We Do Not Speak of These Things

If shame were human, she would be born to royalty, raised in a lineage of strong women who lived and breathed silence. She would be worshipped, seated on a pedestal made from the bones of ancient mothers who see her as god. Men would love her, they would sing her praises and write long hymns about her prowess. They would wield her name as a weapon and all that hear of her would bow. Women would carry her like an heirloom, from one daughter to another, stitching their lips in her honour, masking their pain and making her garments from their tears. Breathe…take a deep long breath and think about it. Think about where you have placed ‘shame’ in your life. What is she to you? What power she has over your choices? I like to write about generational silence amongst women because it touches our reality a lot more than we realize. Interestingly, I can never write about it without involving the word ‘shame’. In all the ways silence is birthed, shame is the one least mentioned but the most proponent. Like the illegitimate child you underestimate. If you gathered a group of women and asked them ‘what have you been silent about. What shame do you carry in your purse’. If you win their heart enough, you may not be strong enough to withhold the gravity of their secrets. Things that should paint headlines and litter billboards are buried so carefully and I often wondered why. Simple. We worship shame more than we want healing. ‘Think of your dignity, think of what they will say’ Who? Who are these people? Who are those who do not care about your pain, the bruises on your skin or your soul shattered to pieces. Who are these faceless judges that do not care about the deadness you carry yet demand your silence as tribute? They have no name or faces but we build our reality in fear of what they would say. And so the cycle continues. Another girl learns to fold her voice, she learns shame before she learns to spell her name. She builds it a home in her chest and for every pain that should be cried aloud, she finds new corners inside herself to bury it whole…in silence. I hope that one day, we will learn that when we tell the world our truth, it will not end. The world may not listen, they may force us to hide or to shrink, to bury ourselves again but still, it will not end. I hope we learn that justice and healing begins when we place those secrets in open hands instead of locking them inside in our hearts. When we learn that shame is not a god to be worshipped and she is powerless. When we start to choose ourselves over fear or the voices of those nameless ‘people’. One day. A woman will open her mouth. Her voice would tremble, the world would place its hands around her neck and shame would tighten the noose but still, she would speak. And when she does, the pedestal will crack. Shame will be stripped of her worshippers and we will finally be free.

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