Ode to Dolores - December 3, 1997

Ode to Dolores – December 3, 1997

It’s been 23 years now and the opening chords still arrest my heart.

It’s been 23 years now and still can’t get past this stanza without breaking down into fast moving, hot tears.

Say a prayer for me
Help me to feel the strength I did
My identity, has it been taken?
Is my heart breakin' on me?

All my plans fell through my hands;
They fell through my hands, on me
All my dreams, it suddenly seems, it suddenly seems
Empty

 

It’s been 23 years now and I’m still asking myself the question:

My identity, has it been taken?

Yes, it was ABSOLUTELY taken. At knifepoint.  

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I’ll always have the date etched on my heart.  

I’ll always have a soft spot for people taking public transport because they have no choice.

I’ll always have this story to tell.  

Not the kind you look forward to telling the grandkids or anyone else for that matter.  

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I’ll always wear the stamp of a survivor.  

I’ll always wear what I want because my bright, puffy winter coat was not to blame for his behaviour.  

A patriarchy that continues to cultivate rape culture in which sexual violence is accepted and justified through victim shaming is to blame for his behaviour.  

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I’ll always be the 1 in the 6 in the room.

I’ll always be triggered by rape scenes.

I’ll always be triggered by hearing a survivor’s story.

I’ll always be triggered by someone offering me a ride because that’s how I ended up walking away from the bus stop with him.    

I’ll always be triggered by gang initiations because that was why he did it.

I’ll always be triggered by the word ‘DAWG’ because that’s what he had written on his fitted cap.  

How appropriate.  

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I’ll never be able to take large pills without remembering the horseshoe medication I had to take as part of the HIV prevention treatment.   

I’ll never be able to look at police lineups on tv without remembering the folly of the Boston Police letting the suspects see me in the hallway prior to identification.  

Justice is just not for us black women.  

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How can I still be so triggered by this song.

How can I still be crying about this.

How can I still be mad about what was stripped away from me when I’ve gained so much.

Because it was not his to take.  

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I wonder what my life would be like if I had mustered up the emotional courage to stay in Boston for grad school.  

I wonder what my attacker remembers.

I wonder what would’ve happened if [redacted] ever saw him and was successful in carrying out his vigilante justice.   

I wonder what justice would look like without a statute of limitations.  

#SayHerName tells me it would look the same as it does now.

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Dolores, the grief I feel is dually compounded by the fact that you are no longer here.  

I wish I had learned the importance of giving people their flowers while they’re alive sooner than today.  

When it came to projecting my pain, you were my best understudy.

Your keening masterfully exposed the rot in my hollowed-out existence.

What you left behind is a heartrendering aria on what it feels like to die alive.

#MeToo