Trinity La Fey writes of finding feminism, of violence, and guns. “I am tired of what I know and sad beyond any words I have . . .” – Andrea Dworkin, I Want A Twenty-Four Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape.
A Hunter’s Prayer
May I take my place in The Great Family. I offer thanks to your Spirit and accept responsibility for integrating your Story.
It started so long ago I have not strong before concept. I grew up around reckless gun owners and early understood that there was simply no place for them in the world I wanted. Still, lived with single women each with a pistol locked away in a case they never practiced with. One of which, at 23, showed me the jagged, hairless line the bullet had torn around her skull when she’d tried. I remember a lover asking me what I wanted as I cried. How he moved the rifles I was so upset about back into his mother’s house. I just never got used to them; am definitely not used to using them. I didn’t ever understand the want of something so unsportsmanly until I was blessed by Gail Dines through Maya Shlayen through Babyradfem, each a true sister. Then, when the man who tried to get into my car got scared because I made him understand that I was not fucking around, I understood that I wanted something more than my finger to point at him next time. Now there is this gun.
Seriously, so many worse things have happened. Most of them. What was it about this incident that changed everything? Partially, I think it was priming. Education. In isolation, all my rage and sorrow was drowned into silence by the ever wondering. Seeing other women undergo similar abuse en masse made me certain. There was no more confusion about the sadistic self-awareness; no more wondering about how hard it must be for him to be that way; no more patience; no more bullshit. I was in me. And this son of a motherfucker had no rights to me. He could die trying to assert them as I was instantly willing to put the violence where it belongs. Extinction.
To violate is to dishonor, to be irreverent of; at its root: a broken oath.
When I saw my friend violated for the first time, there was a before and an after. It broke me. Me, for whom it started so long ago I have no strong before concept. I saw what it did to her and I missed that part of my friend that was gone now, knowing what was missing for the first time, knowing I had to be strong for and love this new creature in this old skin, knowing that she might not be able to love me as easily or at all, that trust was gone now, nothing personal.
It is unbelievable, what people say about suicide: that it is rage internalized. I bet it was a man who categorized it that way and maybe it’s like that for some of them. What I know of women’s ends are just tired. We have standards. If it doesn’t look like they will ever be met in this life or any, if all the power to resist is stifled with murders and rapes and beatings and beatings and beatings and endless, joyless toil and the shit they think is funny or know they can get away with, it’s no one else’s business when you decide to end it.
Was it internal or external rage that led an uncle to drive recklessly fast in canyon-land pasture shooting at coyotes with his wife and all the grandkids of his parents’ lives at his whim?
I would guess that one tool at the mercy of another, however unsportsmanly, exists like any other, with its own intention and obsolescence built in. Capable of neither rage nor carelessness, it is but a swift finder of ends.