. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

in our own words

Volume One - March 2011

stories . poetry . art

a publication created by:

end the silence campaign

endthesilencecampaign.org

end the silence campaign

endthesilencecampaign.org

around one simple concept: our voices have power. When we speak, we can educate, inspire, empower, challenge, comfort, and give hope. The more we speak, the stronger our words become. When we come together and speak as one, our words can change lives. But it is not easy to speak. Rape, sexual abuse, and sexual assault are designed to silence us. It takes time, courage, strength, and a chance to nd our voices again. Some of us have already started to speak. Some of us are still nding the words. Some of us are trapped in situations that make it impossible for our words to be heard. Together, one story at a time, we are striving to end the silence. For everyone who has survived rape, sexual abuse, or sexual assault. For everyone who has watched a loved one struggle to survive. For those who have shared their story. For those who are forced into silence. For those who are still searching for the words. This publication is for all of us.

nd the Silence Campaign centers

contents
discover
your voice
the
Silver and Gold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
RobbyBess

Letter to Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Ti any Smith Cori Frazer

workshop

Sticks and Stones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

Sometimes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Ti any Jade

Silent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Ashley Stenger

The Monster Tamer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Sara Michele OSullivan

page

10

Cool Steel . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Kim Shults

page

14

For Those Like Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Melanie Pijuan

Letter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Caitlyn Semanie

page

19

. . .
The Fourth Face of Power
Adam Kress

. . . . . . . . . . 22

Cruel Sun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

page

23

Meredith Moore

Military Sexual Trauma . . . . . 24 Amando Javier

Back to School . . . . . . . . . . 40 Marylyn Tesconi Biographies and Credits . . . . 44

page

39

Sipping co ee to combat the November chill

and the self-consciousness of shared experience, we met for the rst time. A group of women that spanned generations, we sat with an extra chair between us. This wasnt a therapy group. This wasnt a writing group. This was more. A once-a-week dysfunctional family, we shared our deepest truths with strangers. We read the inspirational words of Maya Angelou, Audre Lorde, and Lucille Clifton. We laughed, we cried. Then we started to write. Some days, our pens stopped at empty lines. Other days, the words spilled. Then, together, we shared each spilled word.

Silver and Gold

by: RobbyBess
To Gram: Pieces of silver and gold Slices of a life my life While music plays a soundtrack To the chaos all around So many memories BANG! BANG! Innocence goneCamelots ended The Presidents dead. There she sat a Bible in her lap With tears in her eyes All for a man she never met She said two children lost their Daddy today She said never forget I havent Everyone remembers their rst time. So many memories Milestones Holidays Trips and Dreams Memories of those I love and those Ive lost And the music plays on Setting the tone Allowing us to express all those emotions Weve kept locked inside The smell of napalm in the morning Muddy rice paddies Dark, dank booby trapped tunnels in Chu Chi HELL NO WE WONT GO! All the draft cards burning Doves were yelling END THE WAR! Hawks were yelling GO! GO! GO! She watched the death toll slowly climb She gave me this bracelet So I would remember someone she never knew A man lost in the chaos Im sorry I never knew you Im sorry we left you behind She said never forget I havent

7
So many memories Pieces of silver and gold Kept forever Always in reach Now the music helps to heal us Now the music restores our soul So many memories A lifetime caught in the charms on a bracelet A lifetime lled with living Re ected in pieces of silver and gold

...

She said never forget. I havent. Everyone remembers their first time.

Letter to Me
by: Ti any Smith
Dear You, Congratulations. You have nally started to heal. In the last several months, you have begun to face yourself. You have been taking steps that you wanted to take. Continue to do this. Dont let anyone shut you down or take away your wants and desires again. Keep going. Apply yourself to your journey of healing. Jump in! Face up to the things you still continue to avoid. Put yourself out there. Believe that you know what is best for you. Trust your gut and go with your own choices. Dont ever close yourself o so much again. Stay human. Keep feeling. Dont be a zombie again. Life is not hopeless. Dont become completely dependent upon anyone else again. You are your own person. Trust yourself. Dont let anyone make your decisions, tell you how to feel, what to do, who you are. You got this! Communicate more clearly. Say what you feel, stop hiding it. Dont be ashamed of your thoughts, feelings, or opinions. Have con dence in you. Open up to people. Let them in. Let yourself out. Develop real friendships again. Love people again. Stop being afraid of people and of yourself. Stop being angry at the world. Go for it. Go for those dreams. You have so much left to do. You can do it! Love, Me ...

Discover Your Voice was held in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania from November 2009 - April 2010. The workshop was conducted by End the Silence Campaign.

Sticks and Stones

by: Cori Frazer
There are bits of stones and broken bones away where they can't nd me. Through the woods, and through the trees with bloody hands and sore, skinned knees. I've got broken teeth and swollen lips and something strange between my hips. I've got no place where I can hide. I've got no one to con de all the secrets in my mind and all the past not left behind.

The Discover Your Voice Workshop was a creative writing and communication workshop designed to help survivors of sexual violence re-discover the power of their own voices. Through critical reading, discussions, and writing prompts, participants examined issues of silence, memory, repression, anger, and self-worth. In a safe and supportive group, participants shared some of their deepest truths together.

