And every kid that came up to me
And said I was the music they listened to when they first got clean
Now look at me, a couple days sober
I’m fighting demons
Back of that meeting on the east side
Shaking tweakin’, hope that they don’t see it
Hope that no one is looking
That no one recognizes that failure under that hoodie
Was posted in the back with my hands crossed shooken
If they call on me I’m passing, if they talk to me I’m booking out that door
But before I can make it somebody stops me and says, “Are you Macklemore?
Maybe this isn’t the place or time.
I just wanted to say that if it wasn’t for Otherside I wouldn’t have made it.”
I just look down at the ground and say, “Thank you.”
She tells me she has 9 months and that she’s so grateful
Tears in her eyes, looking like she’s gonna cry, fuck!
I barely got 48 hours, treated like I’m some wise monk
I wanna tell her I relapsed but I can’t
I just shake her hand and tell her congrats..
Macklemore & Ryan Lewis - Starting Over
Melissa Harris-Perry’s Open Letter to the Steubenville Survivor
Dearest Beloved Girl,
This letter is an apology. An apology for being an adult who has failed to make the world safe for you. Because you should be safe. Even when you make the sometimes stupid, often naive choices that teens make, you should be safe.
Your vulnerability should not invite assault and attack of your body or your spirit. And so I am sorry, because we have failed to teach your male peers that they have no right to touch you without your consent or to use you to meet their needs or to discard you if your victimization does not fit their life plan. I am sorry we have failed you.
This letter is also a note of gratitude for your willingness to report this crime, to take the stand, and to endure the viciousness hurled at you this week. I know the words that run in a loop in your mind. Don’t tell. If you tell, no one will believe you. If you tell, everyone will think you are a whore. Sometimes he is the one who says them first, spewing the words like mold spores that grow in the darkness of your silence. Sometimes it’s your own voice telling you, I can’t tell. No one will believe me. It’s the reason 54% of survivors never report the assault. It’s the reason I kept my secret for nearly a decade. But not you, beloved. You demanded the right to be heard.
You may have lost your voice that night, but you found it again when you told the truth–even though you knew, didn’t you? You knew just how relentlessly they would try to silence you.
You knew that neighbors, and friends, and even members of the national media would mourn the loss of your attackers’ football careers more than the loss of your innocence. You knew that even those who claimed to be sympathetic would pass along the pictures of your assault with a tone deaf voyeurism that seeks to make you a thing instead of a person. I think maybe you knew, or suspected these things, but you spoke out anyway.
And that…that is astonishing. And I want to say thank you, because you did what so many of us never find the strength to do. You spoke for yourself. You spoke for the 44% of rape victims who are under 18–and you spoke for my 14-year-old self, who still hears that threat echoing in my head, “Don’t tell. No one will believe you.”
So, this is my apology and this is my gratitude. This is me saying, “I believe you.”
And I believe you are inherently valuable. Not as a character in some grotesque news cycle where your assault is all we know, but as a girl with hopes and dreams and ambitions and vulnerabilities and so much more growing up to do. I never need to know your name, but I need you to know you are not alone. Surviving is not a single occurrence, it is a lifetime of making choices that honor you and your right to speak. You have begun surviving. You will continue surviving. And if you ever get down, or wonder how you will go on, take out this letter and read it to yourself.
I believe you.
I was talking to my mom and the phone and I told her that I had just woken up from a nap. She asked if I was pregnant. No wonder I am so avoidant of naps.
So taking all the covers and pillows off our bed so the floor we’re going to sleep on for the next three nights is comfortable(-ISH) is terribly heartbreaking. Especially when all you want to do is lay down in your bed with all its pillows and blankets because you’re siiiiick.
My mom called and got me all freaked out about all the tiny details that go into planning a wedding.
Then I remembered that I’m marrying the best person and the world and that’s all that matters. Who cares if anyone at the wedding eats or has a place to park or that I even have anything to wear?