“Something terrible happened, and I wish I could leave it at that because as a writer who is also a woman, I don’t want to be defined by the worst thing that has happened to me. I don’t want my personality to be consumed in that way. I don’t want my work to be consumed or defined by this terrible something.”
— Roxane Gay, from Hunger
In her extraordinary memoir, Hunger, Roxane Gay writes courageously about the worst thing that ever happened to her. The disarming manner in which she does it can teach us so much about both Gay’s strength as a human and how a writer might approach the writing of trauma.
Gay, an American professor, writer and social commentator, does not dive right into the story we know is coming. She opens her heart along the way, explaining her impetus for writing, her desires of her readership (“I do not want pity, appreciation or advice”), along with her values around the importance of sharing violent histories.
“I don’t want to be silent. I can’t be silent. I don’t want to pretend nothing terrible has ever happened to me.”
When she does arrive at the description of the violence that was perpetrated against her, as reader I am in full empathy with her thoughts around how her history should be read and interpreted. I feel I am in sacred territory where my role as reader is elevated to that of witness, and I am bound by universal law to oblige the strictures under which this vital story is being shared.
What emerges is the great respect Gay has for self, along with a high-ranking integrity that demands she disclose this wounding at least in part for the sake of the collective.
A takeaway around writing into our trauma might be the role of staging in the telling, and the capacity of the writer to remain in control by stating her fears and desires in the sharing of her story. Gay teaches by demonstrating that in the vulnerable act of trauma-telling, we can glow with power, our integrity a beautiful and protective robe, as we stand in right alignment with self.
Photo courtesy of Laura Chouette, Unsplash