Shattering Silence

By Yvonne Conza

Issue 36 • Fall 2017 • Nonfiction

2nd Place Nonfiction

2017 Summer Contest

The difficult subject matter of sexual assault is sensitively rendered in this powerful essay about a private journey on a very public avenue of activism and expression. This essay offers a clear example of weaving personal voice with political chorus without compromising the distinctiveness of the first or exploiting the energy of the second. “This is the rightest thing for me to do,” writes the author, and the reader can’t help but champion this effort because speaking out from the noise of rape culture is unquestionably courageous. What a moving—and necessarily troubling—literary experience.
– Rigoberto González

In the month when the birth flower is an unfussy, gentle blue forget-me-not and the birthstone is sapphire, I read a tweet about a Columbia University student’s endurance performance art piece. For her senior thesis, Emma Sulkowicz, an art student, vowed to haul a twin college dorm mattress around campus until the student accused of raping her was expelled. Sulkowicz, dubbed “Mattress Girl” by the media, was protesting the school’s adjudication process that found insufficient evidence of her rape. Her actions placed the neglected culture of campus sexual assaults under a microscope. It was political and impossible to ignore.

On a video linked to the tweet, I listened to Emma’s easygoing voice discuss her mattress performance. The university’s picturesque quad was in the background. She spoke with endearing and youthful “ums” and odd phrase transitions like becoming-telling that a TED talk coach would have polished out:

The mattress is the perfect size for me to just be able to carry it enough that I can continue with my day but also heavy enough that I have to continually struggle with it. I think the other thing about beds is that—we keep them in our bedroom which is our intimate space—our private space where we can retreat if we don’t want to deal with anyone at that moment. But, um, I think the past year or so of my life has been really marked by becoming-telling people what happened in that most intimate private space and bringing it out into the light—

A few days after hearing about Emma’s manifesto, I found the courage to grab my memory foam pillow off my bed and join her and others at a Stand With Survivors rally at Columbia. Attendance as a survivor or a supporter was urged through social media and a large, public turnout was encouraged.

The weight of what happened to me didn’t feel the same as what Emma alleged happened to her. When I was 7, I huddled at the top of the stairs listening to my sister, 10, tell Mom she’d been harmed. “Liar. You’re a liar”—stated, not screamed. Mom protected her eldest son, 14, over her two daughters. I ran to my room and closed the door—paralyzed into five decades of powerless silence, fearing I’d also be called a liar.

Attending the rally felt like the rightest thing to do. I selected the weight I could carry— choosing my memory foam pillow over the lighter goose feathered one—and headed uptown to the campus. I heard myself assert: Rape is not only wrong in a dorm room, it also shouldn’t happen in a dark ally, a store parking lot, a workplace, or a child’s home on a couch or atop a parent’s bed. I identified with Emma when she said on the video: Rape can happen anywhere. Um, for me I was raped in my own dorm bed. And since then that space has become wrought for me—and I feel like I carried the weight of what happened there with me everywhere.

I washed my hair, wore sparse makeup, jeans, a graphic t-shirt and a denim jacket—a combination fashioned to avoid a “Granny to the cause” wardrobe. As I shut the door to my apartment while holding my pillow, I felt bold and fearful. I lived on the top floor and hoped nobody would get on the elevator after I hit the “L” button. Hearing what’s with the pillow? would have been enough to fray my resolve. My eyes fixed on the upper portion of the elevator where glowing red high floor LED numbers morphed into lower ones.

It was past 11 a.m. when I stepped onto the sidewalk. Friday’s concierge never looked up and the doorman only nodded an expression of good day. My pillow must have passed for by-the-pound laundry. My thoughts became a mantra: the rightest thing to do, the rightest thing to do, the rightest thing to do. Unspeakable: I should have supported my sister.

