“Hunger”

Let me tell you about secrets. These little pieces of information, guaranteed disrupters, hidden in plain sight. They hide behind things unseen, weapons used against the weak, explosives that potentially release violent reactions. They carry so much power. The one who holds them, a heavy burden to bear, must determine its worth to share. Do they speak? Fearful of the energy it produces or do they keep it tucked deep? If secrets are shared the messenger trusts the recipient. When humans lack autonomy we hunger for control, for power, for freedom. Secrets if not one’s own can become edifying to the body and soul. Painful and uncomfortable situations whether experienced or observed can produce a sensation not to be imitated. If bad enough the distress it produces will evoke the desire to protect oneself or others from any further damage. A secret, its measurability irrelevant and subjective, brings forth change. Let me tell you about Hunger, a memoir written by Roxane Gay, a woman who held a secret so tragic she hungered for more than her body could bear. 

“When I was twelve years old I was raped and then I ate and ate to build my body into a fortress,” (Gay, 2017, p. 302) how does a girl child find safety within herself? In the traditional two parent household sex is not a thing to discuss; specifically, sexual abuse. In a highly religious traditional family household sex is taught to be immoral, not a gift from God. In a strict, loving, God fearing home girls are taught to be “good” and boys are bad, very bad. Gay mentions, “A Haitian daughter is a good girl. She is respectful, studious, hard-working,” (p.55) but bad things, very bad things happen to respectful good girls. Especially good girls who come from loving families. Those that support their accomplishments and defend them when slighted. Good girls learn the art of pleasing people and performance. They excel in all endeavours. They explore the world through becoming veracious readers. And if you’re a queer good girl, you’re an outlier. Marked.

Being a good girl leads a lonely life. We crave to be seen, to be wanted, not for what we can do, but for who we are. However, we don’t learn our true identity until we heal from the things our naivety brings on. Like the creatures with broken souls and evil spirits who hunger for bodies they do not own. Who develops a strong desire to break the bodies of the weak, in this case a twelve year old girl. “I wanted him to want me… to look at me the way he looked at magazines… He wanted to try things and I was extraordinarily pliable” (Gay 50 - 51). There are some children who are discovering what their bodies are capable of without proper parental supervision. But there are some who reenact what was done to them. It breeds a cycle of sexual abuse. A cycle born from a body’s hunger for satisfaction. 

When awful terrible things happen to smart good girls we keep it buried inside. They become dark secrets when even offered lifelines we reject salvation and become accustomed to silence. We want to feel connection, but instead we are met with rejection and fear of disappointment. Being a good girl creates high standards leaving no room for failure. Failure of not living up to the expectations of those we love, so we avoid disappointing. But yet, we are consistently disappointed. We search for safety in partners and overindulgence in everything. Let down by our choices of comfort, the hunger to feel safe is never ending. Roxane Gay’s comfort was food. She ate and ate and ate until she became “the fattest person” (Gay 172). Constantly self loathing, obsessing over how she is perceived in a world where cruelty was a consistent theme. A world that judges the extra skin on her tall Black boyish body. Not once considering the weight that body carries. The weight of a secret so painful it is felt when she climbs the stairs and it is seen when she looks in the mirror. Yes, her three hundred plus body became her fortress, her safety, her defense. In a world where men could smell she was broken, food became her immediate satisfaction. 

When I was five years old I was molested and then it happened again and again. How does a five year old find comfort within herself? When I was six years old I was sexually assaulted by a brother and a sister. How does a six year old find comfort within herself? When I was seven I was sexually assaulted by a cousin. I was a smart, good girl who never lied. And yet the secret was tearing me up inside. I perpetuated what was done to me. I became a voluntary participant in my sexual abuse. It was comforting. I was hungry to feel the void of loneliness. I became an adult who used sex to fill voids, shattering the heart’s of men and disrespecting my body by never saying no. Sex was my immediate satisfaction and it was easy. Lonely children have painful memories. 

“I didn’t know how to be human” (Gay 67). Sexual abuse tells us that we are worth nothing. That our bodies are toys and our voices do not matter. We scream no, we fight back, we hurt people because we are nothing. Our bodies tell a story and we too often judge other bodies based on what we see. We develop social constructs that isolate those who don’t fit into the image of a perfect body. We lose weight or gain weight in hope to find community in a world crueler than the day before. It takes some time, but we realize that our happiness has nothing to do with our outward appearance. Our happiness is rooted in the freedom of truth. Truth is we all have secrets we need to release