Carrie Lamanna

What Trauma Feels Like—Then and Now

September 21, 2018 By Carrie Lamanna

Much has been written this week about Brett Kavanaugh’s attempted rape of Christine Blasey Ford. Rather than add my political and social analysis to the pile of others, I decided to tell my story of how the trauma of sexual assault feels in the mind and in the body. How it can make some details bright and clear and obscure others—then and now. How the memory can return, unannounced and uninvited, and make you relive what you have tried so hard to forget. How it never goes away, but lives in your muscles and bones.

***

I was coming in from gym class. The girls spent most of their time walking laps around the track because not even the teacher believed gym class was important. We all had to wear these ridiculous black athletic shorts and white t-shirts with Berry High School printed on the front in orange letters. We must have looked like a line of adolescent handmaids coming back our mandatory daily stroll. For some reason we had to return to the locker room through the side door of the gymnasium. I can’t remember where the locker room was, so I’m not clear on why that was the route, only that it was the route.

Because this was one of those multipurpose gymnasiums that was also used for plays and assemblies, the door took you through a narrow, dark hallway at the side of the stage. As I was making my way through that small hallway toward the next door that led into the gymnasium, an arm reached out from the darkness of stage left, grabbed me around the waist, and pulled me backstage. I wrestled myself free long enough to spin around to see two boys I knew marginally well. I thought of them as friends of a sort. They should have been in gym class, but I noticed they were still wearing their standard uniform of jeans and black t-shirts. Before I could ask them what the hell they were doing, Steve* pushed me backwards onto a long folding table, the kind that was used to hold props during a play. Bill* then jumped onto the back of the table above my head, grabbed my arms at the wrists, and pulled them above my head. Steve was laughing. In the darkness I could only feel what was happening as he tried to put one hand up my shirt while putting the other into the waistband of those stupid gym shorts I would hate even more after this.

I managed a scream. I don’t know if I actually said words, but into the darkness floated a girl’s voice.

“Carrie? Is that you?”

Immediately, the boys jumped up and ran out the door I had entered only minutes ago. I scrambled to my feet and ran through the doorway into the gym. There was Karen*, standing at center court.

“What were you doing back there?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I replied. “Just Steve and Bill being stupid. Why are you still here?”

“I stopped to tie my shoe.”

To tie her shoe. That day my fate depended on a loose shoe lace. Nothing else was protecting me from becoming a backstage prop in The Game of Life: Rape Culture Edition.

I know I really shouldn’t write about this. At least that’s what I learned. I repeated the lesson to myself over and over again. It was nothing. Nothing happened. It was only a minute of my life. How could it matter? After all these years, years in which I think of it while washing dishes, weeding the garden, cleaning the bathroom. In moments where there is nothing else to think, it’s there. Filling up the space with its emptiness. How heavy this nothing can feel in my chest as I stand at the sink holding a plate tightly for fear it will fall into the water and break. I watch the suds slide off the surface into the sink. I breath in again. Try to shake it off as I did that day in the gym. “Nothing,” I say to no one.

I feel silly, overly dramatic for even thinking of it. For allowing this nothing to matter after all these years. Everyone else has forgotten this nothing, which I realize now was me. The girl who told her friend it was nothing, who changed her clothes and went to French class, not remembering how she got from the gym to the trailers out back where they put expendable classes like mine. After that, I always got lost on the way to French class. The sidewalk leading to the back of the school was so long and all the trailers looked the same—blindingly white in the hot Alabama sun. Even today I can’t remember how I got from the track to the gym door, or to the locker room after I rejoined Karen, or from the locker room to French. The trauma becomes a focal point blotting out everything on the periphery. Before and after become irrelevant. My mind is highjacked at the sink. Another minute of my life, gone. I am backstage again. Struggling to free my arms. To scream. To save my life. Once I am back in the gym with Kelly I realize how tightly I am holding the plate. So tight I fear it might break under the pressure. I release my grip and notice my neck is stiff again. Maybe it’s all the time I spend at the computer. I’ll get a new desk chair and a massage. Maybe then the pain will go away.

*names have been changed

Getting Back to Basics: Lessons for Writing and Life

August 21, 2018 By Carrie Lamanna

Today I am putting on my own oxygen mask first. I have at least 20 things on my to-do list, but instead of making my writing item 21, I’m putting it first.

I have spent the summer coming to terms with the fact that I will never be one of those “highly productive people” so revered in American society. This realization has required lots of therapy and downtime. No matter how organized, scheduled, and efficient I am I will never be able to do all the things I think I should be doing. And that’s OK. And I will keep telling myself it’s OK everyday until I don’t doubt it anymore.

