Confrontation with the Rapist

In dreams, the Rapist says,
Nothing is possible,
I will kill you,
I have already killed you,
She will not come for you,
You cannot have love,
There is only money
in this man’s world—
and (he hisses in my ear)
she knows it.
She is French, and practical.

He continues:
There is only money
and you don’t know how to make it.
There is only rape
and you are the rape-ee.
We serve up girls like you
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Your bird of love is a gull
who eats and shits our garbage.

His buddies join him:
Sex-crazed witch, they say,
your phantasming mind
will not save you from us.
Ineffective weapon,
when has it saved you in the past?

This is a description of Them.
They have the facts,
all the news that’s fit to print.
I have language and the spirits.
Both abandon me the moment
I balance my checkbook.

A wealthy friend once told me
I was the most impractical person
she’d ever met.
She hurt my feelings,
but she was only telling the truth.

I wish I were her.
I wish I were anybody but me.

I wish I were the poet
from a moneyed background
who said, when I solemnly announced
that I must put writing first,
“But, Harriet, how will you eat?

Damned if I know.

The practical nurse who was my grandmother
had a mantra for me:
If wishes were horses,
poor men would ride.

I do not want, I do not want,
I do not want what is.
I want to stay child.
I want a childhood I never had.
I want adventure
and the youth that passed me by.
I want my horse,
and a white banner flying.

Il n’y a pas de magie,
a friend informs me.
We wish magic were real,
she continues firmly,
but it is not.
Lucky her, she appears to derive
a measure of satisfaction from this.

If wishes were horses,
poor girls would ride,
you told me in so many words.
Everyone, in fact, from the beginning,
has been telling me the Same.
A Greek chorus.
Five thousand years of plunder
are not, I admit,
on my side.

In dreams, I am being raped.
It hurts in my vagina
and in every particle of my bones,
visceral humiliation
that goes on and on and on …

Just a bloody minute!
I suddenly say to myself.
The practical thing to do,
when being raped,
is to go for the jugular.

And, with the sharp teeth
of my phantasming mind,
in the nightmare that begins my new day,
I do.

God rest his soul, I say,
and let me be.

 

– Harriet Ann Ellenberger, 1989, revised 2015
   

note: The image of Leda and the swan, an Italian 16th-century bronze casting, was found on images.nga.gov. “Confrontation with the Rapist” was first published in Trivia: Voices of Feminismissue 17, “Radical,” Winter 2016.

 

She Is Still Burning 13 (May 2002)

The May 2002 installment below shows its age mostly in the letter to readers, where you can see me attempting to dredge up a bit of hope where there wasn’t much (the invasion of Iraq hadn’t happened yet, but the attempts to stop it would fail). The two following pieces do last, and both are meant to be read aloud (Barbara Mor’s “Suicidal Girls” would’ve made a great podcast, with sound effects, and my piece is a speech, to be delivered to a conference I never got to).

SHE IS STILL BURNING
An Expanding Reader To Encourage Life Lovers
Installment #13
10 May 2002 

We are against war and the sources of war.
We are for poetry and the sources of poetry.
(Muriel Rukeyser, 1949)

All humanity today lives under one global god: the God of War, who is continuously empowered and enlarged by the religion of money.
(Barbara Mor, 1987)

Peace is a place where no war is held.
(line from children’s poems circulating the internet, 2002)

Dear Friends,

I’ve begun this letter three times in the past six weeks, and then gotten submerged in translation contracts, while events raced ahead, outstripping my attempts to understand them. My first try began like this: “It’s March 31st as I begin writing this, and two old, ruthless and cynical men who despise each other (a description of Ariel Sharon and Yassar Arafat stolen from Robert Fisk, Mideast correspondent par excellence) head towards their final confrontation in the Land of the Patriarchs. … I hate it when men play chess with human pawns, particularly when they’re playing on a board that’s already soaked in blood. I hate it even more when nobody stops them.”

Six weeks later, the civilian infrastructure of the Palestinian Authority is wrecked and Arafat sidelined, and now it’s Sharon and his Likud party versus Hamas and Hezbollah. But these players are also mirror images of each other: both want the same land, all of it; both think they can take it by force; both believe their god backs them in this endeavour.

Personally, I think the opposing sides in all the battles spreading over the earth are serving the same god, the one Starhawk calls “The God of Force” (secular types worship him too, under names like “full-spectrum dominance”). This god may have ruled the earth for the last 4000-odd years, but these are strange times and I suspect that he might have finally shot himself in the foot.

Force doesn’t work anymore—it may be as simple as that. Here we have, for instance, George W. Bush, the most powerful man in the world and the least free, with his heart set on bringing down Saddam Hussein. Can he do it? Only if he’s willing to lose 10-30,000 troops, use low-yield nukes and crash the U.S. economy.

Checkmate.

I’m thinking, in other words, that there’s something resembling hope at the bottom of this wastebasket. And if you’ll grant me a few moments and a little poetic license, I’ll try to explain why.

First, let’s say that the “God of Force” is shorthand for “dominant human belief and behaviour patterns under patriarchy.” When this god collapses in a bloody stalemate with himself, who’s left standing? Well, it’s probably (to use another of Starhawk’s phrases) the “Goddess of Regeneration.” She’s also shorthand, a metaphoric image for human potential (if you think of human beings as one body, then she’d be the soul—or, in scientific terms, the quantum hologram—of humanity). But she’s also a metaphoric image for the unity-in-diversity of matter/energy—hence, the soul of a humanity in sync with the rest of the cosmos.

And if we want to locate her prophets, we don’t need to look much farther than the Women in Black, with their week-by-week, year-by-year street-corner vigils for peace. Are they unrealistic and politically naive, these women? I don’t think so.

Bon courage (and happy reading),
Harriet Ellenberger
Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada


IN THIS INSTALLMENT

1) “Suicidal Girls”: an Irish Crone rap by Barbara Mor, about which she writes, “i really want to bodily pick up women, in all this chaos, and set us back on the OldFeministRoad: Fuck Off, Stupids!”

2) “Some Reflections on Lesbian Culture, Feminist Thought, Jazz and Love” by Harriet Ellenberger (presentation written for the conference “Ruptures, Résistances et Utopies” to be held in Toulouse, France, September 2002)

Continue reading She Is Still Burning 13 (May 2002)