Shelter seeking

wrecked.org

A look on the floor of my tiny apartment and I ask myself, "What have I done this week?"

Piles of books, papers, notebooks, bibles…hard to decipher letters…"I agree to waive testimony in this case."

(No.)

And a line from a vintage Talking Heads song, "this is not my life", mocks me in my despair.

"You may ask yourself, where does that highway lead to? 
You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong? 
You may say to yourself, my god, what have I done?"

What have I done this week?

I followed counsel and registered at a women's shelter for services.

I cried a lot.

I drove the hour to participate in those services-at once being mistaken for the facilitator and before I could say "no", the receptionist hissed in a stage whisper, "Noooo. She's a clieeeeent."

Hello. 

I can hear you.

I'm still a person standing here though my grief is palpable and the anger that gets me out of bed could light your Houston for a week.

I drove through the DeathRace 2000 that is Houston "rush hour" traffic and cursed God for his impotent omnipotence. And wailed as I have not in so long. "Are you just hand-wringing bystander? or did you pimp me out for some future cosmic good."

It wasn't pretty. There was no "be pretty. be sweet."

Alone. Anomie x 1000 as I stared into the blackness, the sucking black hole of my assaulted faith.

Then, I crawled into my pallet on the floor and whimpered to sleep.

Woke. Sad to see any sun and know that my soul and body and reputation and truth had been cast with the illusion of being sold for pittance of a sparkly ring on a sweet fall day when all of the world changed.

This is not my life.

I crawled onto my knees and poked God with a giant stick of a broken blade of crumbly grass and waited.

"I will wait here until you show up. I have no where to go."

Many minutes later after kneeling defiantly…hopefully, I sensed a question about culpability and the American legal system posed to my justice-driven soul.

And the wisdom of an unseen God planted a tiny equally unseen seed of peace.

The memory of those beautiful broken women who had sat to my left and my right in the safety of that shelter made me reconsider my position. Each of them had stories of terror, fear, loss, abandonment, brutal "discipline", and a sense of no longer knowing. But different from me, they each spoke of what they were looking forward to – the future that they were carving out of the granite and the hope of a God who – they were sure – would see them through.

One of the women was so much sunshine in the body of a life that had been sold so often so very young that it was all she knew. Until she knew something different.

Here, in Houston. Sold.

Here in Houston. Purchased.

Here in Houston. Redeemed.

And her story will be messy and fraught with not knowing, but she will rise. I believe this with everything I have left.

One day, we will see each other again – her with kids surrounding. Me – with a fading swath of purple underneath my hair and a sincere friendship borne in grief. I already love her so.

She was looking ahead to a City unnamed and country unknown where her dignity was no longer raped from her young body and the so-obvious brilliance of mind freshly invested for life and life-giving – not just terrorized survival.

And I felt ashamed. Not the shame that is hurled onto the victimized by a society that wants to believe in its kind and gentle people. But the shame that motivates and moves forward.

These women no longer kept their moments shackled to the last act or season or decade of violence. They were looking forward. 

I needed/need to look forward as well.

One day, I want this beautiful friend to say, "Ms Allen (she calls me this), you shine. You chose freedom." And I want to believe her then.

Friday, I ran downtown to conclude counsel with a man who spoke wisdom and urged me to go "home" and find freedom in the love and goofiness of people who love me.

But I want justice.

A justice that I most likely will never have.

And one that may expose, but not heal people I love. Expose them to truths that will shatter their perceptions.

Innocent people that I love sincerely.

I've been asked by a family member whom I respect and appreciate to speak no truth that would hurt the people on the fringes. I told him that this is why I waited all of 4.5 months to flee. The love I had for him. The love I have for – grieve in – for them.

But what about me and the millions of people who find themselves shattered, ostracized, belittled, destroyed…body and character impinged?

Why must we wear misappropriated shame to preserve the image of the perpetrators?

Why must we cry out to God asking if he is even there? Wondering if prayers will continue to yield no shelter. If we will ever be safe. Normal. Whole.

I am undone.

I also wrote this week.

"I will find a means to survive and thrive and forgive your sorry (excuse for breathing)."

"I will give voice. 

Not to the misappropriated shame

but to the willingness of the broken to rise again

in hope."

"I must locate each shard of my person, Peace, Trust, Faith, and try to reassemble. Melted down. Recast. Fire. Torment. If I am lucky."

This is no scree.

This a declaration.

Do you hear the people sing? … It is the music of people who will not be slaves again.

Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry men?
It is the music of the people
Who will not be slaves again!
When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums
There is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes!

Combeferre:
Will you join in our crusade?
Who will be strong and stand with me?
Beyond the barricade
Is there a world you long to see?

Courfeyrac:
Then join in the fight
That will give you the right to be free!

All:
Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again!
When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums
There is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes!

Feuilly:
Will you give all you can give
So that our banner may advance
Some will fall and some will live
Will you stand up and take your chance?
The blood of the martyrs
Will water the meadows of France!

All:
Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again!
When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums
There is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes!

LES MISERABLES – DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING LYRICS, 2012, [ From: http://www.metrolyrics.com/do-you-hear-the-people-sing-lyrics-les-miserables.html ]