unbreakable

Last month I found Unbreakable, a photography project started by Grace Brown, a 19 year-old student in NYC. Grace photographs victims of sexual abuse, holding up signs with the words of their attackers.

Reading the messages on the cards wasn’t easy for me; many of the women I grew up with–and around–were victims of sexual abuse. And now as a mom the safety of my daughters is something I think about and pray for on a daily basis. Because no matter how far removed you find yourself from your past, or from stories like these, motherhood brings it all back.

When it comes to my daughters, I find it easy to get wrapped up in the what-ifs. And for me it’s hard to stop the thoughts once they start. But getting to know Grace has reminded me that while I can’t control their futures, I can teach them to how to express themselves. How to speak up. And hopefully, like Grace, how to be courageous.

•                        •                    •

Meet Grace:

I was always involved in rape culture, so to call it. In April of my sophomore year of high school, I discovered feminism – not what society sees as feminism, not the scary, militant kind, but the “make a difference, change the world” feminism. It made me stronger and more aware of myself. My plan was to go to school for rape crisis counseling. It seemed that I was always able to connect with victims of abuse, even though I had never been abused. I thought of myself as one of the lucky ones. One of the girls who managed sixteen-almost-seventeen years of never being affected by that.

Then, something happened. It wasn’t rape. It wasn’t even physical. And I didn’t realize I  was a victim until two and a half years later.

•                        •                    •

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

My grandfather will be here soon, I thought to myself. I double-checked that I had everything: dance bag, tap shoes, a Gatorade, clothes for the next day, a sleeping bag and pillow. Check, check, check. On top of having dance auditions later that night, I was so anxious to see my cousins for the first time in months that I couldn’t sit still. I glanced one more time in the mirror and examined the clothes I had on – a tank top with pinks and yellows and blacks, tights, and dance shorts. Something strange crossed my mind. What if my grandfather looked at me differently since I was wearing something so tight? I mean, men are men. I shook the thought away and concluded that he was my grandfather and he’d never do anything like that to me.

I got into the car and thanked him for picking me up. I told him how much I appreciated it. At that moment, I truly did.

He turned to me and said he would be happy to give me a ride whenever I needed. I felt a familiar fullness in my heart – this was the longest we’d ever spoken in my entire life, but he was being so kind to me. Then the conversation turned as he put the car into reverse.

“I’m glad your mom asked me to pick you up. I actually have a question for you.”

I obliged, and let him go forward. Maybe he’s going ask me to be nicer to Mom.

“It’s a personal question and you can’t tell anyone.”

I obliged again, though the uneasiness settled in. Something felt strange in the air and I didn’t like it. I watched as we pulled away from my house, the home I’d lived in since I was born.

“I know you like money…”

Wait, what did he think I was? A greedy child? Is that what my family thought of me?

“How would you like to make a thousand dollars?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Do you like boys? Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked, as we turned off my street.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to. In the way he spoke – quick and almost like he was sharing a secret – I knew where he was going and begged him to stop talking. Later, I’d replay this moment over and over searching for a hole, looking for a way that I misunderstood him. I always thought I’d be strong if something like this happened to me, but in that moment I burst into tears and couldn’t stop. I started digging at the skin around my fingernails, a nervous habit I still have, and looked down at my bag. If he did anything physical to me, I didn’t know if I’d be able to grab my cell phone without him noticing.

“I’m in the shithole, please don’t tell anyone, please don’t tell your grandmother. You’re my granddaughter, I love you.”

He wouldn’t shut up. He kept repeating those words over and over. I watched us pass by the white house with blue shutters on the corner near my elementary school. You don’t love me. If you did, you wouldn’t have done this.

I realized I couldn’t go to my grandparent’s house like this. I couldn’t go there ever again. I got a shot of adrenaline and yelled at him to bring me to my to dance studio instead, and surprisingly, he obliged. I prayed that my dance teacher would be there, even though I was over an hour early.

He was so flustered that he made a wrong turn. I directed him the right way, and right across from the place I bank at now, he asked:

“Can I write you a check to keep you quiet?”

Anger rushed through me and I snapped at him that I didn’t want his money. It was exactly the thing I hated in my work with feminism: men who felt that they could erase what they did (or didn’t do) with money. I didn’t want his hush money. The thought of it made me sick. And besides, I knew I would be quiet anyway.

The dance studio parking lot was empty and my heart sank. Here I was, at my sole place of comfort, the place I ran to in times of need for fourteen years, and no one was there. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was going to make me to stay in the car. But he didn’t. And I got out as quickly as I could and watched him drive away as I frantically dialed my best friend’s cell phone. I don’t know if I said a word of English between the tears, but she was there almost instantly and brought me to our friend’s house, where her mom consoled me for the next hour.

I don’t know how I made it through dance auditions that night. I really don’t remember much about them, but I do remember doing a short combination to a Black Eyed Peas song, which I still can’t listen to. While I was waiting to go next, I leaned against the glass window near the office, and just willed myself not to cry openly. The worst was over.

Little did I know that healing is even more painful than the actual event.

•                        •                    •

Earlier this year, I told my story to a woman who, in turn, shared her story of rape and abuse with me. I told her I would never go public with my story, I would never confront him (despite the weekly dreams I had about doing so) and I most certainly would never tell my family. I didn’t want to ruin their image of him.

In October, I was inspired by a friend’s sexual abuse story to create Unbreakable, I decided to include myself in it, but never showed my face or stated that it was me. The project took off and soon I was photographing handfuls of people and answering emails from people all over the world sharing their stories with me.

In December, I was honored for CK to ask if she could write a piece about me and my reasoning behind Unbreakable. I shared my story with her, and by the time I finished typing, I realized I was ready to come forward and I wanted to do it on her blog. The only issue was that I would have to tell my family first. A few days later, I had a meltdown. It was two in the morning and I decided to go back and read the journal entry I wrote the night it happened. Everything came flooding back to me. There were so many details I had forgotten, but what hit me the most was the date. Although I’m normally good with remembering dates, I had never known the date of when it happened. The moment I read June 23, 2009 was the moment I realized I wasn’t okay and that I had to do something about it. The next day, I began by telling one of my aunts what had happened.

December was painful. I dealt with a lot of flashbacks and couldn’t sleep. But each time I told a family member, the weight lifted a little bit. My family members took it all the same – they were angry with him. And some weren’t surprised about what had happened, which was also something that I had to wrap my head around: maybe it could have been prevented.

But between my family’s strength, the strength of the survivors participating in Unbreakable, and the strength of people who have become my family, I was able move forward. I am okay now. More than okay. And in a couple days, my grandfather will be receiving a phone call from me, letting him know that I am no longer keeping quiet.

I feel free.

If you are interested in participating in project Unbreakable, contact Grace: grace(at)50extraordinarywomen(dot)com.

Tagged as: grace brown, unbreakable