I've got nightmare dreams and swallowed screams and I always wake up crying. Because through the wood, and through the trees there is anger for what you did to me and I can't seem to keep on hiding. You look at me and this disease and smile and laugh with sickening ease. You asked my name. You asked my name. You've said it a thousand times in a million ways with a billion lies for six hundred days. My vision froze and I arose and walked away. Shaking. Faking. Remember me? You called me your Utopia. A perfect city to ravage and burn. And through the smoke and the ames I refuse to play your fucking games. You'll never hear my name again. Never remember your fucking sins. The sins you never thought were wrong. ...

The Pearl by Catherine Tafur, 2008 Oil on Canvas 11 x 14 inches

silence
Why is sexual violence a silent issue? Every so often, we
hear a story of rape or abuse so heartbreaking it makes us pause and ask ourselves why this still happens. But the truth is, rape happens every day. Silently. Women and men are raped, assaulted and abused in their homes, on rst dates, in college dorms, on the sidewalk, in childhood bedrooms, in darkness, in blaring sunlight. It happens to our sisters, our daughters, our sons, our best friends, our co-workers, our classmates, our friends, our neighbors. Because rape is a crime so heinous that our brains almost cant comprehend it, we are silent. But the silence does not protect survivors. It only allows shame, fear, and self-blame to fester. When survivors speak - in our own words - we have the chance to reclaim some lost parts of ourselves. Writing is the chance to set the record straight once and for all. To tell what really happened, to give name to those feelings that sometimes overwhelm us. Writing gives us power, it gives others hope. It gives us our voice back. End the Silence Campaign is incredibly grateful to the writers and artists who shared their work within these pages. This collection is heartbreaking, raw, beautiful, and above all else, awe-inspring. Thank you.

Sometimes
by: Ti any Jade
sometimes I think of your hands, split and calloused from the nine to ve days and yard work weekends when the stereo played eighties hits real loud you called us your girls as we sat on rust-covered milk jugs, our legs dangling, swinging with the luna moths that loved the low lighting in our dusty carport on those same nights when the house and mama were sleeping, your shadow would ll the space of my doorway and I pulled my covers tight against my thin frame then, those warm hands dissolved my bedspread and the june breeze followed your ngers across my eight year old body and sometimes I would think it wouldnt be so bad to y with those moths, bumping across the ceiling light, trying, beating my wings until I cracked and fell, my lime body uttering in the dust I cried for their broken shells. . . .

and sometimes I would think it wouldnt be so bad to y with those moths, bumping across the ceiling light...
Silent
by: Ashley Stenger
So many years I didn't say a word Nothing I could say would change it anyways Silent as a night My heart turned black and gray The pain and the shame soon became unbearable Left without a choice there were words I had to say Words that didn't sound like my own, my mouth moved as words came out Tears running down my cheek salty in my mouth, they couldn't be my tears Opening the door I thought the pain would go away but instead it's something that haunts me everyday. . . .

12

13
The Monster Tamer
by: Sara Michele OSullivan
From early childhood she grew Familiar with the underworld Where darkness hides, Where most of you Would dare not venture near. The creature underneath your bed, The boogieman of midnight tales, With "claws that tear and fangs that bite" -These were her companions. Though human-clothed and "family," Beneath their skin a monster crawled. She learned the signs of their approach. She learned to tame the monsters. She knew the monsters. She understood them. They recognized her; That's why they prized her. She knew them very well -the Monster Tamer. She served them well. Her scars will tell; Her time in Hell Had made her brave. Then came a miracle one day When all the monsters went away. She stumbled up into the light; Her eyes were wide with wonder. The darkness now was left behind, The world around a di erent kind... And for the rst time ever The young girl was afraid. She knew the monsters. She understood them. They recognized her; That's why they prized her. She knew them very well -the Monster Tamer. The sunlight burned, the kindness too. The girl afraid, suspicious grew; She did not speak the language here. Her native tongue was monster. For monster lore was all she knew. She knew it well, an expert through The years of training she'd received -Apprenticeship in pain. From that day on she tried to learn; She tried to live akin with love; To stand erect with twisted scars and To speak without a trace of monster. She knew the monsters. She understood them. They recognized her; That's why they prized her. She knew them very well -the Monster Tamer. She longed to be like those she loved. She longed to shed the reptile past. Yet every day she saw the dawn She believed might be her last. The weariness of standing straight; The shame of scars twisted from view; To not be what she had always been Was more than she could bear. Though darkness was her truest friend, In dreams at night they came again. She felt them crawling back from hell, For home is where the monsters dwell. And so, one day, she went away She slipped the weight of hiding And she found the monsters. She understood them. They recognized her; That's why they prized her. She knew them very well -the Monster Tamer. . . .

