Refusing to be Silenced
December 8, 1980. John Lennon was killed in New York City. I was battered for the last time, in Syracuse, NY. Today, as I write this, I celebrate the twentieth anniversary of my escape from terror and remember the sad news of Lennon's death. I was battered, raped, starved to skeletal proportions, economically exploited, and emotionally controlled. I had no words for my experiences then; no framework to understand what he was doing to me, or why. I knew he drank too much. I knew he had a difficult family history. I didn't understand how or why he hurt me, other than when he said that it was my fault: that because I didn't properly cook dinner he had to beat me, or when I wore my hair the "wrong" way, he had to rape me. My co-workers suspected that this might be happening, but nothing was said. Silence. His mother knew what was happening, but she said only that she did not want us coming to her house. Silence.
His sister knew. Silence. His younger brother knew and he was silent, too. I was silenced by their silence. I never screamed, I rarely asked for help. My own family lived too far away to be aware of the violence, and I was either too proud or too scared to tell them. He demanded that the money I earned go into his checking account. I silently complied. He demanded sexual activities that I found degrading and abusive. I was too ashamed to tell anyone. He violently raped me, leaving me physically bruised and forever traumatized. I was silenced into submission. He withheld food from me and I was losing weight rapidly. He beat me for wearing make-up, saying that I looked like a slut. He never allowed me to see any friends and had created a rift between me and my family. I was completely dominated by him. He was cruel, cold, demanding, drunk, and vicious. I was scared, silent, alone, and wasting away to nothing.
Eventually people wouldn't be able to see me, let alone hear me. I expected he would kill me eventually. When I found the courage to seek help from my family, my sister paid $45.00 and wired bus fare to me so I could come home immediately. I had few material possessions: a few clothes and some household items. During one rage, he had taken a razor blade to all my clothes and destroyed them, leaving me with only the clothes on my back. He destroyed even my underwear! Therefore, packing was easy. My escape was miraculous. He decided I should go back to Maine to work in a factory, so I could send money to him, which I promised to do. The problem was that I had no way to get to the bus station. We fought; this time I argued back. He leapt over the coffee table and started punching me in the face, choking me, kicking me in the ribs, pounding my head on the floor. I managed to look out the window and a taxi had just dropped off a neighbor. I ran! I grabbed my luggage and begged the cabbie to take me to the bus station. I had no money. I had not eaten in days, I was emaciated after being starved for so long. The cabbie saw my condition and he told me to get in. He worked out of the bus station; it was his last run for the night. He saved my life; he bought me a dozen Dunkin' Donuts after he asked about the last time I ate. I still consider donuts "soul food," and his kindness that night still brings tears of gratitude to my eyes. This nourishment began my journey of healing.
The men who worked in the bus station allowed me to wait in the driver's lounge out of fear that he might come to track me down. The radio was playing Beatles music, which I had always loved. I could not understand why so many songs with John Lennon's voice, until the announcer managed to share the sad news through his tear-choked voice. Strawberry Fields Forever. I boarded the bus the next morning and never went back. I was grateful for the songs, and sad for Lennon's death. I wondered why should he die and I survive? Certainly Lennon had more to offer the world than I . It seemed unfair. I wanted Lennon back. I wanted my pain to go away.
I arrived at the bus station in Bangor, Maine where my parents met me. They had never seen me in such an emaciated condition, bruised and battered. My father gave me a big bear hug and squeezed a little too hard around my ribs and I winced. I remember the look on his face that defies description. My mother and father put my one little piece of luggage in the car and they took me home. I slept. For days. I ate ravenously. Three weeks later I found out I was pregnant. When I told my parents, Dad said "Oh, Kim, that's great, we'll have little feet running around here again! Don't worry about anything; your mother and I will help you with whatever you need." My mother gave me a hug and held me when I cried. My son, Greg, was born in July 1981. I have raised my son single-handedly, and with the loving support of my parents and siblings. I spoke out and got out. Now I speak out against abuse and silencing of battered women. If silence equals death, then speaking out is a bold act of courage in the face of incredible barriers. But, that's just the beginning of the story. So much has happened in my life over the last twenty years. I went to work in the Hathaway Shirt factory, as I told him I would, but I never sent him money. The work was demeaning, boring, and hard on my fingers. But their insurance coverage provided the pre-natal care I needed, so I worked as much as I could until just a month before the birth of my son. I was only allowed only a two-month leave of absence from the factory, so I had to put my baby in day-care at a very young age. I hated that part. He was my reward for surviving and yet I could not enjoy just being a mom. I was determined to do my best raising him. I worked in the factory until I was fired for "insubordination," after which I was on welfare and took custody and guardianship of my nephew who was being abused by my older sister. I was 21 years old and had my one-year-old son and my five-and-a-half-year-old nephew to raise alone. I was scared. I was poor. And I was suffering from very low self-esteem. I had been fired for speaking out, and then I was a just another poor woman on welfare with two kids. Aside from my parents and my sister (not the one whose child I was raising), I had no one to guide me or help support me.
My self-esteem was in the toilet. I engaged in self-destructive behavior, including using drugs, alcohol, and sex to numb the pain. I also developed a problem with over-eating. I used food (especially donuts) for comfort and took my problems out on my body. It was my body that had been so severely targeted by my ex, and now by me. I did not deserve to be treated well, or so I thought. I did not know how to care for myself. I did not know how to get over the pain of having been raped, battered, starved, and utterly destitute. I used to joke around that I didn't need him to beat me up anymore, I was doing a fine job on my own - thank you very much! I believed myself to be ugly, fat, and worthless. My only comforts were playing with my son and eating food. My self-destructive activities further punished my body with too much substance use and promiscuous sexual behavior. Society was telling me that the only value I had as a woman was through servicing men either with sex, food, or domestic service. I felt unworthy of being valued and loved. In fact, I did not really know what those things meant.
