On the way to dinner tonight, I heard a song in the car that brought back some pretty powerful memories. It was “Alyssa Lies” by Jason Michael Carroll, a song about child abuse, and perhaps more significantly, the tragedy of doing too little, too late, to end abuse. In the song, Carroll sings through the voice of a father whose daughter is telling him about a girl at school (“Alyssa”) who is suffering through abuse. As the title suggests, it becomes Alyssa’s burden to hide her pain (in addition to learning how to live through and make sense of the abuse):
Alyssa lies to the classroom,
Alyssa lies every day at school,
Alyssa lies to the teachers
as she tries to cover every bruise.
In a way, it’s strange that I would remember this song. I don’t listen to country music – and I have a strict policy against listening to artists with two first names (e.g. “Jason Michael”). And with the exception of tonight’s drive, I have only heard the song once, performed by a classmate of mine (Sam Wooden) at a vigil last April to raise awareness about child abuse. I had been invited to speak at the event by a friend and classmate who worked in juvenile court services in Storm Lake. She was familiar with my anti-pornography work and my advocacy with survivors of sexual violence. And though I was a little unsure what I was getting myself into (with no experience in children’s advocacy), Hannah was confident that whatever I had to say would be relevant and meaningful. I can’t find a copy of the speech I presented (“Child Abuse in a Culture of Violence”) – if it turns up, I will post the full copy here.
Since I did not come to the event with any rich background in children’s advocacy, or even much experience with children generally, with the exception of caring for younger cousins, I realized I would need to get creative. Considering my audience – which consisted largely of public service officials, government officials, social workers, parents, and other community members – and simply recognizing the nature of the event, my typical “consciousness-raising” approach was completely unnecessary. These folks knew all about child abuse, many of them through direct experience, and all of them in ways that had shaped a profound awareness of the need to end abuse and a steadfast commitment to realizing that goal.
Rather than preaching to the choir, I approached my talk with two goals:
1) taking a sort of “emotional inventory” of our feelings and reactions to child abuse, emphasizing the importance of being open to these feelings, no matter how scary or distressing they might be, and then
2) thinking critically and strategically about how to apply these feelings in ways that can realistically foster change.
This approach is actually very simple and rooted in common educational and psychological theories. Yet, in practice, it can be very difficult, forcing participants to engage themselves and each other on an emotion level that dramatically illustrates the vicious (often “invisible”) effects of abuse on everyone. Secondly, this sort of process demands a great deal of self-scrutiny as participants confront ways in which we are all complicit with (and benefiting from) larger systems of violence in our society.
In the absence of the appropriate forum for group discussion, I used much of my speaking time to share my own experiences as an advocate for survivors of sexual violence. I spoke about the first woman who came to me for help – my fears of saying the wrong thing, of not being able to help her (and because she was counting on me, making the situation even worse), and more than anything else, the intense rage I felt for the man who had raped her. For months and months, it was all I could think about when I was contacted as an advocate. I obviously kept my composure when talking with survivors – something about an advocate erupting into a hateful, literally “male-bashing” tirade mid-meeting just seems inappropriate, not to mention disrespectful to the survivor. When I was not listening to women tell their stories of being hurt, mistreated, and objectified by men, I was thinking about those men. Living, breathing, eating, sleeping, working, and inevitably, fucking – with no idea whatsoever about the damage they had caused and continue to cause. I often wondered, if these men found out – if they were not so effectively conditioned to ignore (or celebrate) women’s pain, how would they react? Would they even have the moral capacity to take it seriously?
Overcome with anger, I began to hate men. At times, I still do. It seems like an entirely logical and necessary reaction in the context of a patriarchal society, particularly one in which male supremacy is so often enforced through various forms of violence. While such anger and hatred felt altogether appropriate, it also immobilized me, closing my heart to any possibility of change. Without delving more deeply (at least in this post) on my emotional development as a pro-feminist male, suffice it to say that I began to see what Andrea Dworkin meant in her 1983 speech, “I Want a 24-Hour Truce During Which There is No Rape”:
“I don’t believe that rape is inevitable or natural. If I did, I would have no reason to be here. If I did, my political practice would be different than it is. Have you ever wondered why we are not just in armed combat against you? It’s not because there’s a shortage of kitchen knives in this country. It is because we believe in your humanity, against all the evidence.”
Like Dworkin, my firm belief that men can change is not, at least primarily, rooted in evidence. Neither is it based on a philosophy that humans are born basically good – or bad, for that matter, or any other value-laden characteristic. I believe that men can change because I see no other option. I believe that men can change because men must change. Call me stubborn.
My message at the child abuse vigil was not, “Don’t be angry,” but instead, as a sub-headline in the Storm Lake Pilot Tribune suggested, to get past anger as the only, or one of the few vehicles for healing or resolution. I suggested a process through which citizens can become thoughtful, compassionate, and effective agents of change in their communities. At minimum, that requires tending to our emotions in ways that allow us to become whole, and perhaps along the way, building more bridges than walls. Finally, it is essential that we see child abuse in the context of a larger culture of violence.
When Sam Wooden performed “Alyssa Lies” at the vigil, I surprised myself. I cried. And cried. And cried. I bawled my eyes out in a room full of people, of whom at least a few started staring at me. “They probably think I’m a total basketcase,” I imagined. So I rushed out of the crowd toward the nearest restroom and attempted to compose myself. I share this detail not to boast that I must clearly be a sensitive, respectable pro-feminist man – my gosh, he cries real tears! When I think back to the experience, I realize that my reaction was actually quite simple. I felt overwhelmed with sadness – for the many children who have suffered abuse or neglect at the hands of loved ones, for children who are starving, for children who are bought and sold, for children who are sexually abused, for children who wake up to gunfire every morning, and for all children growing up in a culture of violence. And all I could think to do was cry. I didn’t hide from it, but I didn’t lock myself away in it either (though it might have appeared that way). I cried at the insanity of living in this world we call home, yearning for a better tomorrow.
