"I wrote out the story of Heaven. I wrote about how carrying my own shame had kept me from stepping out into the world to be who I was meant to be. And then I wrote about the celebrities who I knew the girls looked up to and whose stories of survival inspired me over the years, like Mary J. Blige, Fantasia, Queen Latifah, Gabrielle Union, Oprah, and of course, Maya Angelou. I wrote down a list of words that I wished someone had explained to me when I was their age. I defined things like grooming, rape, incest, disclosure, and shame. When I looked up it was dark outside. I had been writing—longhand—for hours. I felt good about what I had put down on paper, but it still felt incomplete. Parts of my own experience were embedded in what I was creating, but I knew I needed to share my actual story, something I never ever did. I didn’t even know where to start. I put down my notepad and sat on the edge of my mattress with my legs folded over one another and my back curved in a deep C. I hung my head and said a quiet prayer, asking God to intervene and lend me support. And then I did the unthinkable. I remembered. All of it. On purpose."
"The journey that began that Sunday morning in the fall of 2017 is its own story—one you’ve likely heard, watched, or read about again and again. The story I’m going to tell is about how we got to those two simple yet infinitely powerful words: me too. The story of how empathy for others—without which the work of ‘me too’ doesn’t exist—starts with empathy for that dark place of shame where we keep our stories, and where I kept mine."
Author Burke has a powerful story to tell. Historically, it is an important one because of her connection to the “Me Too Movement.” But, as you have read above, this book is a collection of her memories of a very difficult life. There are plenty of women for whom this would have been an unbearable burden.
"What motivated me to continue were the little Black and Brown girls who trusted us with their secrets, their pain, their shame, their worries, their anger, their fears, and their hopes. It didn’t take resources to introduce the possibility of healing into their lives. It didn’t take wide-ranging support to stand up for them and others like them. It took vision. It took intention. It took tenacity. It took courage. And it took empathy."
At various points in her life’s trajectory, she comes up against her choices:
"I always wonder why they knew I wouldn’t tell. What was it about me? What did they know? Did they see through my “good girl” charade? I have filled in the blanks with my own insecurities and post-traumatic ideations for years, but I can’t say for sure. As good as I wanted to be, it was evident—in my small child’s mind, at least—that I wasn’t innocent in practice. I started to settle into a new reality of who I really was—not the sweet, smart girl that my mom and family saw me as, but as this gross, fast, ugly girl with dark secrets. Before I reached puberty, I learned two things: how to smile and perform the role of good girl and how to hide the nasty, dirty, fast girl I thought I really was."
This is a recounting of personal experience that isn’t easy to read. It elicits much admiration and raises many important questions including: How can we help those who have been abused to regain a healthy life? Why has so little changed over the past decades? What support does the “Black Community” need to stop protecting abusers? Will there ever be a time when girls and young women won’t be shamed into hiding these tragic experiences?
Author Burke has provided plenty of material for discussion.
3.5*