You Can Just Call Me Cruella.

Because 201 is my NUMBER, people! This is my 201 post I've ever written on this blog. And I just want to say that today, I'm intensely grateful for the ability we have as humans to write. To be able to express oneself, to make art out of words, to create pictures from ink and page, to connect to something personal, as the writer or reader - it's gorgeous to me.

I'm so happy that I have words. That we all do. And the intelligence with which to use them. I'm so grateful to have parents who encourage me in my talents and abilities, and in my struggles as well. My mom always loved for me to write. I'm so grateful for this blog. Whether I'm posting a song or a quote or a story that may or may not be better left untold, I always just feel better for having been vulnerable and real and having gotten it out there. Whether anyone reads it or not, I took a minute to document that little passing piece of me, in all its fleeting glory.

So. Today, I am grateful for the blogging world. For my little blog. And for words. And the miracle of language. It's a happy thing. So's November!

This is an unedited response I wrote for Psych last week, and even though it's raw, it's real, and I loved being assigned to write something so essentially honest:

The Clothesline Project

Twice this week, I had the opportunity of attending The Clothesline Project in the Grand Ballroom at UVU. The first time I attended, I was killing spare time between classes with some friends who were assigned to go for their criminal justice course. The second time I attended was with our Psych 1100 class. The Clothesline Project is a display that fills the entire room, with clothesline after clothesline of multi-colored shirts hanging, running up and down the length of the space. Each color represents a specific type of abuse, and each shirt displays the story of the victim who experienced the abuse, as written by the victims themselves. 

Walking into the room, it was the stillness that struck me first. I took a deep breath in when I entered, as if gathering courage to face the harshness I knew was waiting, and honestly, can't remember letting it out in the entire time I wandered the exhibit. Every ten to twelve seconds, a gong rang out, sounding faraway, to represent the frequency of a woman being battered in the United States, based on 1993 statistics. Every three or four minutes, a whistle was blown, again sounding distant, to represent the occurrence of rape in the United States based on those some statistics. In the hushed room, surrounded as I was by the screaming silence, these interruptions gave me chills every single time.

As I walked the rows, alternately lifting my gaze and averting my eyes, I was struck by the variety displayed in the shirts created by the victims - the distinct individual displayed in the commonality of abuse and circumstance. I began to see that abuse is an intensely personal experience, unique to the individual experiencing it and their specific story. Some wrote messages of hate or anger, directed to their abuser, while some wrote messages of hope and forgiveness, of trial and testimony, and even more powerful to me, some simply wrote what happened - without bias or upset, they simply told their story, silent no more.

Something that impacted me so deeply was the fact that every shirt displayed in the Grand Ballroom, packed as they were, was from a victim living in Utah County. The sheer number of shirts, coupled with the words they held, made the enormous room feel intensely small. Maybe it's foolish to admit, but even though I am particularly paranoid about rape and other types of abuse, I simply had no concept of how common violence against women really, really is.

It was also interesting to me how different the experience was the first time, walking through with a group of all men and seeing their horror and reactions, as opposed to walking through with women the second time. At one point, one of the men I was with had to sit down, because he simply couldn't read anymore. I noticed that the women I was with faced it squarely. I'm not trying to make a commentary on the strength of the sexes, not on purpose, but then again, maybe I am. There was a bravery in seeing women face these stories; a growing sense of sisterhood and awareness was born in us, mostly strangers, with every step we took within the exhibit.

I walked away positively changed, which is, in my opinion, the purpose of art. I walked away aware, and intensely grateful for the life I've led, and so, so impressed with The Clothesline Project. It made me wish I could create art so compelling - an outlet, a step of healing for so many - something so visually powerful when you stepped back from it and emotionally inclusive when you took the plunge and walked around in it. I thought the transformation of something so raw, and so intensely ugly into something that could spread awareness and give voice to the silent, was just entirely gorgeous, and I'm beyond thankful for the feelings their art gave to me.