Trying to do all the things has just led to levels of stress and anxiety that aren’t healthy for anybody. So I started scaling back, and during that process it became painfully obvious that most of what I was trying to accomplish was about pleasing other people or living up to an impossible standard of womanhood—or both.

The other day a friend asked me if I enjoyed life We were out in the garden and I was picking some beans for her to take home, so this understandably seemed an unnecessarily philosophical question for the activity at hand. All my brain could muster at first was “umm, what the fuck?” I mean who enjoys life? That’s not what life is for. It’s for getting shit done. Making sure your family is fed, clothed, and happy. Making sure everyone you work with is happy with your performance. Making sure you stay thin and pretty forever, because otherwise they revoke your woman card. Making sure you keep up with every horrid thing our fascist president and his crew of stormtroopers are doing so you can resist, resist, resist forever and ever, amen.

Her question irritated me. What was there to enjoy? It only took me a few minutes to realize my reaction was the sign of a problem. (Only a few minutes to recognize my own crazy—that therapy is paying off!) My friend was perceptive enough to see that I am perpetually stressed and she took the opportunity to check in with me. I decided not to shoot the questioner and get honest with myself instead.

I never learned to enjoy life because I have been letting the bastards win for over 40 years: the weight and beauty police, the mommy industry designed to make mothers feel like failures (bento boxes, limited screen time, educational crafting activities—who who the fuck are these people?), the capitalist co-opting of feminism that lies and tells us we can have it all if we just work hard enough and spend enough money, and now our racist cheeto president who makes everyone with a soul feel like it’s a betrayal of justice to feel even a moment of happiness. To paraphrase Lucinda Williams, they took my joy and I want it back.

So, my first step is getting back to writing by getting back to basics. Here are three things I need to get the writing done and reclaim my joy right now.

space and time

Both seem impossible to find most of the time, but often it’s because I refuse to allow myself the luxury of putting myself first. Somewhere deep in my psyche I don’t believe I have done enough to earn my writing time. Because it must be earned. Anything pleasurable must be earned by sacrifice because otherwise I’m just being a greedy bitch. This is internalized misogynist thinking that I must unlearn if I want my joy back. So I left the kids home with my husband and went to a coffee shop where I wrote first before answering emails or focusing on clients. I allowed myself to feel joy without earning it, even if it was only for an hour. Even small steps will lead you home if you just keep walking in the right direction.

little pleasures

Since I work from home, there are days when I don’t leave the house. More often than I want to admit I have waited until mid afternoon to brush my teeth. Why? Because I told myself I needed to get my work done before tending to my bodily needs. It would be selfish to take care of myself before finishing that project or folding that basket of laundry. Sound familiar? It’s the same fucked up thinking I use to deny myself writing time. These wounds go deep. So deep that I have made something essential like brushing my teeth into a luxury.

When I got to the coffee shop to write, I bought some lunch and then opened my laptop to a blank screen. After writing for a bit I really wanted a cappuccino. My internal critical said, “you haven’t written enough to earn that coffee yet.” After that negative messaging, creativity started to leave me. The words wouldn’t come anymore. And I knew I had to get that cappuccino. Art requires us to be tuned into beauty and pleasure. If we cut off our access to them, we lose our humanity, our sense of connection to the world around us, our empathy. I love the way the foam dances on top of the cup and the way you can smell the bitterness of the coffee before it hits your tongue and how the last sip is always sweeter than the first no matter how well you mix the sugar. The coffee kept me in touch with my senses, my bodily connection with the physical world—with pleasure and joy. I needed that little bit of pleasure to stay in my artistic space.

my people

Writers need other writers. This writing thing, it’s hard. Six years ago I signed up for an online writing class with Janelle Hanchett. The honest writing on her blog, Renegade Mothering, was the kind of writing I longed to do but couldn’t because I was stuck in an academic structure that didn’t fit my creative needs. In her class I meet my people—other women struggling to find their voice and the courage to share it with the world. We were all smart, professional women—a doctor, a lawyer, a chef, a student advocate, a physical therapist, a Fulbright scholar and former member of parliament, and even another college English professor—who had suppressed our desire to write. We all wanted our joy back, and we found it with each other’s help.

But joy can be fleeting. It requires constant attention. Janelle recognized the special bond we had formed, and has organized two writing retreats for us in a magical spot in California. That place has kept the joy of writing alive for every one of us. The last time we were all gathered in that spot, one of our members, Tracy, gave everyone a bracelet engraved with the GPS coordinates of our little retreat house in the woods. I wear it almost every day, but especially on days when life and its never-ending responsibilities and expectations are trying to suck the joy out of my life. On those days my bracelet and I go to the coffee shop, buy the cappuccino, put in some headphones and write. We may do it again tomorrow.

