{"id":473,"date":"2014-06-29T11:01:52","date_gmt":"2014-06-29T16:01:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/?p=473"},"modified":"2017-12-28T22:18:21","modified_gmt":"2017-12-29T04:18:21","slug":"a-rape-poetics-of-emplacement","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/a-rape-poetics-of-emplacement\/","title":{"rendered":"A Rape Poetics of Emplacement"},"content":{"rendered":"

Emily Ronay Johnston, SRPR Managing Editor<\/h2>\n

Emily Johnston\u2019s series \u201cTraumatic Emplacement<\/a>\u201d explores poetics of emplacement, and the simultaneity of dislocation and enmeshment in traumatic poetry.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

As a rape survivor, I often wonder about the value of writing about rape in a culture both saturated in and compulsively avoidant of representations of rape. Who benefits? Does the writer? Do others? And if so, how? We often think of writing, particularly writing about traumatic experiences like rape, as an individual (albeit political) act of breaking silence, of telling one\u2019s story. But approaching writing about rape through a poetics of emplacement might help us understand such writing as a public and social act of situating ourselves \u201cin and through language, the earth, and each other; in and through our histories and our blind spots; in and through our protests and complicities\u201d (\u201cAbout SRPR\u201d). So in this blog entry, I will explore how the language of survivors (and perpetrators) bolsters my own act of telling, just as I hope that my acts of telling will bolster the voices of other survivors.<\/p>\n

The fear of recognition, of identifying myself as a rape survivor, often inhibits the production of language about rape in any form whether written, spoken, thought, or heard. Language, ironically, brings me face-to-face with moments where language (a verbal or bodily \u201cNo!<\/i>\u201d) has failed. Language reinvents the wheel with each violation, endowing it with its own particular details, smells, timings, and dynamics. At the same time, language gathers those violations under one inevitable word: rape. Language conveys the heavy surrender to another\u2019s twisted pleasures, the utter abandonment of one for another, the belief that force forces<\/i> one to choose, to render her body a possession of one doomed love \/ connection \/ alliance \/ institutional dependence after another.<\/p>\n

Many millions endure rape on a daily basis: curious teenagers; battered wives; wrong-place \/ wrong-time inmates; children; slaves; trafficked adolescent girls; sex workers; church members; prisoners of war; military active-duty, members, personnel. So where do the words go when they\u2019re not heard, not asked for, ignored, used against, bludgeoned out? Who listens to the \u201cplease don\u2019t do this<\/i>,\u201d the whispered \u201cfuck you<\/i>,\u201d or the throat choking on semen? Where is the linguistic revenge? If not now, when do we speak?<\/p>\n

In each others\u2019 stories, we hear our own anguish, anger, and terror at the darkening rooms or the lightening spaces, the next morning: the tousled beds, the cold linoleum floors, the gutters where this happens. We revisit the raw skin, stubbed-out cigarettes, twisted condoms, spots of blood. Language throws us back there, at the same time as our healing bodies sit in the same light that once ruined us forever and has, somehow, kept us alive.<\/p>\n

Once, I had a dream: A bleacher full of faceless women, blurred out by rape and battery. Faceless, they had no mouths to speak, but their stories were alive inside them as they turned, in unison, to face me walking toward them, to join them.<\/p>\n

Together, our faces returned as we heard each other say what happened. \u201cDarkness, a pit, potatoes, and the War was over<\/i>.\u201d[1] \u201cI remember feeling sick, an overwhelming sense of guilt<\/i>.\u201d \u201cHis bars were made of metal. I can\u2019t break free<\/i>.\u201d The water was still running in the bathroom sink. He said I didn\u2019t turn it off when I got up to pee in the middle of the night. The steady \u201cshhhhhhh<\/i>\u201d of the running faucet as he pushed himself into my asshole, barely awake after the fight the night before. \u201cWas he going to kill me? Had he already done it?<\/i>\u201d \u201cThe sweet birds sing for you.<\/i>\u201d <\/i>\u201cGood morning, blackness. Good afternoon, stillness. Goodnight, silence<\/i>.\u201d \u201cEnter, the earthen ground is rough<\/i>.\u201d \u201cHow much more can I cry?<\/i>\u201d <\/i>\u201cFirst love– his hands so sure. I wish I could believe it was just a dream. I want to go back, back before. I just need him to listen.<\/i>\u201d[2] Poetry emplaces you into me, me into you. Language shows how rape displaces responsibility onto the violated, away from the violator. He is heading off to work, another party; to fathering, partnering, counseling, preaching, trafficking, warring, defending his country.<\/p>\n

