Color Me Butterfly

I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting for the guests to arrive.  “Let’s give it a few more minutes,” she announced.  She is the PR Manager at the Barnes & Noble bookstore in downtown Philadelphia where the Color Me Butterfly author’s tour kicked off.  I was elated, anxious to see how many would come out to hear a reading of my work, to come and share in my story.  And though there were only a few in the room, not to mention my very own mother, I was eager to start. 

Moments later, as I went about reading an excerpt from Color Me Butterfly, there sat in the front row, a women – huddled in her seat, her shoulders drawn down, cloaked in Hijab (Muslim headscarf and dress); a cane rested near her leg – not a word, a sound, came from her.  She listened in silence.
Throughout my talk, I couldn’t help but periodically glance over at her; wondering why she refused to look up at me, at anyone for that matter.  Then, bit by bit as I shared my personal experiences, I saw pieces of her come to life.  First there was the slightest sound of shuffling in her seat; then her head began to rise, her eyes came to life and she was now holding on to my every word.

Just when I was about to bring the discussion to a close, out of no where, a small voice spoke up.  Her voice.  “I . . .  I just wanted to say how inspired I am by your book and your story.  As a survivor, I too, understand what you and your family have gone through.”  As each word forced its way from her tiny concealed lips, they became stronger, deeper in their meaning – she went on to share how she’d been abused since she was a small child; how she’d watched her mother be abused; and how she, now terminally ill, was finally finding the courage to speak up and speak out against domestic violence.  “Although my life is almost over, I refuse to die,” she professed.  “I’ve never much talked to anyone about my situation, but I refuse to be silent any longer.”  The room was mesmerized by her story.  Her words melted my heart. 

This woman, a Muslim woman, had opened up her heart to a room full of strangers.  And not because she was forced to; not because she wanted to; but because she finally found the courage to.  She’d been huddled, cloaked in her shame, in her secrecy for far too long… and I felt a blessing move through the room, for this woman to have chosen me, this group, this day… to unveil the Cloak of her Secrecy.

I have been where that woman is.  I, too, have been cloaked in secrecy, refusing to reach out and share my story, my pain.  My mother was cloaked in secrecy.  My grandmother was cloaked in secrecy.  My daughter, to this day, is still – cloaked in secrecy.
 
There are so many women and men that are cloaked in the veil of secrecy – shrouded by shame, embarrassment, fear; suffering in silence.  Whatever the cloak, I  encourage you, implore you – to reach out and unveil the cloak.  Make the choice to get the help you so deserve.  Contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE or at http://www.ndvh.org/. 

Finally, find the courage to lift the garb that has kept you from changing your circumstances… from changing your life!