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Writing American FrictionFor three years I denied myself the pleasure of reading books. This was the truest tribute I could think of to honor the death of my parents and express my anger at their unnecessary suffering. From an early age I read everything. It was an escape from the crushing poverty and abuse in the western Appalachians. When you get color and class coded at an early age, you seek out fantasy worlds that won’t make your kind invisible. The books taught me to want, but not how, to succeed. Then I won a of book of poems by Audre Lorde by besting three "educated" women--two friends and my partner of over three decades--in a word game. The book was entitled OUR DEAD BEHIND US. It fell open to a poem that caught my attention:
For Judith Hanging out
The poem caused the desire for change to breathe new life in me. The book gave me permission to read again. I can't say the anger and suffering stopped. But it never stopped in Lorde's life either. From Lorde’s books, I found the emotions that I had suppressed were more than legitimate. They were crucial to my survival. I learned that shame, guilt, silence and anger are all used effectively to stifle dissent or the truth. Most of all, I learned that I had an absolute right to use my voice to express anger. When I see Lorde return to this theme throughout her work, she speaks to me like no other human being.
I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood. That the speaking profits me, beyond any other effect. ("The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action", SISTER OUTSIDER).
I have had my ass kicked repeatedly for saying out loud what I believed others were thinking. This happened at home as well as in the outside world. I needed to believe that everyone was as outraged as I was over indignities based on race, class, culture, sexual preference or any other prejudice. The views of my family I understood. From an early age you were taught to censor yourself. Invisibility and subservience were for your protection. I was taught what experience had taught my parents. This atmosphere was the perfect breeding ground to become a feminist or a Stepford Wife. At the age of sixty-four not much in life scares me. I have numerous medical problems. Like other American Indians my family is riddled with diseases. The majority of us lack health insurance. I consider myself lucky to be on Medicaid. But there is no rejoicing when I tell doctors and hospitals what insurance will pay the bill. After almost dying in 1992, I decided I had wasted too much time explaining race and class differences. The remainder of my life would be spent speaking and writing the truth as it applied to me. The perceptions I’d gained were as legitimate as anyone else’s.
I cannot hide my anger to spare you guilt, nor hurt feelings, nor answering anger. For to do so insults and trivializes all our efforts. Guilt is not a response to anger. It is a response to one's own actions or lack of action. If it leads to change then it can be useful. It is then no longer guilt but the beginning of knowledge. Yet all too often, guilt is just another name for impotence, for defensiveness destructive of communication. It becomes a device to protect ignorance and the continuation of things the way they are the ultimate protection for changelessness. ("The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism", SISTER OUTSIDER).
Perceptions: You will have to accept mine as you would another's life work of scholarly research. (I attended no school past high school.) If you can’t accept these perceptions you will have to pick up a scalpel and lay wide my brain. Feel free to dig out what useful fact you need to justify or destroy any theory you may have held as the truth. As a teenager I realized that members of my family had been deliberately moved out of the education field. Why else would three of my female cousins and I all end up in D section throughout high school? We were all intelligent. (Special Education was E section.) The Powers That Be must have decided that since our parents had to drop out of school, we would too. It was implied that we would take up spaces that could be used by those interested in something other than menial jobs. The four of us graduated. But how can society ever reconcile the lost potential? All of us have made contributions in various fields. Without encouragement or recognition, our battle to succeed has taken a tremendous toll on each of us. I went from high school to a textile mill where my mother, sister, cousin and aunts worked. (I come from a long line of illustrious shit workers). The noise, dust, clothing fibers and stress must be experienced to be understood. Some women had mental breakdowns. You were paid by how many coats you sewed. I worked out a chart so I would know how much money I had made each day. I kept it in my machine drawer. One day it was missing. A month later the factory began checking everyone's tickets three times a day to estimate a count for the main company. There was no recognition for the system I had created. Worse yet--I had inadvertently put three hundred women under even more pressure to perform. As a seventeen-year-old, I didn't have the guts to confront management. Nor did I mention it to any family members or friends. I couldn't face the thought of their disbelieving laughter. It just got tossed on the memory hide heap to be sorted out at a later date. Two years later I married a white man. He brought my family a freshly killed deer. They were properly impressed and approving at his skill as a hunter. We had three sons. Their births made marriage to him a worthwhile experience in yet another demoralizing chapter of my life. During one argument, my husband fired six shots at me from a .22 pistol. I didn't know that he had loaded the gun with blanks. He was trying to make me apologize for something I hadn't done. I made the conscious choice to die rather than lie to appease him one more time. The marriage lasted long enough for me to figure a way out for the three children and me. I accomplished it with the aid of my life partner. When I joined the women's movement in 1974, I gained the courage to make changes that should have occurred much earlier. The women friends I gained taught me about self-confidence and numerous issues alien to my family. In 1976 the children and I began living with Sue. Being with someone who has a degree or two benefits me greatly. I count on her input and proofreading whenever I’m uncertain. We've tangled a few times over content. But she understands when I say, "I don't want to sound like an educated white woman." We come from different places. My writing needs to reflect that and reach those who need it the most.
While raising the boys, I taught them the ways of
my upbringing: including the preservation of food (canning, smoking
and dehydrating). I showed them how to skin, gut, pluck or clean
any type of edible fish, fowl or animal native to the area. They
learned where to look for any given specie of wildlife. And they
learned to observe everything in nature to tell them what was going
on with the weather and the environment. Everything is used.
Nothing is wasted. We prefer meat that is not injected with growth
hormones or antibiotics.
I could go on, but now these issues raise rage. Hunting and guns are considered the evil of our time. What most people classify as weapons we term as tools. In the past shame cloaked and coated my tongue. Now, white ember anger has burned the silence away and loosened my tongue at both ends. I want to shout, "How Dare You! These are skills and crafts that have been handed down since the beginning of time. My race would starve mentally, spiritually and physically without them. This is my heritage. If you will do me the courtesy of listening, you will learn."
I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. ( SISTER OUTSIDER).
Throughout years of writing I have consciously tried not to memorize my poems. I just want to write it and get it as far away from me as possible. Poetry is a luxury. It’s saved for quick hot flashes of truth that prose would disperse over areas too wide to cross. It hurriedly says what might otherwise be silently swallowed. While growing up, my mother would recite long beautiful poems she learned in school. One poem came from a newspaper plastered over cracks inside our home. At the end of each poem she would humbly lower her head and say "Shakespeare." She reveled in poetry like no one I have ever known. Another loss caused by the color-coded system. My dad always had us look up in the dictionary any word we didn't know. He would then tell us to read it out loud so everyone could learn. I realized years later that he did this to educate himself. He quit school in the third grade to help raise his sisters and brothers. I deliberately avoid writing for money or recognition. I write to erase lies, half-truths, prejudice, and all the other hateful spit-soaked syllables that exist. If I can touch other kindred spirits, then I will be a success. The outlet it has given me will bring about enough healing to strengthen me for many other battles. It will also give me the answers to questions that I have overlooked until witnessed in black and white like the written words of other women such as Audre Lorde.
This article was adapted from a winning entry to the First Annual Audre Lorde Prose Contest for Non-Fiction in 2000.
Judith K. Witherow
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Summer
2009
I'd like to be able to say that there has been a
mutual sharing of knowledge with other Lesbians and feminists. But
the skills I could share are often met with anger and a dismissive
attitude. I am a skilled markswoman, hunter, fisher and all around
survivalist in the ways of nature. 