Today I woke up trying to get some writing done on my show and something hit me in the face and reminded me that

I am a product of rape.

I’ve only once began to softly approach the questions of how I came to exsist – once here. And at this moment, it wasnt even really an approach – it was a telescope view from afar. Here’s a piece from that entry.

“. . .Later last night – im at another gig at a bar in SF – and i want to call my best friend, and she is not home. I want to call my mom, but its too late. How can i explain this to my roommate? I realize i have no one to talk to and i get on my cell phone and text/email these words to myself:

“No one 2 email but me n all alone w a reminder i am born from that which i condem”.

What is it to be a product of rape? A body born out of violence? What is it to be unwanted and given away because of rape and more importantly – unknown? If the story is true. I dont exsist for the father.”

What is it to be a product of rape and how does one even begin to wrap oneself around such a question? I recently read an adoptee’s thoughts on this question and it all centered around the stigma of rape. Shame, violence, pain, trauma.

What is it to be born from that which I condem? I call myself a black feminist. Radical politics. I call myself a protector of women, my friends use my house as a safe haven. I call myself daughter of Oya. I call myself someone who would have gone to bat, bat, bat with those women who are raped and are never believed. Rape in any form is about power and dominance.

But how to explain life that is concieved from such an act?

and how to explain ME?

Im not ashamed. Im not even asking if I should be. Fuck that. Why? I’m smart, I’m beautiful, I’m loving and I am loved. Just like the circumstances of how I was given up – I have no control over my conception. It is one more thing in my life that I have to tunnel through, wrap around me and fight through. I know why I wasnt wanted. I am a reminder of trauma and pain. Shame and silence. How can I move forward, move any way at all if I dont let go of what my entire body represents to my BM? The blackness – the face- the hands.

I’m not saying I’ve let go. Im not saying I dont have days where I stare in the mirror and wonder at the flash of conception at the moment of violation. But I have such beauty in my life, my friends, my family, my writing, my work- MY FRIENDS – how can I explain my thankfulness for being born? and what if I was not here to speak?

and what also of the notion that I dont exist in any way for my birth father? That he doesnt even know I am alive. He doesnt wonder about my face, if I have his hair or his smile. I find this extremely soul-shaking, especially when I identify myself as being black, and not ness. as Filipino (the BM). Whose roots are mine? I dont have any?

I was trying to write a section about how second generation, third generation children of immigrants – when they get to a certain age – they return back to thier country of origin, but for adoptee’s, the travel path home – is complex. I heard someone say about their trip to their country of origin, “its the first time I ever really felt like I was at home”. Is that feeling forever lost to adoptees? and for those of us adopted OUT of not only our countries, but our cultures of origin? will we ever find our way home? and what if our home will never acknowledge us?

I know we create home, and what home means becomes what we do, who our friends and chosen family are – but how to think through that 1st connection, that primary womb-link that has been forever broken. and is that why I feel like I am constantly moving, all ways changing?

Thats all for today. Two more steps forward.


8 thoughts on “PTSD III

  1. You ARE smart. You ARE loved. You ARE beautiful. You ARE loved. You ARE loving. You ARE loved. We love you girl. Keep doing what you do. Two steps forward. We are all taking steps. Different kind of steps, but steps nonetheless. MUAH!!!

  2. Sometimes I don’t think we ever will find our way home…instead we have the daunting task of making our own home by firmly collecting the people, environment, activities and energy that works best for our soul, and completely edging out that which is not.

  3. Big hugs, Lisa Marie. My situation is not the same, but I can relate on many levels. With my dad’s recent revelation that my mother was a prostitute, I’ve recently had to recalibrate my brain. Whether he’s telling the truth this time remains to be seen, but it was enough to send my thoughts down a similar path.

    I’m way past thinking the circumstances of people’s births have anything to do with who they are as human beings. That old cultural/religious idea doesn’t make any sense.

    Home means nothing to me in the conventional sense, but what is convention? There are just too many places where it doesn’t fit into the framework of our lives. And you know, I’m okay with that.

  4. “…but how to think through that 1st connection, that primary womb-link that has been forever broken. and is that why I feel like I am constantly moving, all ways changing?”

    I think that broken primal link is the reason for a lot of things. I’ve done a lot of research on it. and though it hasn’t specifically mentioned the feeling of constantly moving/always changing… but I do think because of that break that we tend to, in general, live our lives on shifting sands.

    Hope the show is going well! Wish I could see it!

  5. out of inspiration and pain I come to your website and find a familiar voice,
    one that says to me, we have no histories other than the memories we can remember – but that’ll do, because it has to, our bodies are more than histories – we are living breathing realities of everything that has come before us, even if we don’t know who that is.

    Thank you for your words and spirit.

    My name is sasha alexander goldberg, I am a 21 year old transracially adopted mixed race, black south asian, queer transmale-identified artist and activist. I recently came to San Francisco with a social justice grant for the summer and am currently working a summer internship with the Gay Straight Alliance Network. Mary Going, who works with GSA Network, recently turned me onto your blog and performance pieces.

    I choose to comment here an not elsewhere because this post, among all your other strong pained powerful words, speaks to me – and I would like to in return speak to you.

    I am transracially adopted, my adoption was closed but I know that, my biological mother was raped. the only details I kno have coated my mind since I was a kid: somewhere in Indiana in 1985 a south asian women was raped. she was 16, hindu, had bad eyesight, and was raped by a black man. On April 9th 1986 she gave birth to a child who would never know her name. a “black” child who was made to forget about an Indian mother. My adoptive parents have tried, but they do not have my eyes, or my skin, my hair, or my struggle. rape : the word sounds different when you came from it .My whole life I have imagined: I have been the bricks the alley the long walk home, I have seen and felt a memory I was not there for. And I will never forget what exists in my life. A life born out of violence, as a victim of sexual molestation, a queer, transgender person, a body of color enacted with violence – I am your brother I will hold your hand like your words have held me. Thank you for being.

    sasha alexander

  6. I would love to get in contact with you, perhaps after a show; I am in the area until mid august. Even if we don’t touch base, thank you for your life, words, and struggle. I have yet to meet other individuals with a TRA story like ours. As and artist and multi-oppression activist I am inspired and comforted by your words. Thank you again.

    sasha alexander

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s