Robbed of My Innocence (1) by Kelly Tobias, June 2009 Acrylic and Screenprint on Canvas

cool steel
by: Kim Shults

t had already been the worst day of my life and things were not looking up. I was sitting on a bench in a dingy little room. The lighting from the single overhead bulb was so poor that my shadow was barely visible and seemed to be fading into the yellow water stains on the sickly grey wall behind me. I had to sti e a morose laugh as I drew a parallel between my disappearing shadow (the shadow, a comfort to me at rst in the time-suspended box by myself, was the only proof that I was real) and the feeling that I, too, was fading away into the dark edges of the former storage closet that had become my cage. The doorknob turned and I bolted upright. When the door opened I could see half of the doctor, turned towards the outside. The bright antiseptic lights of the hospital hallway combined with her white coat made it impossible to discern where her body ended and the illumination began. I winced at the glare and the image of the halfdoctor. Yes." she said to someone I could not see. I heard my mom's voice reply and my heart soared and sank at the same time. The doctor turned her body towards me and misinterpreted the look on my face. "It's okay - - we'll get through this, she said with a sympathetic smile. She stepped further into the room, taking up too much space in the cell crowded with my bench and two other chairs. And me and my shadow. But we were taking up less space second by second, after all. I smiled to myself and the doctor considered it a satisfactory reply.

In the bright rectangle of light left by the open door a dark bulky gure appeared. I moved backwards on the bench, trying to become part of the wall and my eyes darted around, searching for another way out. "Kim, the doctor said, "this is O cer Grace Henson.* She's come to talk to you about what happened. Good. A woman. O cer Henson stepped into the room and did not smile. She was in uniform and the radio and shells on her belt made her look big. Very big. "First, I think the doctor has some information for you. The o cer immediately took control. Your mom probably wants to hear this." After glancing at the o cer for approval, the doctor leaned into the glowing doorway. "Mrs. Shults?" My mom came in and she was followed by Alice, the advocate I was introduced to in the hospital room before the tests. They both tried to smile but my mom failed and stared guiltily into her Styrofoam cup full of co ee. "Well, the doctor nally said, unaware that there was no longer enough air or space in the room to breathe, our preliminary tests show that you are not pregnant. That should be a small comfort. We should have the rest of the results by Wednesday." Wednesday? When was that? A familiar phrase from a million television ads ran through my brain: "Allow four to six weeks for delivery..." I smiled again.

15

"Thank you, I said quietly, surprised at the bounce in my voice. My mom smiled now and winked at me. The doctor made no move towards me but nodded to the three women on her way out of the room, closing the door behind her. My mom sat on the bench beside me and I watched her shadow join her on the dark cushion. Alice sat across from me, also with a cup of co ee, and gave me a thumbs-up sign. O cer Henson stood in front of me and her shadow swallowed me up. "Now tell me what happened that brought you here, she said, still not smiling or giving any sign that she actually gave a shit what happened. I began to tell again that story I'd told a hundred times that day while I concentrated on my hands. That nger in, this one out, rolling over one another, grasping, pinching and watching blood rush back into white blotches. In my peripheral vision I could see her gun and handcu s for the rst time. My mind ashed back to an image of my own hands trapped in the cu s. The room faded away, the corners' darkness swelling and engul ng the moment. When the dark tide ebbed, I was left with an image of a lifetime ago - when I rst saw him. He wasn't much taller than me and he was a dead-ringer for Geraldo Rivera. I tried to laugh but as I backtracked to the moment I'd just left to give my thought a voice among the living, I stumbled over the silver cu s that trapped me. A small part of my brain began to feverishly search for an "o " switch of some kind to stop the thoughts as they ooded into my brain, my consciousness. I saw his face moving above me and once again got the feeling that I was shrinking, growing smaller like an ice cube left in a discarded cup. I remember trying to hide my face so he could not see my anguish, and so I could not see that awful grimace. But when I closed my eyes, the vision continued, this time from above the two of us through the eyes of a child who was taking ight and seeking refuge - rushing and tumbling away from my spent and empty esh. I remembered knowing I was gone. "You're doin' just ne." Alice said, and yanked the chain that brought me through the mental snares

A small part of my brain began to feverishly search for an "o " switch of some kind to stop the thoughts as they ooded into my brain, my consciousness.
and back to the bench. My mom touched my knee and I jumped to the left, away from her. I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean that. But the words did not come out. Grace Henson spoke. "The events, as you've described them, Kim, constitute a felony rape. If you do not make a statement we will still proceed with prosecution and regard you as a hostile witness." The air grew thick with silence. My mind was still adjusting to the here and now. Her words came to me like an underwater punch and they took a while to piece together. "Will you make a statement?" she asked impatiently. I nodded. Satis ed, she opened the door and nodded to someone out there, passing along my response. She left the door open and another stranger entered. First I saw his thick dark hair parted on the side. Then the eyebrows that furrowed together matched in coarseness by a heavy, long moustache. I saw his hands, sti hair crawling on the back of them and the powerful palms that pushed at my knees, the ngers whose imprints I wore like brands all over my body. The wall pressed against me and I pushed back equally hard. My hands pressed at behind me and I knew I had to nd a way out. The side of my face pressed against the wall now, my mouth agape and a scream pushed up from deep in my stomach but lay dead and frozen before it could rattle in my throat.