I arrived at Columbia as the only pillow carrier. Students were turning blue mattresses into message boards by using strips of wide red tape. Pre-made cardboard signs were in a pile and someone asked me to take one. It read, “Thanks for Nothing.” With my pillow and sign, I took my place behind two girls who had their mouths covered with red tape. One held a “Silence is Violence” sign; another, “Fuck Your Fake Concern.”

Some of the crowd arrived in pairs or as triplets holding hands. Others, like me, eyed the situation warily, unsure about participating, but unable to walk away. Energy began to build. The number of spectators was growing. As they witnessed the event unfold, many of them decided to grab cardboard signs and join in. The spot on the campus quad had no shade, no cover. Everything was out in the open.

A short distance from me, Emma talked to the organizers and reporters. Her lean and lanky athletic body, coltish in movement, was up to the challenge of an endurance piece. Strength radiated from her with ease, not exertion. Selected strands of her graphite hair were dyed a soft wisteria and her end tresses were shaded sudsy sea foam. Imparted: a whispered fairy tale image of pixie dust and Tinkerbell. The scene was empowering and made the fifteen subway stops to get there worth it. She walked from one end of the quad to the other and kept looking back at us with an expression I imagined was pride for inspiring us to show up. Our support felt acknowledged. My attendance was to validate her experience and to support shattering silence of shackled-shame.

It felt like a long time before a woman in the crowd took a megaphone and roared out a poem that became the gateway for others to speak their truths. Her savage howl woke up the girl I’d been years ago. For the next three hours, I stood in communion with my fellow survivors listening to their bravery. Each time I thought I’d step up and give voice to my trauma, I’d get anxious and retreat because what happened to me didn’t happen on a campus. My thoughts circled around how assaults happen in homes, before college, and sometimes prior to second grade. For the first time ever, I felt acceptance from others. What happened to me was being believed and given a voice.

A young man spoke about being violated, broadening the issue to encompass other genders. Someone else said, “When a pretty girl is raped, it’s a tragedy, and when a fat woman is raped, she should be grateful. Don’t forget me.” Another male talked about being ostracized and how he lost his friends because he didn’t defend someone that had been expelled for rape. And then came, “I know what it feels like to be the person in these crowds who doesn’t know how to hold this bullhorn yet, and I want to say something for those who are not going to come up here. We believe you. I believe you. So stay.” His words expressed an understanding of what it meant to be called a liar and be so torn that you can’t speak your truth.

After an hour, I approached Emma. She was wearing distressed cut-off shorts with a loose fitting white t-shirt—a sizzling hot day outfit not “asking-for-it” attire. I hugged my pillow into my chest and spoke from my heart, not the bullhorn. I told her, “I came with my pillow. It’s what I could—” Fraught words regressed me back to the strawberry blonde disheveled haired little girl with a scrawny body, long clownish feet and clothes purchased from the Ames children’s section. There was nothing suggestive about the fabrics or fit of my long-sleeved striped pullover top, stretchy baby blue nylon shorts or day-of-the week underwear with elastic waistbands and leg openings. I had not wanted to cry in front of Emma, but then I did.

More the adult, Emma embraced me and asked if I’d place my pillow on top of the mattresses. She touched my shoulder and left me feeling that my pillow, the only one there, belonged on the stack. As a rally organizer alerted her to more media requests, our eyes locked and her hand squeezed my shoulder to bolster me. With conviction, I headed for the mattresses that symbolized the all-encompassing bed from which survivors must rise. I placed my pillow atop one. It belonged there.

The next day, I went online and viewed photos of the event. Seeing my pillow on the mattress pile, I felt proud. Each snapshot reinforced the rightest thing to do mantra that pulsed inside of me. There’s even one of me freed of my pillow next to Emma, my “Thanks for Nothing” sign held by both hands. I stood with survivors and became one, not in a quiet way through my yoga practice where I set an intention, nor by mailing a check to RAINN.org, but by being visible and unashamed. I’d shown up and allowed myself to be photographed in public. My pillow, amidst a sea of blue mattresses, expressed hard-won courage and determination to speak up and participate in the need for rape culture change.

