Peripheral living. Marginalia

what is it to be marginalised? to live only in margins?

the family court needs a black-and-white. a dated-and-signed. wants a neatly delineated narrative. life does not readily yield such neatness. while history written by the victor and to the victor go the spoils. in life there’s space for other perspectives in margins or between lines. a soft and seemingly blank space of vulnerabilities. fragile with having never yet been written down. or having been written only in white ink.

i’ve said before. his telling of this tale is more readily assimilable into a proscribed narrative, a dominant narrative of this culture. women lie.

i could have held my tongue. a few more seconds. no one had to know. a few more seconds and this could still have been secret.

i’m not much of a teller. each woman who has confided in me the memory of her own horror, i’ve kept that to myself. never breathed a word. i won’t write their names here or anywhere. or speak them. when they told me i think they knew their secret shame would be safe here in this body until i am earth.

that has to do with living a marginal life in more ways than one. which is a breadth of space too wide for me to encompass here.

//

ecritez! l’ecriture est pour toi, tu est pour toi, ton corps est a toi. prends-le.

le rire de la meduse.

//

if you are silent about your pain they will kill you and say you enjoyed it.

zora neale hurston

//

your silence will not protect you.

audre lorde