In September 1983 I began the process of applying for admission at the University of Maine. Having graduated from high school in 1979, my SAT scores were considered current and my long-standing desire for a college education resurfaced. When I sought help from the Admissions Officer, who was from my home town, I found sensitive and compassionate support. As I looked around and took stock of my life, I saw things that needed to change. I needed to be a good mother to my boys and I felt I could not do that while being miserable in poverty. I asked for help from the State, which had a program then called "Welfare, Education, Employment and Training" (WEET) to assist welfare recipients pursuing college with money for books, child care, transportation and other expenses. I had no idea that I would succeed at college. I had a ton of hope, but no real idea that it would work. Someone said to me "You know, Kim, you're not college material, you'll never make it. Why are you setting yourself up for failure?" My parents loaned me their car, allowed me to live in an apartment in their house rent-free, and provided groceries when I had none.
As a single mom on welfare, I enrolled as a full-time student in January 1984, commuting seventy miles a day, taking six courses per semester, and going full-time in the summer. I took my first sociology course and was hooked. I understood Marx experientially; I understood feminist theories experientially. Declaring my major in sociology meant committing myself to earning a doctorate and developing an expertise in violence against women. In 1987, I was named one of "One Hundred Outstanding College Women Graduates" in the United States. Afterwards, I began graduate school at the University of New Hampshire, earned my master's degree in 1990 and then the Ph.D. in 1994. It's been a long and rewarding journey. The person who suggested I wasn't "college material" has since changed her mind. I was promoted to Associate Professor a year early and my Department has voted to tenure me this year. In January 2001, I depart for a Fulbright Scholarship in Australia. I've done alright.
Residuals of the trauma remain, however. I am still afraid of anger, my own and my partner's (not that my partner has ever exhibited anger inappropriately). I still struggle with self image and body weight problems, which are so intricately connected that no amount of sociological analysis can "cure" me. I still use food for comfort, though I am reasonably fit. I seldom drink or use other substances, preferring the natural joys of great music, close friends, and my loving partner's arms around me. I would never wish this experience of abuse on anyone. To survive abuse, indeed to triumph over it, is almost impossible the legacy lingers forever. Still, I know I am a stronger woman because of the challenges in my life. In the immortal words of Maya Angelou, I "wouldn't take nothing for my journey now."
I am no longer silent on these and many other issues. I speak out, and I will continue to speak out because to do so is to tear down the walls of male dominance that control women's lives. I share my experiences with my students, many of whom are first generation in college and are also formerly battered women with small children. I have learned that in the process of being silenced and internalizing the responsibility for being abused, a significant number of battered women have struggled with self-destructive behaviors, including substance use and eating disorders. James Messerschmidt's (2000) recent book demonstrates how the socially constructed images of hegemonic masculinities can have impacts on the self-perceptions of young men, and many cases documented by Ann Goetting (1999) illustrate that when women internalize frustration and anger, we are likely to exhibit this frustration within our bodies. In particular, Goetting interviewed several women whose obesity became a serious medical problem that further spiraled into plummeting self-esteem that in turn furthered their reliance on food for comfort and solace.
Combine this with the appearance norms of "beauty" (Chapkis, 1986) and abusive men who continually berate women for not being "young and beautiful," and we see abused women falling into ill-health and passing this legacy onto children. When sexual violence is part of the battered woman experience, when our bodies are the direct targets of abuse in the most degrading fashion, it is not surprising that some women respond (consciously or not) by failing to care for our health. The stories of Gretchen, Sharon, Rebecca, Kimberly, and others documented by Goetting (1999) are compelling on these issues. Confound these problems of self-care with those of poverty, racism and ethnic variation in the lives of women and they are dramatically intensified. In a world that assaults us with images of skeletal women as representations of "beauty," glamorizes violence against women as entertainment, and berates us when we challenge the status quo, commitment to healthy self-care is a bold act of defiance.
As feminist scholars, we must attend to how self-destructive behavior is so often related to the gendered-oppression we all experience in its various forms. As feminist scholars, we must also work hard to break down those oppressive barriers to health and true happiness for women and children. As feminist scholars, we need to engage in radical self-care: speaking out, refusing to be silenced, validating our students who are feminist activists, sharing the "sour-dough" empowerment inherent in feminist theory and feminist politics. So, to the women who preceded me in feminist activism and scholarship, I owe a huge Thanks. Thank you for being strong in the face of great opposition. I am proud to be one beneficiary of your hard work. To the women who have shared my activism, either as co-founder of the International Coalition against Sexual Harassment (formerly Sociologists Against Sexual Harassment), as co-activists with local shelters for battered women, as reproductive rights activists, or activist/scholars who publish in these areas, I say thanks for the sisterhood, the inspiration, and the laughter! To the women who will come after us and continue the movement toward respect and dignity for women and children, I say welcome! Let's make this work. Let's be loud, vocal and filled with joy as we dance through this revolution! Silence equals death, and resistance is power! As Lennon wished, let's "imagine all the people living life in peace."
- Chapkis, Wendy. 1986. Beauty Secrets: Women, and the Politics of Appearance. New York: South End Press.
- Goetting, Ann. 1999. Getting Out: Life Stories of Women Who Left Abusive Men. New York: Columbia University Press.
- Messerschmidt, James W. 2000. Nine Lives: Adolescent Masculinities, the Body, and Violence. Boulder, CO: Westview Press.
