Storyteller, Question-Weaver

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M_Heather

The idea of asking my sister the question fills me with ice.

Katie’s voice is cheerful, unaware of my distress. Her phone crackles a bit in my ear as she tells me about the trip she and her family are planning to the Dominican Republic. She’s ready to escape the Detroit winter.

“I’m gonna go all by myself to the beach and soak up the sun,” she says.

I am quiet, waiting. When can I ask? When is the right moment? I will have to change the subject painfully. I will have to hurt her. It will be awkward and awful and maybe she’ll hate me for even saying the question aloud.

I have been putting this off for—well, ever since I knew I wanted to be a writer. Decades, now? There is never a good time to ask someone if you can take their pain and press it into pages like dead flowers.

“Katie,” I said. I can hardly breathe. “Can I ask you something?”

Her laughter dies down. I know she knows I’m nervous. “What’s wrong?”

“I just—I wanted to ask if I could—if I could write about the abuse, what the guy at the Acres did. I totally understand if you don’t want me to. They’re your stories, and I don’t have to do it. But if you feel okay about it, I would like to write about it.”

She pauses. And then she completely surprises me.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m definitely okay with it. I want people to know what happened to me. Not so they pity me, but so that they know how it happens, and that it’s not that uncommon.”

I am shaking now, dizzy with relief. Because the unasked question has been haunting me. I didn’t even need a yes. I just needed to be able to ask the question without hurting her. I was afraid she’d think I wanted to use her hurt for my own glory. That I thought I had some right to coopt her life.

Instead, she doesn’t flinch. She responds with grace and bravery. And she starts to tell me more of her story.

I don’t even know how much I don’t know about that time until now.

It happened in a pickup. An almost-rape. She was thirteen, and he was one of the housefathers at the Acres, the Christian children’s home she was living at. Before the morning it happened, he had already told her, crassly, that he liked her body. He tried to touch her—and other girls—at the home’s pool. Kept volunteering to take her to school in his truck.

Grooming. This is what predators do to thirteen-year old girls.

When he tried to go further in that truck that morning, she punched him in the face.

And then she went back to the Acres and told. She went to her house parents, and to the administration, and they contacted the police.

I didn’t know until that moment that this time, at least, my sister was able to resist. To refuse. This doesn’t make her better than those who can’t or don’t fight back—there are all kinds of ways to survive assault, and to be a hero. But I love knowing that in that pickup, my sister was able to say no.

I asked a question. And my sister told me her story.

Both things changed my life.

It is frightening, risky, even dangerous, to ask questions and tell stories. Doing so opens your heart. It makes you say true things. You feel your feelings and take them seriously.

When you tell stories and ask questions, you build a bridge from one person to another, hoping to keep your heart intact. You place trust in other people, flawed as you know people to be.

I trusted my sister and my sister trusted me because we’ve proven to each other that we are safe people.

I wish—I wish everyone was safe.

But they aren’t. Not always. A friend posted her story of surviving sexual assault online, and got rape threats in the comments. Someone else I love told her parents, and they said she’d instigated her abuser.

And sometimes, the answer to a brave, true question is NO, or HELL NO, or HOW DARE YOU.

We try to choose safe people to hear our questions and stories. Sometimes, we place trust in others, and find they weren’t worthy.

But no matter the response, the act of asking and telling true things is always beautiful. Even if the person listening across the table from you does not honor your bravery, you are courageous anyway.

Oh, storyteller, question-weaver, listen to your own tale. Living your life can answer your hardest questions.

You are shaping the end of your story, like Scheherazade during those Arabian nights. Speaking up saves you from the certain death of silence.

Knit your own redemption by speaking truth.

And though you shiver with your audacity, you are becoming, despite your terror, the story you desperately needed to hear.

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Heather Caliri
Heather Caliri is a writer from San Diego who loves British murder mysteries, advice columns, and hot breakfasts. She uses tiny, joyful yeses to free herself from anxiety. Tired of anxiety controlling your life? Try her mini-course, "Five Tiny Ideas for Managing Anxiety," for free here.
Heather Caliri
Heather Caliri

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Comments

  1. I recently had a conversation like this with my sister and parents. I wanted to tell our story, but was worried about hurting them in the process. They all said, “go for it” though I know it’s been bringing up painful memories for all of them. Thanks for sharing this. I needed a little nudge to keep pushing through it.

