The Other Side of Silence
Personal essayists, poets and memoir writers face many questions about making personal truths public. In the following essay, author Migael Scherer evokes the effects on her readers as well as on herself of her writing about painful truth. Even as she is about to accept a distinguished award, she must brace herself for the dissonance between the celebration and the subject of her writing.
The Other Side of Silence
by Migael Scherer
We work to write the truth from our lives. What happens when the truth is not only painful for us to express, but violates a cultural taboo that makes it painful for others to read or hear? I once believed–as most people do–that the stigma surrounding the victims of sexual assault had been erased. Twenty years of media exposure on the issue had lulled me into believing that the crime was “understood,” that victims were no longer blamed or ostracized. I assumed that a victim’s account could be written without apology, as (I also assumed) first-hand accounts of war have been, or illness. But that was before I was raped and strangled, before my own struggle to recover and to put the experience into words. I am sitting in the front row of the Time-Life auditorium in New York, writers on both sides of me, judges, editors and publishers around and behind me. I’ve come from Seattle to receive a special citation at this PEN literary awards reception, one of many writers being honored. I squeeze my thumb to keep my hands from shaking. I’m not afraid of this audience; I’m afraid for them, for what they will feel when my book is described. Its subtitle, A Rape Survivor’s Journal, is not printed on the program.
Since Still Loved by the Sun was published, I’ve seen the same reaction, over and over. Silence. I don’t mean that no one talks. No one moves. It’s as though the utterance of “rape”, combined with my physical presence, pushes a pause button. Feet don’t shuffle. Faces go slack. The silence is so loud it roars. Every survivor of sexual assault knows what this feels like; overwhelmed, most of us never speak at all.
Let alone write. I remember the first time I was introduced as an author, and how I nearly denied my book. The occasion was a friend’s graduation party. I had just met her English professor, a vigorous man in his mid-fifties. We were outside, iced drinks in hand.
“So what do you write?” he asked. Instead of feeling accomplished, I felt cornered, almost–and this surprised me–ashamed. Scurrying into a safe topic, I described my current project, a boating guide to Puget Sound. With any luck the discussion would turn to sailing or traveling.
He didn’t take the bait. “Sounds like fun. What else have you published?” His face was bright, curious and friendly.
That cornered feeling again. I tried to go easy. “Just one book, ” I said. “A memoir.” I mentioned the title (but not the subtitle), hoping the words “loved” and “sun” would soften what I was about to say. “It’s a very personal story. Five years ago I was raped, strangled, nearly murdered. My book’s about the aftermath of that attack, the responses of family, friends and community.” He was still smiling, but his eyes had gone flat. “It’s well written,” I added, as if offering an excuse.
His smile was gone now. He looked into his drink as though he wanted to escape into it.
“I’m sorry,” I said as he backed away. “It’s a hard thing to hear.”
And, of course, it is. My words and presence have the effect of pulling a blanket off a monster. The interesting thing is that it’s not a monster at all. Just me, a woman in her 40s. Maybe that’s the shock. Survivors of rape have been silenced for so long that we’ve been lumped together with the real monster, namely the rapist and his violence. What he does is horrible, degrading and devastating. The person he rapes is not. A lot to realize with a drink in your hand.
How had I come to expose myself–and others–like this? At first my writing was strictly therapeutic, a private journal. It was in the dark of the police lineup room that I realized I was in the middle of a story I had never read. The story could only be told by a victim; it was not what happened to me that I had to convey, but what happened inside me–the emotional reality of the experience. I knew that I could write it.
Still, I came forward in small steps. In my first public piece–a letter to the Seattle Times protesting the coverage of the trial I’d just endured–I withheld my name. My second article to the same newspaper came almost a year later, when a series of sex crimes in Seattle moved me to write a survivor’s perspective on what to do besides feel helpless and angry. To strengthen my words, I used my name. This led to a radio show whose host seemed more shocked by my willingness to be identified than by my rape–or any rape, for that matter. His interview left me feeling abnormal, somehow at fault, but nonetheless determined to keep writing.
As I worked on the manuscript that eventually became a book, and as the book moved slowly toward publication, I read everything I could about the issue. I prepared myself for the eventual publicity by enrolling in a training course for rape crisis counselors. What I learned almost caused me to lose heart: The most common response to a victim is disbelief and rejection. It may be OK to talk about rape, but only when the victims are in other countries, neighborhoods, or cultures, never when they are us. Victims are discouraged from describing their own experiences, and because they are silent, it is assumed they do not exist in our midst. Thus the taboo against speaking out perpetuates the myth that sexual assault is rare, when in fact it claims hundreds of thousands of victims a year.
According to trauma experts, the reflexive distancing of disbelief inflicts a “second wound” on victims that can be as damaging as the assault itself. I had already been hurt in this way, thankfully less than most. Going public as a writer on the subject of my own rape, I could expect to be hurt again.
I was. Through the interviews, radio call-ins, book readings and signings, I saw the same vacant face as that English professor’s, the same shock. Not everyone backed away. Some made generalizations that re-enforced myths about the crime or minimized my experience. Some turned the conversation to the subject of the rapist, as though he was more important. Many described self-defense techniques or safety tips, causing me to doubt that I had done enough to prevent my rape. Though predictable, each response seemed like a blow–at best isolating, at worst blaming.
Some months after Still Loved by the Sun was published, my publicist succeeded in getting me on national TV. Before my six-minute appearance I was directed to a crowded room known as “hair and makeup.”
“So what are you here for?” the cosmetician asked. She was young and slim, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The bottles and brushes of her trade were laid out on the counter like mechanics tools. In the few seconds with me she had already decided which color to use to “base out” my skin.
I exhaled slowly and told her. At the word “rape” she froze, triangular sponge in hand. “Oh,” she said. A heavy silence. Then, “I just finished a self-defense course. It’s such a dangerous world these days.” She shuddered back to action, unaware of the effect of her words. Should I have taken such a course? Was I somehow responsible for my own rape?
“Yes it is,” I replied. I didn’t have the time or energy to argue that it always has been. How could I respond without misleading her? “Self-defense can’t guarantee your safety,” I explained, “but you’ve done something to make yourself feel safer, and stronger and smarter. That’s important. You’ll have more things to try.”
Her shoulders dropped and her face softened. She had not meant to blame or hurt me, only to offer her own vulnerability. “It happened to my grandmother,” she murmured. Our eyes connected in the mirror.
So it was that I learned to put aside my own defensive reactions, to listen past the shocked silence for the stories. I heard so many: of incest, of assaults by strangers and acquaintances, other hardships. Brief, brave disclosures that taught me the silence I felt as rejection was often the silence of compassion and empathy. My audience was not a wall that shut me out, but a mirror. Their feelings were my feelings: fear, withdrawal, shame, confusion. They as much as I were trying to make sense of something incomprehensible. They as much as I were struggling to speak.
Now, in my chair at the PEN reception, I relax to the glowing descriptions of the books and writers being honored, the excitement of their acceptance remarks. When my turn comes, I stiffen and see the simultaneous stiffening in the judge who introduces me. She has just felt what I have been braced for. Her voice tightens, lowers a bit, as though she realizes that what she is saying–“the author’s rape and near-murder”–should be whispered, not broadcast over a PA system. Around me I feel the recoil: Rape? Here? Eight floors up in a secured building? Not even the word belongs here.
But I do. I stand and walk to the podium. I feel the stillness. I feel the courage also–their courage. By honoring this book they are sending a powerful message: that a survivor’s experience of rape is worthy of good writing. They have helped to break the long silence. I tell them so.