Colorado State, Come Get Your White People

May 15, 2018 By Carrie Lamanna

Some of you know that I live in Fort Collins, Colorado, but only those of you who are bored enough to read my C.V. know that I worked at Colorado State University for seven years. When we first moved here in 2007, none of our family and friends knew where Fort Collins was. Then “Ballon Boy” hit the news and our new town became famous for a ridiculous prank. Now my adopted hometown is in the news again, but this time it’s because CSU is joining the ranks of places where people of color are unwelcome.

Two weeks ago two brothers drove up to Fort Collins to participate in a campus tour of CSU, a school they described as their “dream school.” They saved their money for the trip, registered online for the tour, and borrowed the family’s only car for the trip. The only thing they did wrong, was arrive late for the tour. Oh yeah, and not be white.

So even if you don’t know the story, you can probably guess what happens next. Someone calls the cops. And of course that someone is a white woman. What possible excuse could she have for calling the cops on two kids who showed up late to a campus tour? She said they made her “nervous” (not a reason to call the cops, by the way), and her call to campus police tells us everything we need to know about why:

Hi … I am with my son doing a campus tour … There are two young men that joined our tour that weren’t a part of our tour. They’re not, definitely not a part of the tour. And their behavior is just really odd, and I’ve never called, ever, about anybody, but they joined our tour. They won’t give their names and when I asked them what they were wanting to study, like everything they’re saying isn’t … they were lying the whole time.

The odd behavior she refers to is that the brothers are quiet and one of them keeps his hands in his pockets. That’s it. If that’s odd behavior for college age students, then I should have called the cops on at least one student in every damn class I ever taught. But it’s not their behavior that gets the cops involved. It’s that they refused to answer the nice white lady’s questions. These young men didn’t think they needed to justify their existence to her, and because of that they get pulled off the tour and questioned by the police while she goes on her merry way with those “creepy [brown] kids” safely out of view. (Yes, she actually called them creepy.) She even admits her call is not justified:

It’s probably nothing. I’m probably being completely paranoid with just everything that’s happened …

I can’t be certain what she means by “everything that’s happened,” but it’s a pretty safe bet she’s referring to America’s epidemic of mass shootings. However, her racism is blocking one key fact about those shootings from taking hold in her brain: they are overwhelming committed by white men, and these two young men are Native American. But of course, she doesn’t know they are Native American, just that they aren’t white. When the 911 dispatcher asks her to describe the brothers she says

I think they’re Hispanic, I believe. One of them for sure. He said he’s from Mexico.

No lady, they’re from NEW Mexico. The state that borders Colorado to the south. Not Mexico, but the land we stole from Mexico and the indigenous people that lived there long before you and your army of police arrived to make this whole region a whitopia.

What’s infuriating and frightening about this incident is how common it is. There are so many examples of white people calling the police on Black and Brown people that I can’t keep track of them all. People have been harassed while shopping for prom or for a vintage 70s outfit, while barbecuing in a public park, napping in their college dorm, moving into their apartment, moving out of their AirB&B, golfing, working out, and of course while sitting in a Starbucks. And this isn’t even half of the incidents in the news in the last few weeks. I’ve been trying to write this post for days, but every time I open up my computer to work on it there’s a new story of white fuckery I have to take in.

Of course, CSU issued an apology/statement after the harassment these two prospective students received. And honestly, it’s better than most, but the bar is low. University President Tony Frank is clear that the brothers did nothing wrong and that CSU is a place that values diversity.

Two young men, through no fault of their own, wound up frightened and humiliated because another campus visitor was concerned about their clothes and overall demeanor, which appears to have simply been shyness. The very idea that someone – anyone – might “look” like they don’t belong on a CSU Admissions tour is anathema. People of all races, gender identities, orientations, cultures, religions, heritages, and appearances belong here. As long as you want to earn a great education surrounded by people with the same goal who come from every part of our state, our country, and our world, then you belong here. And if you’re uncomfortable with a diverse and inclusive academic environment, then you probably have a better fit elsewhere.

The problem with Frank’s statement on the incident is that it puts all the focus on the the Native American men who did nothing wrong and makes it their job to help the university improve campus procedures to more clearly identify tour participants. What about the white woman who called the police in the first place? Is anyone talking with her? Is anyone from the university calling her in so she can learn why what she did is racist and life threatening to people of color? The way to prevent things like this from happening again is not better tour procedures like making participants wear lanyards (something emphasized in Frank’s statement). The way to keep white people from calling the cops is to make them less racist.

In his statement, Frank says to prospective students and their families, “if you’re uncomfortable with a diverse and inclusive academic environment, then you probably have a better fit elsewhere.” So the message is “It’s OK to be racist as long as you don’t do it here,” and its implication is that the people of Colorado State are immune from racism as long as they can keep the racists off their property. It shoud go without saying that this is not the message we should be getting from an educational institution that claims to value diversity. Colorado State, it’s time to get your white people and start doing the hard work of antiracism education.

