Children and the Disruption of Rape-Culture

In society, rape-culture is often perpetuated and uninterrupted. Rape-culture is the environment in which rape is encouraged through social-attitudes and behaviors trivializing and downplaying the seriousness of the crime. In defining this term, it is important that we dig into this problematic issue and how children can become victims and/or perpetrators of rape-culture. How are we teaching our children and students to be safe through our words and actions?

In reflecting on rape-culture, there was an incident that occurred within a group of second-graders that would make any person shiver. In the event of a discussion at lunch, a boy told a girl that he would take her to the bathroom and rip her pants. In hearing about this problematic situation, I knew a few things would be necessary to deal with this problem. In the mindset of a second-grade student, one could ask where and how such an idea could present itself to a young child. Additionally, one could ask about the healing that is necessary for this young child. In the case of both students, they are victims. They are victims. Both are victims of patriarchy. In patriarchy, girls and women are dominated by men and boys. They are often taught to be violent in their interaction(s) with girls and women. Socially, girls and women are often socialized to accept this behavior and silenced.

In the case of these two children, a serious discussion need to be had. We can’t expect for children to simply understand rape-culture by proxy. We have to consistently teach them how to interact with each other that is wholesome, loving, respectful and non-violent. In the world that we live in, information is readily available and social-behaviors that perpetuate rape-culture is ever-present. We can’t afford to sit around and ignore the far-cries of children that are silenced after such a verbal assault. We can’t allow young boys to internalize a language that assaults, disregards and damages the hearts and minds of girls. In this unfortunate reality, the young boys are victims. Young boys are becoming players within a system that is devoid of love. It strips them of their own humanity.

In becoming radical in the way that we think about love and education, it is vital that we stop and think about the language that we use. It is vital that we are cognizant of our actions and the things that we are watching. We can’t ignore problematic speech. We can’t ignore verbal assaults and call it ‘childish’ or ‘boy’ish’. We can’t. We can’t afford to ignore what is violent and dead wrong.

Rape-culture starts with us. Rape-culture can only be perpetuated by us. Rape-culture can only be stopped by us.

My Letter to Victims of Domestic Violence

Dear Survivors,

You are not the violence you have received. You are not the frustrations that your perpetrator may have placed upon your body. You are going to survive this moment of your life and understand that it is not your fault. I don’t care what he or she said before, during or after the incident(s). You are not to be blamed. You are not to be violated in any way. I will not ask why he or she was provoked to abuse you in any form (emotionally, financially, psychologically, mentally or physically). There is never a reason to hurt someone. You do not hurt the person that you love. Yes, people may say that this is unrealistic but it is the truth.

As a survivor and witness to domestic violence, I am calling out those that have hurt us. I will not place shame on us for what they did. We are not to feel shame for what they have done. We must share our stories. We must learn that healing happens and can happen and will happen. It is so hard to walk away from the person that you believe loves you, but love doesn’t hurt. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard people say this. People always say that love shouldn’t hurt and it shouldn’t.

As a young girl, I saw domestic violence in the physical and psychological form. I didn’t understand what was happening because mama and papa would always express their love for their children, but so often I would doubt the love they had for each other. I didn’t know if love was supposed to be so hurtful at times. I would see the sadness in the face of my mother and my father. As a child, a young girl-child, I began to equate the painful love that I saw with the type of love that I would later accept. My parents would often argue with one another, mostly about money. Other times, my father would get upset at my mother for wanting to go out by herself. For my mother, her time was mostly spent working and coming home to tend to household responsibilities.  In seeking to find some time for herself,  she would be stopped, reprimanded and made to feel guilty for wanting to step outside of the home. For wanting time for herself. For wanting to seek out self-care.

In coming to the realization that violence is cyclical in my family, I am learning to heal from the pain. The pain can be unbearable. It can be tragic. It can sometimes ruin us. And even in the midst of healing, we sometimes blame ourselves for the pain we have undergone. We have flashbacks. We have internal conversations. We have guilt. We have sympathy for our abuser. We have love for our abuser. We have hate for them too. We have shouldered the burden of the pain.