Like a rubber-band toy wound too tight, I snapped suddenly and the will to save myself slipped away as he took another step towards me. From total relinquishment of hope came my salvation. This man's face became clear and the age around his indi erent eyes revealed that he was not the grimacing thief that tore me apart. "This is Investigator Jim Carlisle*, Kim. He's here to take your statement." Investigator Carlisle also did not greet me with a smile. Fear began to creep back into me. He looked at my mom and said, "In order to get a proper statement, I'll have to speak to her alone." Alice jumped from her chair. "NO WAY. She's just been raped and you want her alone with YOU? Nope. "I'll stay." said Grace Henson. This time she smiled. "Is that okay with you, Kim?" Alice asked. "Yeah," I said, less than enthused. I wanted to be cooperative. They had to be on my side. I did not want to be hostile. Alice took my mom's hand and they disappeared into the light. O cer Henson closed the door and took Alice's seat. Jim Carlisle sat in the chair beside her with a pad and pen that had materialized. After he got comfortable, Jim Carlisle began to speak. "Now, tell me with as much detail as possible, what happened." I began the story again, this time including the things I could not tell my mother and was too embarrassed to tell the doctor. Again I studied my hands. When I nished, I looked up. Investigator Carlisle sat back and looked at me angrily. Ya know what I think? He looked dead into my eyes. "I believe you

had sex with the guy, I just don't think you liked it." My mind reeled. I hit my head on the wall behind me. My hands grabbed at the cushions beneath me, my voice silenced this time by incomprehension and disbelief. Futilely, I looked to Grace -"grace". The word, the name, tasted sweet in my mind and having it in my mouth made me feel feather-light and for a ash of an instant, safe. Now her uniform reminded me of the coloring book we all got in third grade that "O cer Friendly" gave us when he came to talk to us. O cer Friendly with his tilted head and cockeyed grin that could almost make you forget about the gun on his hip. Her hip. Next to the handcu s. "Kim, she started slowly, not tilting her head, but turning it to the side so she could look at me through the half-closed corners of her eyes. "Why did you get tested for pregnancy? Is there some new miracle way they can tell this soon?" I may have stammered, but I do not recall. "Are you sure you just didn't want to tell your mom and dad you were pregnant? Is that what this is all about?" Mom and Dad. I was in the kitchen next to the refrigerator that once held my grade-school artwork proudly on display. My dad had just come in, kissed my mother hello and looked at me. "What's the matter with your eyes? he asked. I told him I'd been crying all day. "What's going on princess?" His face was already transforming in pain without yet knowing the source of mine. How could I tell Daddy I let his baby girl get hurt? Fresh tears stung my face and warmed my neck as my mind found the switch to end my thoughts in a desperate attempt to save what little was left of my sanity. Fury rushed up from deep inside of me, like a glaring bolt of lightning - anger for the pain of my father - and my st collided with the wall next to me. NO" I said through clenched teeth. The wall shook and it felt good.

17

"Were you a virgin before this happened?" Her words spat soil stained me. They accused and degraded. It was clear that a yes meant that I was overreacting to a rst experience and no said that I was a slut, or a scorned lover crying wolf. I hit the wall again, my only de ant stronghold against the darkness that was lapping at my feet. "NO" was more a protest to the surrender of my will than an answer to her profane question. Jim Carlisle looked up from his pad. "What were you wearing?"

My rage was nally given voice. "WHY won't you HELP ME? WHY?" I could not manage any more words through the wave of emotion rising in my chest or over the pounding of my heart. My heavy breathing was made raspy by the thick tears that covered my face and clung to my lips. All of my rage and protest turned into tears that rushed up to be revealed and quickly wasted. I drew my knees up to my chest in a vain attempt to keep the remaining pieces of me intact. When you get into court" Grace Henson was nearly yelling, the defense attorney is gonna be like a big bear and you're gonna be a little cub." She was gesturing with her hands and the image of a bear's claws tearing at me forced me to bury my head between my knees and scream. I stayed that way, curled in on myself, willing them away. I heard paper rustling and Jim Carlisle cleared his throat. The sound came from above me and I knew he was standing. "I'm gonna see if I can make a report out of this, maybe go talk to this guy. "I'll go get her mother." Grace Henson replied. I heard the metallic click as her handcu s shifted while she stood. I thought again about her gun and thought of the comforting cool steel on my face as the last of my will slipped into the shadows. . . .

Why wont you HELP ME? WHY? I could not manage any more words through the wave of emotion rising in my chest... I drew my knees up to my chest in a vain attempt to keep the remaining pieces of me intact.
I thought of my baggy jeans - he pulled them over my hips without unbuttoning them - and my Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. Mickey fucking Mouse. What was a twenty-year-old doing wearing Mickey Mouse? I must have said something out loud because Jim Carlisle was scribbling. The next thing I remember him saying was "Kim, you gotta come up with something better than this. I'm gonna talk to this guy and he's gonna say you wanted it. That you loved it and begged for it. I don't even think I'm gonna be able to press charges - "

*NOTE: This is a true story. The names of police o cers have been changed at the request of Ms. Shults for privacy purposes.

