Dec 2014
Sometimes I want a baby so bad that my entire abdomen feels empty, and I clutch my stomach thinking of the day when I'll be old enough, mature enough, to have children of my own. But other times I think about the things I'll have to teach them. I want to teach them that everywhere they look will be hands waiting to help them up if they fall. I want to teach them that there is fruit their mouths will not believe they are tasting. I want to teach them that they will have mentors who will inspire them and show them things they're sure are too beautiful to be real.
But I have to teach them more than that. In my freshman year of college I sat in a classroom where we were talking about survivors of genocide. My professor asked us to respond to the question, "If you had experienced something terrible, something you were scared your child would one day experience, when and how would you tell them?" I watched my classmates ponder this question and wanted to tell them that I already know. This is already how I feel every time I wonder how I'll tell my children that I was ***** by someone I loved. I want them to know that I love them, that I would never hurt them, but how can they ever trust me once they know what was done to me?
They'll start to believe that love is an empty promise which will never be fulfilled. They'll learn to flinch at every hand that comes near them, whether it's a stranger's or it's mine. They'll know that even if they love someone with their whole being, it could be thrown back in their faces at any time. This is what I was taught, and it didn't save me from being *****, so I wonder how it could be different for my children. They'll have depression, anxiety, insomnia and paranoia woven into their bloodlines, and even if it skips them, it could hit their children, or their children's children, and the cycle will never end. I'm terrified that no matter what I do, no matter what I tell them, no matter how I shelter them, my children will never be safe. The world's children will never be safe.
I know that if my children are born white like me, I will never have to teach them about what to say when they are stopped by the cops. I will never have to fear that they won't come home because a policeman thought that instead of reaching for their wallets, they were reaching for a gun. If my children are people of color, I won't know how to teach them any of this because my privilege has kept me from experiencing it for myself. I know that if I have a child, I won't be the best mother. I will **** up, and I'll say things I don't mean. I'll blame myself every time they feel pain, and they'll feel guilty for bringing their pain upon me. I know my being will be entwined with theirs from the moment I know that they exist. I know it will hurt. It will hurt more than anything I've ever felt.
But if I can teach my children not to hurt other children, to respect people's boundaries and to consider the impact of everything they say, maybe the cycle can end. If I can tell my children that they have privileges that other people don't have, and that they can fight the system in place that gives them that privilege, then other mothers can feel one less moment of fear that their children will never come home. If my children know that their voices are important, that they can change their environment every time they tell their stories or encourage someone else to tell theirs, then maybe that pain will be worth it. If I can tell my children how I feel, maybe I will be the best mother I can be, for their sake, and the sake of every child in this world.
But I have to teach them more than that. In my freshman year of college I sat in a classroom where we were talking about survivors of genocide. My professor asked us to respond to the question, "If you had experienced something terrible, something you were scared your child would one day experience, when and how would you tell them?" I watched my classmates ponder this question and wanted to tell them that I already know. This is already how I feel every time I wonder how I'll tell my children that I was ***** by someone I loved. I want them to know that I love them, that I would never hurt them, but how can they ever trust me once they know what was done to me?
They'll start to believe that love is an empty promise which will never be fulfilled. They'll learn to flinch at every hand that comes near them, whether it's a stranger's or it's mine. They'll know that even if they love someone with their whole being, it could be thrown back in their faces at any time. This is what I was taught, and it didn't save me from being *****, so I wonder how it could be different for my children. They'll have depression, anxiety, insomnia and paranoia woven into their bloodlines, and even if it skips them, it could hit their children, or their children's children, and the cycle will never end. I'm terrified that no matter what I do, no matter what I tell them, no matter how I shelter them, my children will never be safe. The world's children will never be safe.
I know that if my children are born white like me, I will never have to teach them about what to say when they are stopped by the cops. I will never have to fear that they won't come home because a policeman thought that instead of reaching for their wallets, they were reaching for a gun. If my children are people of color, I won't know how to teach them any of this because my privilege has kept me from experiencing it for myself. I know that if I have a child, I won't be the best mother. I will **** up, and I'll say things I don't mean. I'll blame myself every time they feel pain, and they'll feel guilty for bringing their pain upon me. I know my being will be entwined with theirs from the moment I know that they exist. I know it will hurt. It will hurt more than anything I've ever felt.
But if I can teach my children not to hurt other children, to respect people's boundaries and to consider the impact of everything they say, maybe the cycle can end. If I can tell my children that they have privileges that other people don't have, and that they can fight the system in place that gives them that privilege, then other mothers can feel one less moment of fear that their children will never come home. If my children know that their voices are important, that they can change their environment every time they tell their stories or encourage someone else to tell theirs, then maybe that pain will be worth it. If I can tell my children how I feel, maybe I will be the best mother I can be, for their sake, and the sake of every child in this world.
