A Young Woman’s Prayer

Today, March 8, is International Women’s Day. Over the past 8 months I have met many extraordinary women, some of whom have undergone hardships that are almost impossible to describe. I have learned that there is a point where words stop working, where syllables and sounds utterly fail in capturing a story. I have been extraordinarily privileged to hear and in some cases record the stories these women. I have nothing to offer these women in return for their trust except for prayers, love and empathy. I have also learned that violence is not a one-way-street, that the abused often become abusers, that women are perpetrators just like men, and that ideas of ‘blame’ and ‘fault’ can dissolve.

 

So on a day when we shower women with flowers and inspirational quotes and pats on the back it feels appropriate to me to remember the brave women who won’t be getting bouquets, and who have, unquestionably, opened my eyes and changed my life. 

 

A Young Woman’s Prayer

For the one whose son beats her when there’s no bread in the cupboard

For the one who came home and saw him shooting up in front of her baby in the highchair

For the one who couldn’t lose 20 lbs after the breakup but did anyway

For the one whose son stabbed his girlfriend for the second time

For the one who dreaded going home at the end of the school day

For the one forced to clap as they hacked her husband into machete-sized pieces

For the one with her children’s names tattooed on her shoulder, circling the sun

For the one in pearls and heels, trying to play a man’s game

For the one who had her baby in a shelter 3 months short of graduation

For the one who was born again by talking to the prostitutes on the street corner

For the one who won’t let her kids get in the car with him years after he threatened to drive her into a tree

For the one lying in the dirt on the corner while the bike gang revs their engines across the street

For the one who lost her job because she was 4 months pregnant and she took the money

For the one who wants her baby to know his daddy because she never knew hers

For the one who drives 2 blocks to the grocery store because she’s too scared to walk

For the one whose daddy and stepdaddy and cousin all raped her

For the one whose husband uses her skin like an ashtray

For the one who threw her baby against a wall because it wouldn’t, wouldn’t, wouldn’t stop crying

For the one who was raped so that she’d like men again

For the one whose mother and boyfriend and boyfriend’s mother all threw her out of different houses

For the one who ran to the police station in her pajamas and slippers

For the one who sat sobbing at the kitchen table of a shelter writing a letter to herself about all the things she had to live for

For the one who didn’t want a nosy white girl reporter anywhere near her

For the one who rocked her dying child in the slum gutter

For the one who shows her mother where to sign her name 

For the one whose mother sacrificed herself so her daughter wouldn’t be raped

For the one who build a shrine to her father and continued with his work

For the one who uses her grant money to buy the biggest desk in the city and stock her mini fridge with coca-cola

For the one who supports a stay-at-home husband and cut her hair short

For the one who chose not to marry and lives alone in a 2 room apartment

For the one who had her crotch grabbed by a rickshaw driver

For the one who waits in a teeny sequined dress for the white men to come out of the bar on Friday night

For the ones that move beyond asking ‘why?’

For the ones who can smile through their tears and the ones who can’t stop crying

For the ones whose fault it wasn’t and the ones whose fault it was

For the ones who are not ones but many