What is the language of perpetrators? Survivor poetry attempts to slough off the burden of guilt, anger, \u201cif only<\/i>.\u201d The yellow stars, the ghettos, cattle cars. \u201cShe put out signals<\/i>,\u201d so many say. \u201cI forced myself on her in her own bed. I remember she was crying, a flashback from her father raping her. My hormones were going insane. I asked her to finish me off<\/i>.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t remember what happened, I never asked her. I didn\u2019t want to know. But I know I got off<\/i>.\u201d \u201cYou like it in the ass, don\u2019t ya,\u201d he said after he finished, lifting a dirty towel from the floor and wiping himself off. \u201cI was horny. I ignored her. I did it. An erect dick has no conscience.<\/i>\u201d \u201cMost girls don\u2019t really understand how guys are. Women have to be careful. We never talk about what happened<\/i>.\u201d \u201cEnthusiastic consent!\u201d \u201cWell she never said no. I could see how she froze up with fear, but it wasn\u2019t rape. She keeps saying she\u2019s fine, but I went and partied with the other girls instead.<\/i>\u201d \u201cShe was 16 with huge tits. I just had to touch her. I knew I could never be with her.<\/i>\u201d Language of denial, language of selfishness, language of power and control. \u201cThe bizarre intimacy with the man who raped me. No place anymore. They just don\u2019t give a fuck. They get off on knowing<\/i>.\u201d[3]<\/p>\n

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[1] From Nava Semel\u2019s And the Rat Laughed <\/i>(pg. 61).<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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[2] These quoted passages have been lifted \/ adapted from survivor testimonies on Escaping Hades: A Rape and Sexual Abuse Survivor\u2019s Site <\/i>at http:\/\/www.pandys.org\/escapinghades\/index2.html<\/a>.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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[3] These quoted passages have been lifted \/ adapted from perpetrator testimonies in \u201cThe \u2018Reddit Rape Thread\u2019: Insights Into the Minds of Perpetrators\u201d by stavvers and can be found at http:\/\/stavvers.wordpress.com\/2012\/07\/28\/the-reddit-rape-thread-insights-into-the-minds-of-perpetrators\/<\/a>.<\/p>\n

\u2245<\/p>\n

\"Emily<\/a>Emily is from Boston, San Francisco, Fairbanks, Alaska, and Central Illinois. Holding a Ph.D. in English Studies and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing\/Poetry, her work emerges at the intersections of writing studies, social justice pedagogy, trauma theory, film theory, and narrativity. In particular, she researches and publishes on students\u2019 literacy learning in relation to issues of sexualized trauma. She has taught courses in academic writing, public writing, creative writing, gender studies, literature and film, and English as a Second Language. Emily is a Postdoctoral Researcher in Writing Pedagogy at The University of Delaware, and Managing Editor of\u00a0Spoon River Poetry Review<\/em>\u00a0(SRPR).<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Emily Ronay Johnston, SRPR Managing Editor Emily Johnston\u2019s series \u201cTraumatic Emplacement\u201d explores poetics of emplacement, and the simultaneity of dislocation and enmeshment in traumatic poetry. As a rape survivor, I often wonder about the value of writing about rape in … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[43],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-473","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-traumatic-emplacement"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/473","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=473"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/473\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":765,"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/473\/revisions\/765"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=473"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=473"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.srpr.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=473"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}