The Loudest Words
November 28, 2018 | Creative Writing
Sexual assault, somehow, remains an epidemic today, no matter the amount of attention that it is given. After the #metoo movement, where hundreds of thousands shared this hashtag in order to reveal that they too had been a victim of sexual assault, one would guess that progress would have been made. Nevertheless, we have now entered the hashtag of #thisisnotconsent in order to honour a seventeen year old girl whose lacy underwear were considered her consenting to sexual acts, although she never said “yes” to the act. She recently committed suicide in the wake of such events.
Victims of sexual assault are placed under a constant scrutiny, where details of what they were wearing or how much they had to drink become seemingly more important than they emotions that they felt or the words that they said. Through art, particularly poetry, one is able to reveal the emotion that is attached to sexual assault and just how horrifying it can be. Furthermore, it can display just how terrifying it is to exist, particularly as a woman, in a world where it seems as though you may become a victim at any moment. Nevertheless, it is also through the raw and blatant display of this emotion that one can understand that the fear attached to such events is one that cannot be overlooked. Here are three poems written by talented Dawson students regarding sexual assault and all that is attached to it. May they be a reminder that it is time to finally find a solution.
Creative Writing Editor
The Daily Occurrence
by Naomi Spiegelman
The aggressive whistlings and suggestive taunts popularize themselves as the sun begins to merge with the grey sky that is the night. I gently pluck my earphone that is my safety in order to clarify the words I so desperately avoid that were unwillingly thrown at me. Awkwardly, no— Uncomfortably, I nod and gently put my earphone back in and I keep walking. As I pass one and then another and then another, the tears roll down my cheeks.
“Smile, sweetie, that skirt looks good on you,” he says, thinking that’s exactly what I needed to hear today. My mind is racing. My heart is bleeding. My soul is yearning.
Is this what our world has come to? The constant unease every time I walk alone? The hairs on the back of my neck standing up when I hear anything other than the blaring music from my earphones?
Often, it seems that there is no light at the end of our tunnel for humanity. But then. Then, I remember. I remember that I have a voice. That I am one of the lucky ones. I remember that you, yes, you, are lucky too. We can use our voice to demand what’s ours. For all of us. Equality for all people.
Here Lies a Survivor
by Alex Sadeum
Here lies a survivor
Here lies a bare body
Here lies my hope
Here lies my clothes and my underwear
Here lies the change I had in my back pocket
Here lies my belongings
Here lies a scare little girl in a grown women’s body
Here lies my innocence
Here lies my trust
Here lies the muffled sound coming out of my mouth washing the ground like the rain washes the earth
After the rain comes the rainbow
If you’ve been through hell you’ve been granted a place in heaven
Here lies me and you
In this scenario I come first not you
Here lies the consent I did not give
Here lies what you took or borrowed or tried, you can keep it I don’t want it anymore, it doesn’t feel the same on me anymore
Here lies my first time
Here lies my fingers scraping the dirt trying to get away
Here lies the most uncomfortable, unwanted, disgusting moment of my life and it’ll stay here and when archeologist discovers this site 10 000 years later they’ll find a fossil as massive as my shame
Here, where the branches close on you, where the trees swallows the sun
Here, I visit it sometimes like the tomb of someone who you used to love
Here lies a survivor, even if I don’t feel like one yet
by Auréa Cariou
My hands are limp,
The room is dark.
My last Memory is walking down the park
The world is spinning faster than it should,
My head hurts, my vision's blurry,
I think someone is above me.
Quick-take: my shirt is on.
Correction, it's rolled up on my chest.
I can't focus even if I'm trying my best.
There is music, a couch under me.
'This isn't my house',
It's not where I should be.
I am afraid. He has his hands around my neck.
When I leave, he swears me to secrecy,
"I kinda have a girlfriend, you see"
Two years later his grip is still on my throat,
I haven't seen him since that night,
but every breath I take is weighed down by the flashes,
I have a thousand triggers and no antidote.