President Frank, you have a Vice President for Diversity, whose office runs dozens of programs, and countless faculty members researching and teaching diversity and antiracism. Use these resources to start educating all prospective and current white students. Call them in and tell them that preventing racism is their responsibility. In the meantime, you can send Megan Izen’s guidelines on when to call the police to that white woman CSU is shielding from public scrutiny. Here’s a pocket checklist she can carry with her to remind her of the rules:

Should I call the cops?

Is my or someone else’s life in imminent danger?
One more time, am I absolutely certain that the situation is life threatening?
If the people that are involved were white, would I still call the police?
Is there anyone else I can call or any other resources available to address the situation?

So in short, “If there is gushing blood or flames, dial 911. But don’t default to the police if you are just uncomfortable.”

President Frank, CSU has the resources and the power to promote real and lasting change, but only if it has the courage to call out racism when it happens and call in white people who need a course of study in white privilege. You end your letter by asking the CSU community “to be a little kinder, a little better, to work a little harder at seeing each other’s point of view, and to use our voice. Not always to agree, but always to defend each other and to oppose hate,” but that’s not even close to enough. This is not about the CSU community being kinder or opposed to hate (because who will disagree with kindness and opposition to hate). This is about creating programs that work to dismantle the white privilege you claim to be working on in your own self. This is about being an educational institution of courage and conviction.

Finding the God of the Lowly in Janelle Hanchett’s “I’m Just Happy To Be Here”

May 1, 2018 By Carrie Lamanna

My friend and writing mentor Janelle Hanchett’s memoir, I’m Just happy to Be Here, debuted today. I had the honor to be part of a select group of early readers, and if you follow me on social media, you have seen my posts about what a beautiful, heartbreaking, funny, and inspiring story it is. It takes you into the depths of motherhood and addiction in a way that anyone who has experienced a dark night of the soul can understand. And isn’t that all of us, really?

I discovered Janelle’s writing in 2015 when a friend shared one of her blog posts on Facebook. I don’t even remember which post it was because I immediately started reading the whole blog. She wrote about motherhood and social expectations and politics in a way that was sarcastic, outraged, and ernest all at once. She outed herself as imperfect, a misfit, and invited all the other misfit mothers to join her. When I found out she was offering an online writing class I knew it was meant for me. but I was only half right. It was meant for me and seven other amazing women who became fiercely loyal friends and writers in progress.

After a year of working together online and joking about the magical face-to-face writing retreat we were going to have someday, we decided to make it a reality. So Janelle set to work finding us the perfect location—a funky, well-worn 1960s commune turned retreat center in Pescadero, California. This was not a resort in Tahiti, where all the spiritual white women go on retreat these days. This was a misfit cabin in the woods perfect for a gang of misfit writers. We gathered in the yurt in the morning to talk about writing, spent the afternoons actually writing in the living room, and listened to each other read around the campfire at night. It was there that I first heard Janelle read from her book. When she was finished, we were all silently crying in the dark because we knew this book would be everything we love about Janelle’s writing and everything we hope for in our own—real, raw, and offering real human connection.

Janelle’s writing is brave because she knows life is too short to give any fucks about propriety and other outward signs of white, middle class adulting. There is only time for honesty and kindness, and love—for helping each other up each and every time we fall. Near the end of the book, when she is finally in recovery and staying sober, she reflects on the importance of telling her story. In the scene she is visiting a home for alcoholic mothers and explains,

I tell them what I did and how I recovered, because I want them to see that the water they need to wash themselves clean flows always and immediately to the lowest possible places. And I know that God, to me, is that kind of love.

This was the moment that brought me back to that campfire and the way I felt afterward as we all walked back up the hill to the retreat house to go to bed. This book is bedtime story for grownups—not a fairy tale where good triumphs over evil, but a story of how a flawed, messy human (as we all are) gets a chance to try again, a shot at redemption.

Reading this book has overlapped with my spring gardening rituals of pruning and planting and weeding. Every year I go back to the same trouble spots, the places where despite my diligent weeding and watering plants refuse to grow, seeds refuse to sprout. I have a place in my flower garden where only weeds will take hold. Each spring, I dig out the weeds and plant a new sort of flower, hoping this variety will finally be the one that can stand up to the weeds. I have been doing this for 10 years now, and each time I go out to plant in that spot my husband reminds me of that old saying: the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. But this is where God finds us—at our most desperate, on our knees in the garden trying again to make something grow. God is there with lowliest of us who continue to make the same mistakes, continuing to love us, tend to us, like a patch of poor soil where only weeds will grow.

The wisdom in Janelle’s book is that we are all already redeemed, already worthy of love. We just have to step into the water and let it wash over us.

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