black women broke the conspiracy of silence and dared to
speak about the race secrets they’d been programmed to keep.” Then and now, these
race secrets entailed unquestioned allegiance to Black patriarchy, the Black
church, and Black heteronormativity. Then and now, to paraphrase Sheftall, Black
folks are often more galvanized by police violence against Black men than the hidden-in-plain-sight
violence that occurs every minute of every hour against Black women, girls, and
children in our own homes, churches, and families.
COVID-19 has amplified this regime of violent silence and
complicity. Noting the intersection of sexual violence and COVID-related
disparities, Black feminist activist, filmmaker, and author Aishah
Shahidah Simmons has called institutionalized sexual abuse and sexual
violence a “pandemic within a pandemic”. Rape culture as a constant,
unrelenting fact is one of the many “silent” ways normalized violence and
misogynoir shape the lives of Black women and Black people on a day-to-day
basis regardless of viral outbreaks. Yet, the coronavirus’ devastating economic
and social toll on communities of color has been insidiously reflected in skyrocketing
sexual, intimate partner, and domestic violence rates. With the escalation of the outbreak and global
shutdowns, domestic violence hotlines have reported an uptick in victim calls,
while providers work around the clock to provide mental health resources,
shelter, and other forms of victim assistance to survivors. Shelter in place orders
are especially difficult for Black girls and girls of color who, even under
normal circumstances, must juggle schoolwork, caregiving, and household responsibilities.
Now, many have the added burden of being at home (recognizing that home could
be a group home, camper, shelter or traditional house) where they may be more
likely to experience abuse without the buffer of school resources or adult
advocates who provide a safe haven.
Stress and burnout related to gender-specific duties are
common themes among my students. Our imperative during the pandemic has been creating safe spaces for them to write, talk, reflect, and self-care. While feelings
of depression, fear, and anxiety are pervasive symptoms of COVID’s staggering
mental health impact, Black girls have always struggled with the cultural demand
that they repress their emotions and “keep it moving”. This is the story that
connects my grandmother’s generation to Generation Z youth coming of age in a
#MeToo and “Surviving R Kelly” era still defined by the racist/sexist
privileging of white female victimhood and Black male redemption.
Aishah’s new anthology Love With Accountability:
Digging Up the Roots of Child Sexual Violence addresses these issues
head on. The collection, which features essays from Black diasporic child sexual
abuse survivors and advocates, including me, highlights restorative justice
community-building and critical resistance from an African descent perspective.
In the introduction, Aishah explores her own complex history of sexual violence
and the hierarchy of oppression(s) in communities of color. She argues, “It is my affirmation that every single one of
us will make the commitment to refrain from marginalizing, or, worse, condoning
child sexual abuse or any other form of gender-based violence in the name of
any “greater issue” which in communities of color often means solely focusing
on white supremacy…the eradication of racism and white supremacy alone will not
make our communities safe. We should not have to be murdered by white vigilantes,
the police, or any other apparatus of the state in order for our communities to
believe harm has been committed. For many survivors of child sexual abuse, physical
death is not necessarily the worst thing that can happen to us, especially when
we have to engage with our harm-doers over and over again without any form of
accountability.”
These words resonate when I think about Wren’s generation
and those before hers. Black women steeped not only in the trauma and shame of ritualized
anti-Black misogynist violence but in the fighting power, creativity, and resilience
of thriving survival. In the time that it takes to read this piece, a Black girl
might find the healing truths of a Black woman ancestor, holding onto her for
dear life, crossing this bridge between starshine and clay.
*Name changed