The part I played in the Stand With Survivors rally felt important until 8 weeks later when Emma’s words about the next public rally appeared in the Columbia Daily Spectator Op-Ed:

I understand that many of you are considering carrying a pillow on this day of action. I hope that very few of you end up carrying pillows. Pillows are ‘light,’ ‘fluffy,’ and may detract from our message. The propagation of images of people carrying pillows could undercut our understanding of the gravity of sexual assault, and imbue what should be seen as a serious crime with ‘cute’ and ‘celebratory’ connotations. If we flood the Internet with images and the inevitable ‘selfies’ that look like they came from a slumber party, we will fail to communicate what I think we all believe: Sexual assault is neither a ‘light’ nor ‘fluffy’ matter, and we cannot treat it as if it were.

She continued to express her desire to protect her college-credited art thesis and ensure that her efforts not be trivialized by the use of pillows. Prior to the rally she’d stated: I’m very interested in seeing where this piece goes and what sort of life it takes on. Emma was setting the rule as to the amount of weight one must bear to be considered a survivor of a sexual assault. She conceptualized the types of sexual violence that make ‘our message’ better art.

Promoted as an inclusive event where survivors weren’t placed into categories, Stand With Survivors wasn’t supposed to be a gallery exhibit. Speakers included those that had graduated, attended different colleges and been assaulted off campus. The issue impacted all genders and all ages and it encompassed more than one woman’s story. I hadn’t felt out of place there.

Why didn’t I grab the megaphone and tell my story? Fear had been my childhood narrative. As an adult I told myself it wasn’t that bad. I’d accomplished things—moved to Manhattan, graduated college, been in the workplace, published short stories and married—yet, after twice being assaulted by my older brother, life was never the same. I’m easily spooked and hypervigilant to my surroundings—jumpy at the sound of an umbrella opening, startled by a cell phone notification ping and alarmed by a jiggle from a door handle. I know what air brakes sound like but they still rattle me. My husband tells me I need to learn how to relax. In yoga, I’m reminded to breathe. I’ve had to learn that people will touch me—doctors, subway riders, store clerks, doormen, fitness instructors, strangers, professionals and friends. Still I recoil, in a perfected way that comes off polite not neurotic. My fear, kept hidden from others, leaves visible damage undetectable. It’s also the way I’ve avoided public shaming and the powerlessness attached to sexual assault and incest.

Fluffy. Had I acted fluffy? I would never name a pet “Fluffy”—it seems dismissive.

At 7, jolted awake, my police-blue eyes flooded open. My oldest brother had his finger inside of me. I didn’t dare move. Bunched around my knees were my shorts and incorrect day of the week underwear—Tuesday instead of Monday. I played roadkill possum and didn’t cry. Screams were trapped in the back of my throat. It hurt. I might have winced when he saw me awake and pulled his finger out, then put it back in.

Things I still recall with exactitude: 1. I had fallen asleep to the host of Romper Room holding her magic mirror and reciting: Romper, stomper, bomper boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me, do. Magic Mirror, tell me today, did all my friends have fun at play? I can see Susie and Billy and Tommy and— 2. The indentation mark left on my waist from the elastic band of my underwear. It reminded me of the equator, a division of my body. 3. My brother’s windblown china black hair that fluttered and lifted off his neck like a horse’s tail in motion as he ran away.

Afterwards I curled into a tight, tiny ball hoping that by compressing myself I would become whole again. That day my thoughts splintered, parts of them erased as if they’d been aluminum powder shaken inside a splayed mind’s Etch-A-Sketch resetting itself into a blank slate. But I was not that clever. My hands opened and closed, unable to grip.

After awhile I got off the couch, went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet wanting to pee, urging myself to release but holding it in. I tinkled in spurts, then streamed as I folded over and sniffed the cotton liner of my underwear. Smelling the scent of being hunted and wounded felt necessary to reclaim myself.