18

Robbed of My Innocence (2) by Kelly Tobias, June 2009 Acrylic and Screenprint on Canvas

For Those Like Me

by: Melanie Pijuan
He comes for me in the night Like a thief he steals from me He creeps up on me like the wind Knocking me down with his force Relax he whispers as he holds me tight So tightly I feel my bones pushing through my skin Trying to break free I cannot breathe Terror Cannot utter the smallest sound My mind races Pleads with the inevitable Please let me up Please No one hears me I am alone I smell the drink on his breath Struggle to move my face from his reach Kiss me like I showed you he stammers I do not comply I close my eyes Shut them tight Make me disappear I pray Make me fade away I love you so much monkey That is why I need you I love you so much Dont you love me too? I still do not speak I try to move Try to get up To get away But he holds me tighter And it hurts so much Claustrophobia I cannot take it I am dizzy Fading in and out of myself I count the ceiling tiles And if I run out

20

I trace the shapes in the wallpaper Till he moves me Molds me Contorts me HURTS ME Ruins me Changes me Little by little I am someone else entirely I cant tell on him I am scared he will hurt me worse Hurt my mom Maybe never let me go home Keep me trapped in this bedroom with the ugly brown couch covered in plastic The couch I am supposed to sleep on when I visit Instead I have to sleep in his bed Or he gets very angry Terror Terri es me to imagine what other ways he could come up with to punish me So I go to him My father A term I use loosely Numb Detached I convince myself my soul is free It is just my body being punished Its not really me I am still alive Even if no one knows it but me I will grow up Move far far away So he cannot nd me Its over for now He shifts away from me And has another drink Swig after swig and at last He sleeps

He will leave me alone till next week I creep out of his bed Put on my pants and ease into my bed My couch My ugly brown couch with the plastic cover The plastic that betrays me He stirs when it sounds I take the sheet and sit on the oor Rock myself back and forth Daydream about being someone else Anywhere else but here I fold and repack my knapsack till its perfect I want to be ready when mami picks me up She wont ask me whats wrong She cannot gure it out Cause Im a good girl I know how to make you believe what you need to see That trait is now a part of me I am a chameleon on the run Changing constantly The car ride home is a blur You chat me up about this and that Lets go have ice cream you gush Just you and me Yes mami lets go Lets run away and never look back But I cant say that I just smile and we get a cone with sprinkles Cause you missed me Why cant you see the hole in my heart? Eyes full of agony Before I know it, it will be Saturday night again And I realize I will never be free Time is my enemy Only when I close my eyes I can oat way Only then I will be free I wrote this for you For those like me For those who know the likes of me For those of us who long to be free . . .

Letter

by: Caitlyn Semanie

Today I wrote you a letter And cried as I read The words scribbled in red Ink that owed with such force Bursting from my pen Like hot, burning embers My heart ached for my lost self Renew in its splendor This anger put away Put down on the makings of Makings of the earth Like blood, my pain trickled Down my thighs To my feet Back to the ground Whence it grew I put ame to paper Burnt the memory of you The name. The pain. The hate toward all that is pure. Me my eyes lled with tears Watching my captor Relinquish to the heat The re that burned my soul And I, I felt such passion in my veins When the paper turned to ash Chalk against the darkness The blackness The dirt. Spit never tasted so bitter Spat upon the crumpled corpse Nothing but a swear To curse the beast. . . .

21

The Fourth Face of Power

by: Adam Kress
(For M. all you wrote in my book was Yes! for the words alone are idealisms broadsword) Tonight I watched Another Poet Struggle to describe her work Someone said: Your work personal, confessional Can you talk about lifes in uences? No, she said, curtly Stumbling through words Sorry to be so inarticulate It happens to me, The Voice, Quintessential, Baring, yet its not me Its Projected, Its Protected, Interstitial I saw what he did not see I saw, how you come to poetry Kicking & Screaming just like me Ive cracked my left shoulder every day since intervention number one Was that weakness leaving the body? Or Self-Executing Inferiority Whatever it is, it runs deep Is it broken? Together Seamless or Coming Apart Bravado Turned Inside-Out I let her shatter inside of me Numbering every piece A mosaic for the shards

Holding her in, and keeping it out Moonlight Nightmares Dreams Power & Powerlessness In Contrapositive Attacking, where we become human beings Yes!Poetry is Idealisms Broadsword Consuming Subsuming Breaking Through & Subjugating The Fourth Face of Power . . .

Cruel Sun

by: Meredith Moore

The sun is a dichotomy Warming us in the day How cruel of him to Turn his back He knows we want Him to stay If ever you get close to him Expecting your eyes to meet Hell blind you with the speed of light Unremorseful of his feat . . .

22

Robbed of My Innocence (3) by Kelly Tobias, June 2009 Acrylic and Screenprint on Canvas

M ilitary S exual Trauma

Narrative by: Amando Javier

Introduction by: Emily Monroe

For the rst time in a long time, we couldnt

think of anything to say. Our interview with Amando Javier was over, but when we hung up the phone his words still clung to the air. Margot and I sat on the couch trying to drink co ee but our stomachs were full. Full of the most heart-breaking yet uplifting words either of us had heard in years.

If you feel overwhelmed, dont be afraid to call 1-800-656-HOPE or visit www.rainn.org for help.

Caution: This narrative could trigger ashbacks.

