Did you know, I “Retired” from trying to be a model at thirteen? I had just done a modelling competition, and the man in charge – a very large, oversized, white man – told my mom I was too fat. I was thirteen.
That was the day I decided my body was more important to me than the opinion of white men. But it didn’t matter. They still abused me in droves, sometimes as a group. Because they could. Because they knew what I am learning to be true today: The white world doesn’t care about Black girls.
I grew up on all the old shows: In Living Colour, Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Family Matters, but what none of those shows portrayed was Black girls being hurt by white supremacy. It was all about the boys, falling in love, and aging, without ever really talking about how white supremacy affects Black girls differently than it does Black boys.
Several years back, I spoke with some folks about what was done to me. Opportunities I never thought would come my way did, and I said no to every single one of them. Largely because at the time I was literally, completely insane. The clinical definition I mean.
I was sick. Deeply sick because all of the trauma came out at once, and I had no one to really say, “It’s okay, let it out.” Everyone called me insane, told me I was crazy, hatched elaborate plans to gaslight me, and when the storm finally cleared, I was alone.
I don’t think I’ve taken the time to really appreciate how much I needed those years of isolation away from anyone and everyone who did me harm.
Part of the reason I’ve been struggling with my writing lately, is because I’ve been looking at all the places people are visiting this website from and I have to tell you, it’s a bit overwhelming.
I about choked on my coffee yesterday when I realized people from my living community were reading my site. Let alone folks in Ashburn, wherever that is.
I’m not famous because I am not doing this for fame. I remember when I called CTV to say “hey, I’m a survivor and this is my story,” the man on the phone said no one would care. Eight thousand subscribers later and I daresay I can disagree a long last, a lot of people seem to care about my story.
Many people around the world are supporting me by reading, sharing, and observing my work, bearing witness to the pain that I show so that I can feel less alone with it all.
This is the power of storytelling. It brings people together, it educates, it creates community, and teaches folks how to live outside the confines to which they have become comfortable.
Each of us has the power to be a storyteller or a teacher. Each of us has skills, superpowers, and experiences that have helped us, or are helping us, to get to a place where we can say, “Here, here is where I feel safe.” I’m not there yet, but I have a destination in mind, at long last.
A lot of the reason that I am not “Further along” on the scale of success (whatever the fuck that is) is because I suffer from crippling indecision, which makes it difficult for me to make the most basic of decisions. I never, ever choose what we eat unless I really, really want something. I won’t eat a chocolate bar unless I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.
I won’t eat unless I’ve been thinking about what I want vs what we have for hours.
Many people around the world understand this, and they understand that having the inability to make a decision quickly means that life is often filled with struggle.
It’s not as simple as saying yes or no. It’s like my brain becomes locked into “if I have this, then this will happen, if I have that, then that might happen,” I am constantly worried about the consequences of every action, every word I say and all the things I think.
This is why I am no longer churning out posts day after day. Now that my brain has calmed down and is in “I released it all” mode, I feel more hesitant to put my name and face out there as “Thee” Loud Mouth Brown Girl, unless I have something important to say.
I don’t feel the need to be shrouded in praise just because I survived being raped more times than I can count. What I do feel the need to do is create space where women of colour, but specifically Biracial Black women, can come together and say, “This happened to me.”
I remember once, as a child, I went to my friend Santi’s house. Her parents were out, and there were about eight or nine of her girl friends over. We sat in a circle, each of us in a chair or on the couch, talking about our “First time.” We talked about abuse. And we knew it.
It was the first time I sat and listened and felt like I was a part of something. I never saw those girls after that night, but I think about them often. I wonder how their lives turned out, and what has become of them.
It was also most healing, because I took that night with me. In my 2nd book, I talk a bit about talking to a tree, well, those girls were my tree. They were my light in a time when I was being violently abused, and there was no help.
Over the years, I couldn’t talk to them, but I could pretend. And so I would, I would talk to myself like I was being interviewed, I didn’t know or care if anyone was listening, but when I was alone, those conversations became the difference between life and death.
A doctor might call it insane, but a trained “Trauma Informed Expert” (We say with heavy disrespect) would tell you that it’s a coping mechanism for isolation.
I’ve been isolated a lot in my life, and I suspect it’s not something that will ever fade along my journey, but at least this time, I can do something with it, harness and focus my isolation into something positive that hopefully becomes a spark for someone else’s journey of freedom.
Anyways, those are my thoughts,
Sending all my love,
Devon J Hall, The Loud Mouth Brown Girl
Loud Mouth Brown Girl 