battered wombs

December 29, 2012

As I read through my social media feeds on the recent events in New Delhi, India and the rape of the young woman who has become known as “Brave Heart,” I am overwhelmed with emotions that reopen old wounds. I have been looking up facts and numbers; trying to see if I can “enlighten” myself and others. Trying to find some “light” in this darkness. Only to feel less powerful.

So I turn to writing, my source of strength, to see if I can continue this life long healing process (the wound now almost thirty-years-old). I feel enough anger today to share a very personal story with you.

It took the death of a dear uncle of mine almost five years ago for me to tell my mother and the rest of my family what his brother had done to me when I was just five-years-old. My aunts asked why I didn’t say anything. I just told them that at that age you feared saying anything because somehow you actually believed you had done something wrong. That somehow, it was your fault or you asked for it.

In my head, I also feared that my family may “have the reason” for my queerness. That I was gay because this happened and so I never shared it, except behind the closed doors of therapy rooms or to close friends. I never wanted my family to feel like they had found the “cause” of my gayness. One has nothing to do with the other.

I share my story because my voice will not be silenced.

His name is Frank. I have no need to keep his name a secret, I refuse to give him any power today. When I was five he was a giant. And I feared him. Today, I stand at 5’4″ about two inches MUCH taller than him. He’s actually a pretty sad excuse of a man. Like somehow his creator ran out of everything needed to make a human and put together the scraps of hate-filled limbs and ugly together and called it to “life.” I mean really, raping a five-year-old? Any rape is horrific? But a fucking five-year-old? But you’re a sick bastard and I have no time for psychology.

No worries though. I am standing. Filled with Love and laughter and family and friendship. Fortunately, he was never able to have any offsprings. He lives in Puerto Rico now. He is the uncle of six of my cousins. Most who have kids and that is why I told them, to NOT leave your children with fuck face.

I wish I could tell you that I have healed entirely. Until I read about another woman who was raped and my anger erupts like a volcano. I have always been a patient person. I have always been forgiving. I have always tried to find peace. But for some reason this is one of those things I wish I could take into my own hands. I wish I could be in the room with Frank now. Me, him and a Louisville Slugger. Yes, there is that much anger. I’ve thought about it (I will omit the remainder of those details because my nieces and nephews read my work). Still, it would be a beautiful thing to line all these sons of bastards up and have a day.

I saw Frank at my uncle Tito’s funeral. My cousin Danny was with me and he knew the story. When Frank came out of his house and started walking towards me, my body grew strong and angry. And if it wasn’t for Danny reminding me that this wasn’t the time or the place (seeing that my uncle’s body was at the church across the street), I would’ve had my day. But I walked away; my grief and Love for my uncle Tito was stronger than my anger at that moment.

Some of us keep waiting on the law. Some of us keep praying, chanting, meditating… waiting for something to change. But fuck this man’s world filled with men who stand idle and don’t do shit about this. Since the beginning of time it has been the way to defeat us, to deflate us, to demoralize us. They whip out their hard rods and ram it inside of us, bashing up against our fragile walls, they tear down our internal structure… leaving us hollow. Empty. Confused. Guilty. Our voices silenced.

And the horrific event of the woman in New Delhi is something that happens every. fucking. day. in. every. part. of. this. fucked. up. world.

The men stand idle. And the women can’t do shit because every authority figure is male. And the men can’t go against their own, even if his dick ain’t feigning for the thrill of abuse.

And if she decides to take a stand her husband will kill her. If she decides to fight for her daughter, the governments have nothing in place to protect her. If she decides to try and make her way to a better life, six men will feel the need not only to rape her but the beat her senseless and leave her without life or Life.

For every man who rapes, let the sentence be castration -testicles and all. They value that more than they value their mother.

I want no mercy. That’s God’s job -and today, I don’t feel like God’s child.

**Brave Heart, may the Light of your Life shine on long enough so that history doesn’t repeat itself in the battered wombs of our daughters.

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One Response to “battered wombs”


  1. Utterly heart-wrenching…beyond what we can wrap our heads around…beyond words. But you have given voice to the voiceless. I’m only sorry that you have a first-hand knowledge of such horror and that your talent for words have to voice this.
    xoxo

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