25
When speaking to Amando Javier, it is impossible not to be inspired. His words calm and careful, you can hear the patient smile in his voice. Within seconds, Margot and I knew we were talking to a man who truly embodied courage. Not only the courage that it takes to survive a brutal gang-rape by 6 fellow Marines. But the courage that it takes to survive each day after. And the courage that it takes to speak about what happened. Courage is a quality not uncommon in the military. Yet there are men like Amando Javier who personify this courage in a way that transcends reality. Amando Javier was brutally raped and physically assaulted by members of his own Marine unit in 1993. Ashamed and fearful for his own life, he kept the secret of the rape for 15 years. But welled secrets cultivate stress, rage, anxiety, hopelessness, and anger, and the e ects of what happened started to impact every area of his life, including his relationships with family and friends. Finally, Amando reached his breaking point and decided to tell someone what happened. The secret was buried so deep that, at rst, Amando couldnt nd the words. So he wrote. He wrote each word of what happened on that life-changing night. I just wanted some sense of acknowledgement, which would be justice for me, he says. Seeking justice was no easy task for Amando. His words were silenced, his story ignored. To this day, no one has been held accountable for the heinous crimes committed against him. But speaking about what happened started a process of healing that has given Amando his life back. Healing hasnt been easy. I am still su ering as we speak, Amando tells us. Each day for Amando is both a gift and an accomplishment, and his gratefulness just to be alive is awe-inspiring. I want to tell other survivors, males or females, that this crime is a crime and it has to be reported. Dont be scared, because youre not alone. The sooner you report the crime, the sooner you can receive treatment. Hopefully my story will reach out to other people who are in the same predicament as I am. The following story is disturbing and heart-wrenching, but it is printed here in its entirety, in Amandos own handwriting. This is the only true way to capture the range of emotions released on to the page. This is the story that was silenced and ignored, the story that nearly de es comprehension. This is the truth.

have been hidden to protect Mr. Amando Javier.

Note: Names of perpetrators

P.. N. M. R.

F.. W

B.F..

27

28

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R.

B.F.. B.F.. B.F..

29

W R.

30
R.

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M. P

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31

P..

N. M. M.

M.

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Baptism Catherine Tafur, 2006 Graphite and colored pencil on paper 11 x 14 inches

Back to School
by: Marylyn Tesconi

41
setting me apart from every other six year old in the school. I am damaged, and I am di erent, and I am powerless to change it. The guide asks us to identify the essence and scents of rst grade. What do I smell? I smell the rusty water spouting from the drinking fountain where I linger too long at recess so that I will not have to socialize and talk and risk exposure. What do I hear? I hear kids laughing and yelling and chattering with delight; I hear the silence of my quiet secret. What do I feel? I feel alone and dirty and painfully confused. I take refuge in the classroom. I am smart, and I am eager. I write well; I read voraciously and with great ease. Although I do not speak out so much in class, I know most of the answers, and I take comfort in the capacity and brilliance of my own brain. My report card will re ect mostly EXCELLENT marks, and I will be plucked from the doldrums of Dick-and-Jane into enrichment classes for gifted children where I will hide behind words, and no one will ever suspect that I am de led, undeserving and entirely alone. The guide now graduates us to the middle school experience. I am immersed in memory, drowning in the isolation and humiliation of truth. Now I am twelve. I am in the 7th grade at James Denman Junior High School, and there are no more homemade dresses for me. I have learned to dress up and stick out. My newly budding breasts are stu ed into conical brassieres, and I am experimenting with panty-girdles and mesh-top hose. I paint my lips with Peppermint Gloss and rat my hair into a feisty beehive. What do I smell? My nostrils are with Estee Lauder after-bath splash, Aqua-Net hairspray and stale gym socks. I hide my body when it is time for showers in PE class. I am imperfect, fat, a naked abrasion not to be in icted on my peers. What do I hear? I hear girls talking about the boys they like, the clothes they want, a slumber party at so-and-sos house Friday night, but I will not be invited. I dont mix well with the

hate guided meditation. It never works for me, although I always do exactly what I am told to do; I keep my eyes closed and my mind free, and I try to let go, but I never go anywhere. I am always stuck in the classroom or the ashram or the community center with 10-20 other guided voyagers who all seem to be sailing along on their journeys embracing the body language of surrender while I shift around uncomfortably on the oor wondering how long it will be before I am called back from nowhere and can sit and listen to everybody elses glorious and deep excursion into truth, spirit and elevated consciousness. Sometimes I even lie, like I did in the Confessional when I didnt really have any sins of consequence to repent. So when I was asked to stand for a guided journey exercise Saturday morning, I felt my body immediately sti en and my willingness instantly retract. And it probably would have been just another routine excursion into oblivion, except for the location of the trip. As soon as I heard the words, Close your eyes, and imagine you are six years old. Imagine the smells, the sounds; imagine what it felt like to be in school, I knew I was in trouble. My eyes were tightly shut, my sts balled up defensively, but nothing could keep out the in ltration of memory and the manifestation of pain. There I stood in the circular and silent stillness, naked and raw, exposed and completely unable to shield myself from recollection. Yes, I am six years old, and I am riddled with shame. I am wearing a homemade dress painstakingly made by my Italian seamstress-grandmother, and I am eating brown bag lunches packed with focaccia bread and biscotti, but these ethnic anomalies are not the source of my disgrace. My shame is far bigger than a house dress, deeper than a bag lunch. I am ashamed because I am being molested by our 72 year old next door neighbor, and I cant tell anybody, and I cant understand it; I cant stop it, and I know absolutely that this violation, this relationship is

