Then & Now: Rape, Rage, & allyship
Credit: Roihan Haidar, Unsplash
— In this Article —
I’m in a women’s writing circle—In Her Words, facilitated by Lael Couper Jepson—and I felt pulled to share what I wrote this week (plus a song I’d written decades ago). In this intimate telephone circle(!!), we share our written words in response to a prompt. This circling practice is both simple and powerful, and I’m sharing my words with you today because they provide context for the shift in focus that Wise Woman Wayfinding is undergoing.
Trigger warning: I write about being raped (c. 1999) by one of my heroes, how I’m processing the decades-old rage I suppressed, and what’s coming up for me as I reflect on the ‘conditional allyship’ I received for staying (mostly) silent.
The Prompt
What is calling to me, pushing me, or pulling me?The Journal
I’m being called to use my voice.
My guitar has awakened the rage I’d long ago buried.
Rage that I’d convinced myself didn’t exist.
No longer strumming and singing quietly, my fingers can’t seem to pluck the strings fervently enough, and my voice is a lion’s roar.
My rage refuses to acquiesce to my sensibilities.I’ve unleashed my rage inside an empty bungalow…but is it satisfied?
No. It wants more.
It demands to be heard by others, without apology.
It demands to take up infinite space, The Patriarchy be damned.
How fucking inconvenient my rage is.And yet I’m getting off on it.
Did you hear me?
I AM FUCKING GETTING OFF ON MY RAGE.Me…a barefoot, tree-hugging, kirtan-listening hippie who loves the whole fucking fucked up world is getting off on my rage!
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!
That’s a lot of ‘fucks,’ isn’t it?!
The Letter
My Love,
You think that there’s a paradox by holding both rage and love, but what’s paradoxical about being so angry when what you love is being destroyed…by the humanity that you love?
You’ve been repressing your voice–and your rage–ever since you learned that sharing it wasn’t welcomed. When you were raped and you shared it, you were told that ‘his version of events’ didn’t align with yours and since he was a very important person, you had to let it go. The stakes were simply too high. Rather than stew from the injustice of it all, you buried it to survive.
That’s just one of many stories about your rage that you’ve buried. There are countless more, as you well know.
This rage feels delicious to you because it’s fuel that energizes you to follow what you’re being called to do. Fuel for sharing the wisdom that you’ve held deep within for decades without giving any fucks for whether it’s well-received. FINALLY!
My Love, you’ve got this. That is all.
The Story
Dreaming she’s having sex. It’s not unpleasant…
But the very real thrusting nudges her awake. WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK?!
Still drunk, she sees Steve. Naked. Fucking an unconscious woman.
This can’t be happening, but it is.She’s feeling completely dysregulated and ashamed. Her dream wasn’t awful–she may have even enjoyed it!–but that was in dreamland. And now she’s awake.
An unconscious drunk woman cannot give her consent, even if her body somehow manages to cooperate.
Fuzzy-headed, sickened, and all instincts telling her to GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE, she NICELY extracts herself from her rapist–much to his upset, considering that he hasn’t yet ejaculated.
She quickly fumbles with the uncooperative buttons on her dress before dashing out of his apartment and into the darkness.
She’s in DC–a city she doesn’t know. This is 1999, and she has no map, no cell phone, no money to hail a cab.
Miraculously, she manages to find the row house she was crashing at with some of the other activists who’d converged on the capitol that week.
Upon her return home, she mustered up the courage to enlist the help of two male activists who reported to Steve. They were sympathetic and upset. But they agreed with Steve that what happened wasn’t rape, as unfortunate as things were.
And they agreed to stay quiet to avoid harming his reputation and therefore, the movement’s. After all, he was a very important person.
They didn’t have to say it–she knew they thought that she’d asked for it.
She should have known what was coming after he tried to kiss her earlier that night. Yet she didn’t leave. HELLO!!Their allyship was conditional on her not rocking the boat.
And so, she felt even more ashamed. And she stayed quiet. Mostly.
Later that summer, she was at a gathering with other important activists. Phil had flown in from Oregon, and they’d hit it off. She told Phil what had happened, and he told her of a story where Steve tried forcing himself onto another young activist inside a tent–a woman who slapped him and told him where to go. That woman had more cojones than her.
For the first time, she felt seen. Validated. Angry, even. But still ashamed that she’d responded so nicely to her rapist.
As she reflects on what happened some 27 years earlier, an aha! moment registers.
The realization that “Their allyship had been conditional on her not rocking the boat.”She wondered where her own allyship to those less privileged and more marginalized than her may have been conditional.
She wondered how she might use her voice to be a better ally. And she vowed to do better.
The Song
Disclaimer: I don’t know how to write in tablature, so this is may look weird!
AM F
C G
AM F
C G
AM F
C G
F G AM AM
F G AM AM
Young and idealistic
Or maybe just naive
Heart aching, heart breaking
When I saw a murdered tree
Anger overcoming me
Not knowing what to do
Wanting so bad
To fight for the truth
Heading out to Washington
Going there to lobby
Sadly assuming
The government would hear me
Encouraged by the National
Campaign Coordinator
Had respect for him
Cause I thought he was sincere
Lobbied all day
Partied one night
At his apartment
Everything seemed alright
Drank a little beer
And smoked a little pot
Had a fun time
Joked and talked a lot
Got a little tipsy
Wasn’t thinking straight
Wanted to go home
Cause it was getting late
But then he tried to kiss me
And his hands crept up my dress
I told him to stop
God, I wish I would have left
Couldn’t find my friends
They were out for a walk
Didn’t know my way back home
So I was kind of stuck
I was getting very tired
And had to rest my head
So against my better judgment
I passed out in his bed
I had this crazy dream
While I was fast asleep
I dreamt that STEVE
WAS HAVING SEX WITH ME
It took me quite a while
But I finally woke up
My body froze in horror
Cause I was getting fucked
While I was asleep
He had taken off my clothes
And forced his dick inside of me
That’s how the story goes
That bastard fucking raped me
It made me so ashamed
I should have seen it coming
Am I the one to blame?
Final Thoughts
#metoo
That is all.
Hey! I’m Kristi—a Wayfinder Master Coach and Women’s Circle Facilitator.
I’m committed to helping fed up feminists like you navigate capitalism, patriarchy, and white supremacy from a place of empowerment and deep inner alignment. I serve humans—mostly women—who yearn to ‘be the change’ and seek support from someone who truly gets it.