However, in the midst of all of it, sometimes we forgive. We forgive them. We forgive them. We forgive them. We cry. We cry for them. For them that chose to hurt us. And sometimes the hurt they imposed upon us is the hurt they feel themselves.

And here we are, learning how to be whole again. Wholeness becomes our priority.

And this is for us, for surviving.

Sincerely,

Lauren Anderson, Survivor

 

Dedicated to My Student: Your blackness is not a badge of dishonor

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You sat in line for your turn for the bathroom behind the other girls, while holding a conversation about the color of your skin. The way you spoke your words sounded like glass shattering. And I knew it was time that someone had that talk with you. About our skin. About our hair. About our bodies. Our Black and brown bodies. As the conversation turned intense with your repeated hand-gestures pointing to your skin with a face turned sad, I knew it was time for us to have the chat that I never had when I was your age. For so many girls of color, the first act of colorism committed against you becomes this rite of passage. This rite of passage into facing white-supremacy for the first time. You can’t name it at your young age. You can’t say what it is, but you know what it implies. It means that your blackness is not whiteness. Your blackness is the opposite of beautiful. Your body isn’t acceptable. You aren’t acceptable. Your black life doesn’t matter unless you are white. You will be subjugated to white-supremacist ideals due to your black or brown complexion.

In seeing the pain show through her round, ebony face, I wanted to just hug her. Hold her. Make her believe that my words of comfort will make the pain go away. Will make white-supremacy go away,but I knew that it wouldn’t. However, words were all that I had and will have for any girl or woman that is oppressed by this system. I will hold her body as if it was my own and let her know that her skin is not a badge of disgrace. That there is beauty in her color. There is strength in her African-roots. In our conversation, she told me that her friends and family members often talk poorly about her skin-tone and compare it to the light skin-complexion of her mother. In the eyes of this young girl, I saw myself. I saw myself screaming for help at her age. I can remember sitting with cousins and hearing the same rhetoric. I can recall a cousin telling me that the boys would love me because of my skin and hair. However, I was frowned upon. I was called a joke because I sounded “too-white to be black”.  In the same breath, I can recall hearing a family member say that they can’t trust certain Black-folks because of their darker complexion. Furthermore, my life at school didn’t make it any easier. I can remember the white-kids in my suburban schools separating themselves from the black kids because black was synonymous with crime, poverty and ugliness. I was crime. I was poor. I was ugly. In many groups of black folks that I knew, my skin-tone was praised while it was hated by the white-folks. In a disarray, I had to learn how to simply love myself despite my experiences with colorism.

In having my own personal testimony to the destructive nature of white-supremacy, I knew that this young girl had much to learn. She had much to experience as a young, black girl in this world. I held her. I took her by her hands and told her that I know how it feels. I understand the pain. I get it. I’ve experienced it, but we must never allow the pain to take us away from ourselves. We must face the pain. Speak our pain. Name it. Never hold it in. In my experiences at my urban-school, I’ve seen and heard many girls of color (Black and Hispanic) undergo colorism in their classes. I’ve seen girls been made fun of due to hair-styles and hair texture. I’ve heard girls being hurt because of skin-color. Colorism is very much real. It hurts. It runs deep for many females of color, including the younger girls. I tell every girl that comes to me about this that they are beautiful the way that they are. That they are more than their looks. They are smart. They are funny. They are perfectly brown and black. They must not apologize for this.

In working in an urban-school, I have come to realize how prevalent colorism is for young students. We may not believe that race matters at the age of elementary-students, but it does. Students are experiencing racism, colorism and white-supremacy even in minority-based areas. For many girls of color, they fear to be themselves. They want to run out of themselves. They want to hide. They want to closet their skin and walk away from it.

However, I will never allow a student of mine to do this. I will never allow a student to tell me that their black and brown life doesn’t matter. I will never allow ugliness to roll off the tip of their tongues in relation to their skin or their hair. I will fight for them to love themselves. To call themselves their own. To say that they belong deeply to themselves. That they are deeply loved. That they are beautiful. And that they will continue to smile. They will never stop smiling. That their bodies and what it looks like will never stop them from living.