In our household there was no one to turn to for help. Violence and feral instincts were household staples, like milk in the fridge. At 5, from a narrow hallway outside my bedroom, I witnessed my father straddle my mother’s body on a couch, his necktie wrapped around her throat. When I was 6, his fist, aimed at her face, turned in a split second and punched a gaping hole into a closet door.

The next time my brother attacked me came soon after. A ten-minute shuteye I told myself as I closed my parents’ bedroom door—more cautious about where I napped. Their room had an aura of restricted access—“grownups only.” I’d only enter to drop off folded laundry or dust the furniture. It was a place where children didn’t play. I’d be safe. Nobody would come after me there. Telling my own story misplaces some details. Someone else should be telling it. I can’t. My brother can’t. He committed suicide.

I awoke. Time was elusive and alertness was absent. I was an ambushed rag doll with arms and legs held into place, not unlike our Siamese cat, who days earlier had been dangled in midair wearing a choke collar my brother had put on her. Unable to escape, she put up only a slight struggle. I imagined she reasoned that flinching or showing emotion would only have made the situation worse. Bored, my brother set her free. Having witnessed our cat being tortured from a safe place in the living room, a glass window between us, I feared what would happen to me if I told anyone about my incident.

I lifted up, up and far away before returning to my body. A shaft of sunlight streamed in from the window exposing floating dust particles. The fake wood paneling looked hokey, irritating. This time I exploded and fought. I had a clump of his hair in my hand as he ran away. I howled into a pillow.

Traumatized children disassociate, detach, float and reference topsy-turvy awareness. I hovered above myself as a spectator, not the person it was happening to. I did not allow myself to be in the room. I sent myself away.

Recovering from my childhood comes with aftershocks. Intimacy is fraught with ambiguity. My life has been about learning how to take off a suit of armor that still feels welded on. What happened to me shouldn’t be squelched or silenced.

Sexual assaults occur on college campuses, in parking garages, on stairwells, in bathroom stalls, on park trails, during rock concerts, in the back and front seats of cars, inside laundromats, around side streets, in our homes and in numerous other places around the world. Visuals and symbolic language about such a large and important issue shouldn’t be confined to a Columbia University student’s senior thesis. The weight everyone carries as a result of rape and sexual assault will be different. Nobody has the right to belittle the pain of others or decide how much violence and injustice weighs.

In fewer than 8,000 words, Emily Doe, the Stanford rape survivor, shattered the silence of sexual assault. Her victim’s impact letter made people understand what is and what isn’t consent. Four days after Emily read her statement, beginning with, “You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today,” it had been viewed 11 million times and read aloud on CNN and in Congress. She ended with letting girls everywhere know that, “On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought everyday for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you.”

Though spoken to champion others to heal and regain their sense of agency, it takes courage to go public with a story that continues to hurt you. Writer Barry Lopez, abused as a child, wrote: “What you really want in the simplest terms is for somebody to believe what happened.” To be heard and believed is everything to a survivor.

If a dorm mattress symbolizes the neglected culture of campus rapes, then perhaps the pillow can represent incest survivors. Headboard, footboard, box springs, linens, bolsters, pillow protectors and comforters—any part of a bed can symbolize sexual violation. It’s time to talk more openly about incest without shame and to make room at the table for fluffy girls with pillows to tell their survivor stories.

I am with you and believe you. This is the rightest thing for me to do. The canvas, composition and message regarding rape culture belongs to all of us to curate. It’s time to shatter the silence of every type of sexual assault.

Yvonne Conza

Yvonne Conza’s writing has appeared in The Rumpus, F(r)iction #5 and Funhouse Magazine and her author interviews appear in The Millions, The Bloom and Tethered by Letters. She has performed at The Moth in NYC and has recently been a finalist for the: Penelope Niven Award in Creative Nonfiction, Cutbank Literary Journal, Tobias Wolff, Barry Lopez Creative Nonfiction, Blue Mesa Review and The Raymond Carver Short Story.