  2. This is a piercing post that reminds us how secrets can hide in the quiet, but the bringing them into the light can free us all. Thanks, Heather!

  3. pastordt says:

    Wow. Thank you, Heather. And thank your sister, too. AMEN to all of this. (And great job on the punch-in-the-nose. If only every woman in jeopardy could do that!)

    • She is reading the comments and was encouraged. I’m so grateful to be part of a space that honors the bravery of women who are often ignored or marginalized.

  4. Beth Pandy Bruno says:

    Heather, wow. “Oh, storyteller, question-weaver, listen to your own tale. Living your life can answer your hardest questions.” Will definitely being quoting you in an upcoming women’s retreat I’m speaking for. Such power-packed words here…

  5. Heather, I am cheering you on! *waving wildly*

    That strength in you is streaming through your humility and power-words.

  6. Well done — both of you! Thank you for sharing, even when the story is a painful one. Grace is mostly about love conquering fear and pain, isn’t it?

  7. Saskia Wishart says:

    So beautifully said Heather, It is powerful observing your questioning and writing from afar. And this line “It is frightening, risky, even dangerous, to ask questions and tell stories.” That carries a lot.

    Much love

  8. Megan Gahan says:

    This is hard, brave, raw stuff my friend. Your voice is so desperately needed, and this post is the equivalent of a mighty roar. May it be heard by the multitudes. Love you.

  9. Sarah Joslyn Sarah Joslyn says:

    Oh Heather. I feel this. I love this. I love you for saying this. Thank you.

  10. Truth. It’s so worth stepping out for. Thank you for this, Heather.

  11. Yes, yes, yes to this: ‘But no matter the response, the act of asking and telling true things is always beautiful.’
    xoxo

  12. Knit your own redemption by speaking truth. Love that. Thanks for this brave post.

  13. Powerful. Thank you.

  14. Brave through and through. Your sister because she stood against evil. You, Heather, because you took the risk of asking permission to share the story, and then told it so well.

  15. This post is so bold and vulnerable, Heather. Thank you for this gift of your words. <3

  16. Sandy Hay says:

    Oh you brave “shelovelys”, both of you. And the trust you have with each other is sadly quite rare. Thank you Heather and Katie.

  17. Donna-Jean Brown says:

    Nice piece, Heather. Good for you both, you and your sister. I’m glad you have each other.

  18. Nicole A. Joshua says:

    Thank you, Heather, for this post that feels soaked in vulnerability. It gives me that extra nudge, that little extra courage, to speak.

  19. Beautiful. I felt like I was in on that conversation, the raw emotion of it. Thank you for encouraging us to keep telling the hard stories. They need to be heard!

  20. Bev Murrill says:

    Heather, your writing is just going through the roof! This is so well written, and all the more because of the painful nature of it… dont’ stop!

Trackbacks

  1. […] come close to sexual violence before—my siblings were both assaulted, one of them also within a Christian organization. But I still longed to believe church was a safe […]

  2. […] Speaking our words aloud, asking hard questions and get respectful answers does help, even if they weren’t the answers you were looking for. […]

  3. […] if I’d never asked my brother and sister for permission to share parts of their assault […]

  4. […] optimistic. I have not written cheerful or happy-go-lucky. I have written lament. I have written hard. I have written raw and sorrowful and brokenhearted. I told the story of erasing my brother and […]

  5. […] I love this congregation, the place where I came to know Christian community and grow as a believer. But bitterness and cynicism had become regular companions in the sanctuary. I had been hurt by what had happened to my friend years before, as well as sexual violence in my own family. (My siblings were both assaulted, one of them also within a Christian organization.) […]

  6. […] I love this congregation, the place where I came to know Christian community and grow as a believer. But bitterness and cynicism had become regular companions in the sanctuary. I had been hurt by what had happened to my friend years before, as well as sexual violence in my own family. (My siblings were both assaulted, one of them also within a Christian organization.) […]

  7. […] in the Pacific? The Atlantic? The Indian Ocean? Take a painting class? Read a dangerous book? Ask a dangerous question? Run to Abbottsford on a Saturday morning? Make your first ever beef stew and invite 12 friends to […]

  8. […] I’m sharing a hard, true tale of me and my sister over at SheLoves today. Won’t you join me there? […]

  9. […] by Heather Caliri Share on Facebook Retweet this The idea of asking my sister the question fills me with ice. …read more       […]

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