I find myself in a position to hear a vast variety of people's life stories. I hear stories of people's struggle, their triumph, their heartbreak, their devastation and their victory. Over the past five years working with newcomers to Canada, and being a mother of two budding young women (and trying my damnedest to be a good listener), I've heard stories of how people's lives are shaped; how they become who they are; how they fight, shine, crumble, rise again. I hear of a woman who walked 6 weeks through a war torn country in Africa with her children to escape civil war, never to see her husband again. I hear of the cruelty of young men and women toward each other in the drama that is adolescence. I hear of a family whose town was bombed to hell because they believed something different from the majority. I hear of the trauma that is brought back to life by the simple sound of a fire drill. I watch my daughters navigate the world, trying to figure out right from wrong. I hear them tell of blatant homophobia in schools, bullying, slut shaming. I hear stories, and I cherish them. You see, just as the stories shaped and are shaping those remarkable people, they shape me too. Our stories can shape each other.
It is because of these stories, and my own stories, that I find it appalling that a sign on a local bar advertises free drinks for women who take their shirts off. It is because of these stories, and my own stories that I cry when faced with the realities of Residential Schools, Japanese Internment Camps, the Chinese Head Tax - these dark moments in Canadian history. It is these stories that make me a firm believer in true inclusion and equality, rights for all, and need to fight for people to see the reality of racism, sexism, and all the other isms and phobias, myself included.
Our stories shape our lives and perspectives. Your stories add to the mosaic that is my perspective. The hardest stories to hear are the ones that arguably have the most impact. Even though I hate hearing about a man whose village was raided, who laid in the ditch, shot and bleeding for days, pretending to be dead just to survive, I need to hear about this man. I need to hear him, see him, and see how he has survived, persevered and begun to live again. You see, these hard stories can help others see that though the world is brutal, there is light. There is true light when we see how much people can overcome.
So, my purpose here is to start telling some of my stories. I have some poignant stories that shaped who I am, and made me into the human I am now. They made me into the mother I am, the partner I am, the friend I am. They made me into the teacher I am.
Story Number One: #metoo
I was ten years old. I had just moved to a new neighbourhood after moving around to 3 different houses and schools that year. I was in grade 4. I wasn't yet beginning to show signs of womanhood, but I would soon.
I got in trouble for something and was going to get a spanking from my step-father. That spanking turned into several years of sexual and emotional abuse. It turned into years of dread: sinking stomach, heart stopping terror. It turned into a twisted view of sexuality, and a desperate need to feel safe. I was never safe. Ever.
I remember chanting to myself, to God, walking home from school each day, "Please, don't be home." My mom didn't get home until 5 or 6. I would have to be alone with him. When we were alone, it happened. I couldn't escape.
I don't remember when it stopped. Probably when I was too old to be dominated the same way. It was always about power and dominance. It was about crushing the female. It was about stamping out anything positive I thought about myself. It was about subduing and stealing my power. I was too young to know I had power or to even think of wielding it.
I don't tell this story because I want people to feel sorry for me. Please, don't. I tell this story because it shaped who I am. It created in me a strength I wish I'd found somewhere else, somehow else. But, here it is. I am more powerful now because I was broken before. This story made me fiercely protective of my rights as a woman, and an advocate for other young women to stand in their own power. It made me able to see and empathize with those who have been pushed down by an abuser. It gave me an anger and a rage that turned into drive, perseverance, and ultimately victory. I worked through being a victim and took back my femininity, womanhood, and sexuality. Because I was a victim, I feel I can empathize and love victims more.
You see? Our stories can help to shape not only ourselves, but others. Would I care so much about empowering young people if I hadn't had my power taken from me? Probably not. Would I be able to look at my daughters the same way? Probably not. Would I be so concerned with them standing in their power, being strong, independent women? I think it would be so different.
Stay tuned for more stories, if you care to read. Maybe you have some of the same ones. Maybe reading mine can help yours to take their own power in your life. Our stories shape us, but we must not let them break us. If I can sit across a table with a man who lived in a refugee camp for ten years, and see the light that burns in his eyes, surely my stories cannot break me. If I can speak face to face with a young man who watched his family be shot to death in front of him, and live to tell the story and smile again, then surely my stories cannot break me.
Let's listen to the stories around us, and take heart in the fact that we are resilient and powerful.