42
other girls; I like boys better. In fact, I stand on the edge of everything and watch the boys watching me. I know what boys like, and I want them to like me. I take the classroom for granted. I sit and I listen; I get As on my test papers, and I nd the world of books growing and consoling. I immerse myself in The Catcher in the Rye; I imagine kissing Holden Caul eld with his gray hairs and red hunting hat, and I know him, in an intimate, personal way. He is like me, a learner, a reader and a freak. If they nd out who I really am, theyll lock me away like Holden. I am unlovable, and I have no reliable lter from the world. I am 16 now, my rst year of High School. I have not been locked away. Instead, I have grown into a promiscuous, amboyant young woman. It is the tail end of the 60s, and the message of free love abounds. This is perfect for me, the girl who believes her only gift is sex. I sew myself into slinky snakeskin shifts and fur-lined capes, aunting myself at teachers, irting unabashedly with football players, hippies and Pep Club geeks. What do I smell? I smell patchouli oil and reefer, my ticket to numbness and transformation. What do I hear? I hear whispers as I walk by, Beatles tunes racing through my head, the crack of a screw-top bottle of Bali Hai opening the oodgates of salacious behavior. School is a peripheral distraction, a place to parade and entice. I discover e.e. cummings, and I become a poet for the rst time. I develop an intimate relationship with lower case; lower case suits me. i am small; i am unassuming; i am unworthy. My creative writing teacher catches me in the supply closet and pins me to the wood. He plants his lips on mine, and I want to die. Not this again. How did he know? I wonder what I am doing that calls these men to me. I am broken, transparent, loose I hear the guide say, Okay, come back now. You can open your eyes, and my rst thought is: No I cant, because everyone will know where I have been. They will see that thing in me that has ruled me and ruined me, and I want to run out of here right now and never mention this again. I do not want to be vulnerable, exposed, and known for my brokenness. I do not want to be seen, yet I am compelled to take a closer look at myself. What do I see? I see a 55 year old woman partial to blue jeans and peasant blouses. She carries a bag made from recycled Saris, and is prone to comfortable shoes because her sacroiliac is out of whack and she requires stability to balance the pain. She is short but formidable, round but proportionate, sensitive, curious and glib. She is me, and I am fully out tted to celebrate the devoted mother, tender lover, member of the cohort, manager of widgets, creator of art, writer and reader and ercely connectable friend that inhabit this body I have alienated for so long. I ask myself, does the body create theory? I answer, absolutely. Must I be bound by this theory? Not necessarily. When my body is out of synch, the theory is erratic, ideas get twisted and chaos prevails. On my guided journey my body took over, became the enemy, set the stage for sabotage. The theory my body created caused me to momentarily forget all that I have learned, all the healing work I have accomplished. In the time it took to say, Imagine you are six years old, I was right back at the rusty water fountain, baptized by shame. Luckily, shame and fear and pain are components of only one theory I have unconsciously embodied. My conscious body is now able to embrace other theories of strength and courage and dignity. I may not be entirely free of chaos, but I am synchronized enough to nd my way back to clarity and peace.

I ask myself, does the body create theory? I answer, absolutely. Must I be bound by this theory? Not necessarily.

So what do I smell today in this place of peace and clarity? I smell Versace Crystal Noir. Its expensive. Im worth it. What do I hear? I hear invitations, admirations, admissions and positions that welcome me to this clear and placid world of scholarship. I inhabit this world through hard work and choice; it is a world of books and circles, revelations and possibilities, a place where I have learned to respect the gift of my intelligence, and no longer have to linger on the periphery because I am unworthy of discourse. I have become a full- edged participant, a warrior for healing, boldly brandishing my weapons of compassion, forgiveness and love. I am now a graduate student, 30 years in the

making. Soon I will begin a practicum working with survivors of sexual trauma. I have taken this thing of ruination and shame, and worked it into a thing of resiliency and promise. Today, I embrace my education with hope and purpose. In this school, I pay attention, I speak up, and I read everything twice because I do not want to miss a single morsel. I still keep my e.e. cummings close, and my Maya Angelou closer, turning always to the durable words of strength. In these rooms, I am whole and ready; in this house I am awake and aware and alive. On this journey, I am in nitely grateful that I have found the courage to nally open my eyes. . . .

In Our Own Words - One

is the rst publication produced by End the Silence Campaign. The stories, poetry, and art are original and remain the artistic property of the writers and artists. It is unlawful to reprint any of the works contained in this journal without permission of the author. Thank you to everyone who submitted work. Stay posted for upcoming publications produced by End the Silence Campaign.

www.endthesilencecampaign.org
43

Check out more stories, poetry, and art on our website! Or submit your own.

44

biographies
Cori Frazer (Sticks and Stones) is
a student at the University of Pittsburgh where she studies Social Work and Women and Gender Studies. Originally from Greene County, Pennsylvania, she is an activist in such causes as LGBT rights and ending violence against women. She lives in Pittsburgh with her partner, Michael, and their two rats, Max and Kodi.

Ti any Smith (Letter to Me) is a 23 year

old graduate of the University of Pittsburgh with degrees in Psychology and Political Science. Her personal experience of survival has inspired her to share her journey through her writing, volunteer work, and outspoken feminism. She hopes to continue her mission by pursuing graduate degrees in Public Health and Social Work to continue ghting for womens rights and voices as victims, survivors, and human beings.

Caitlyn Semanie (Letter)

Catherine Tafur (Baptism & The

Pearl) was born in Lima, Peru in 1976 to a Peruvian father and a Japanese mother. After spending the rst part of her childhood in Peru and the latter part in Wilmington, Delaware, she moved to New York City to study at the Cooper Union School of Art where she warned her BFA. The artist has since shown her work at venues throughout Brooklyn and Manhattan. Tafurs work uses the image of the body to explore ideas of gender deconstruction, confrontational sexuality, disillusionment, and loss of innocence. She transforms personal experiences into allegorical works of poetic representational symbolism, often through painful dis gurements, idealized androgyny, and mutilation. She now lives and works in New York City.

is 23 years old. She is a rst-year graduate student in Counseling Psychology. She wrote this after having written a letter to her abuser, which she then burned. It was an incredibly empowering exercise for her. It has been a long journey through the healing process, and she continues to ght the ght every day, like so many others. One day, she hopes to be able to help others break their silence and heal.

Ti any Jade (Sometimes) is a

junior college student pursuing a degree in English. After graduation, she plans to attend law school in order to become a victim's advocate for survivors of sexual assault and abuse.

. . .
cence) is an artist through and through. She strives to breathe life into her work and let her passion for creating shine through each piece. More importantly her goal with each piece is to connect to viewers, to make a di erence in a life, no matter how big or small. Kelly is from Loveland, OH, has a BFA from the University of Cincinnati and currently resides in Cincinnati, OH.

45

Kelly Tobias (Robbed of my Inno-

Amando Javier (MST Narrative) is

proli c poet, having been featured repeatedly in numerous feminist literary magazines including: CWRCs Forword Magazine, Calisophia, and Other Magazine. His rst book length collection, entitled: Mon Cherie: A lady, A Love, A Collection of Poems was published in 2005 by Foothills Publishing, Kanona NY and followed in 2010, with a self-published e ort entitled: Whole Woman available through Blurb.com.

Adam Kress (The Fourth Face of Power), a native of Watkins Glen NY, is a

41 years old, married and has a 10 year old son. A Filipino-American, he is currently residing in New Mexico. He served a total of 11 years in the armed forces, 4 years in active duty and the rest in the reserves. His Military Sexual Trauma occurred in the late quarter of 1993, where he was sexually assaulted by 6 Marines from his company. He now su ers from multiple psychiatric ailments due to the Military Sexual Trauma that he experienced. He battles the symptoms of Severe Depression, Anxiety, and PTSD everyday. He is in a rigorous schedule of prescription medications for all the ailments mentioned. With this, all he has is hope and faith to God that he can at least enjoy the remaining years of his life!

As a teenager I had secrets to keep. I was gay and being abused and I needed to talk about what was going on, but there was no one so I began writing. It took me a long time to deal with my secrets, but through it all I continued to write. I never shared my writing until recently and when I did I found out Im not alone.

RobbyBess (Silver and Gold)

School) is a 57 year old native San Franciscan. She has worked as a Manager in state service for over 20 years, but in the last 8 years she has responded to a di erent calling. In 2003 she returned to school, rst earning a certi cation as an Addiction Treatment Specialist, and currently working on a Masters Degree in Psychology and Community Mental Health which she will complete in December 2011. Marylyn plans to work with survivors of early sexual abuse.

Marylyn Tesconi (Back to

END THE SILENCE CAMPAIGN

www.endthesilencecampaign.org

ABOUT

MISSION

&

End the Silence is a campaign dedicated to ending the silence surrounding sexual violence through the collective power of the human voice. Through stories, poetry, and visual art, End the Silence strives to open communication and end the stigmas surrounding rape, sexual assault, and sexual abuse. End the Silence Campaign originated as an online space for survivors to share their stories in early 2009. In the fall of 2009, End the Silence o ered its rst free writing workshops to survivors of sexual violence in Pittsburgh, PA. Discover Your Voice, a creative writing and empowerment workshop, helped survivors explore writing and self-expression in a safe, supportive environment. In Our Own Words - One is the rst collection of stories, poetry, and art produced by End the Silence Campaign. This project aims to promote awareness about sexual violence, encourage open and honest communication between victims and their loved ones, and support survivors in their quest to rediscover their voices through the healing power of poetry, art, and storytelling.

VISION

THE TEAM
Emily Monroe, Founder and Director
Emily is a writer, artist, and activist dedicated to increasing awareness about rape, sexual abuse, and sexual assault. A graduate of the University of Pittsburgh, Emilys professional experience includes teaching, non-pro t development, and educational and literacy program management. Her experiences working with women and girls in Guyana and her own personal journey inspired her to create End the Silence Campaign in early 2009. Currently, Emily teaches primary school in Honduras.

Margot Martin, Outreach Coordinator

Margot is a strong and compassionate activist dedicated to opening communication about sexual violence. A graduate of the University of Pittsburgh, Margot brings her expertise in communication and her powerful personal story to End the Silence Campaign. Margot has experience in marketing, business, public relations, and development. Currently, Margot works in marketing and development for a women's reproductive rights nonpro t.

end the silence campaign

endthesilencecampaign.org

SUBMIT YOUR WORK

End the Silence Campaign is always seeking stories, poetry, and art for the website. Submit original work by visiting www.endthesilence campaign.org/submit-your-work/. Stories, poetry, and art will be considered for website publication and inclustion in upcoming collections.